The Man With The Umbrella

- 75 -

Mycroft Holmes did what he did best when it concerned his dear little wife and the past that never ceased to let her be.

People, in social standards, who knew of Mr Holmes would see him as a cruel, heartless, selfish compact of specimen when it came to being the man of importance that he is but little to none, if none at all, of what's been stated ever bothered him.

He thought of the circumstance he had slowly found himself to be in and it only seemed to provoke him further as he glanced across every so often to the frigid stance of Amelia who sat on the edge of the bed, the duvet tightly grasped in her fists with eyes unblinking but tears steadily falling in their hotel room.

Yes, she had stopped the vocal and perhaps normal way of crying but the whole ordeal pained Mycroft to see her this way.

He said it once and he'd say it again... It burned him to see her like this.

He didn't offer any look of pity in which she was thankful for as he packed their suitcases, the only thing he offered her was a genuine concerned eye.

Zipping the cases up, he walked them to the door before picking her coat up and walking to stand in front of her in order to pointedly open it up. No words were exchanged as she slowly grounded her mind in order to stand and slide each arm through the coat. She buttoned herself up as she felt his hands rest on her shoulders, eventually turning her around to face him.

To Amelia, she didn't want to be this close in proximity for Mycroft to see the emotions radiating off her, speaking volumes. To Mycroft, he didn't really care for what was coming away from her. He just wanted her to allow himself in, to see her as she was instead of hiding.

He hesitated as his hand went to cup the right side of her face, thumb carefully stroking her cheekbone. Amelia huffed a laugh at his hesitancy, thinking of his silly ways and Mycroft blessed her with that seemingly sort of rare reserved smile.

To a normal eye it would be apparent that the pair were in a gazing contest but staring into one another's eyes was like an unspoken language to the pair of them. For example, Amelia's eyes shouted and screamed her pain and Mycroft's eyes spoke calmly, radiating the variety of what was on his mind. In other words, Amelia was at a loss with herself on what to do next and Mycroft was there, always for her, telling her that he will do what he does best, tuck her safely away and maim to torture Jackson Wood.

Her mind seemed to heighten in trauma again as her pupils bounced and she closed the space in between them to cup her face in her hands and lean herself into his chest. She heard as Mycroft sighed a little angered, not with her of course but with the whole entirety in ordeal, as his arms slowly found themselves to be wrapped around her form.

He allowed herself to be comforted in his presence before woozily pulling himself away and clenching his jaw. Amelia had never paid attention to the bone structure of his jaw before but she added it to the mental list that she had which made him purely irresistible to her and her alone.

She watched blankly as he placed his own coat on with his scarf snuggly tucked in before grabbing his umbrella and pulling one of the suitcases to his form just as Amelia grabbed the other and briefcase before walking to the lift going down to the lobby in order to check out.

As Mycroft spoke to the attendant, handing the keys over to him, words spoken seemed to fail Amelia's ears as she numbly walked alongside her husband to get in the car, driving to the airport to go back home.

As Sherlock had stated to Mary a while back, the same words now applied to Amelia. If she's on his turf , she is inexplicably safe or if she is under his thumb she is under his protection.