Escrita por: ~TimeLadyMycroft
I feel a smile on my face, I recognise that walk, the umbrella it's on the left side of the body, he is angry. When he's on the door, I feel the green eyes on me, mean full, upset, estressed, asking for explanations, for a full history, apologies if needed.
The perfect suit, the umbrella and the intensity, it was all I needed. Until that moment I couldn't feel anything, I had to ignore the attempt of kidnapping, the fear... But now he was right there and I could feel everything, anything, I didn't have to worry, he would take care of me.
I stand up and walk to him, larger steps I'm able to take, hugging him, hidding my face I'm his clothes, the smell of cigarette and perfume take me, calm me, he was tense, maybe even scared.
— I'm sorry, uncle Myke — I whisper, knowing that only him would hear it, and raise my head to look at his face. The worried eyes were scanning me, searching for negative marks, I hope he find none — The man who was going to take me — I speak louder, hopping that John helps me — was blonde, very tall and had scars on his face, cut scars, not burning, and had a lot of guns...
— She's just fine, Mycroft — John interrupt me, making the green eyes leave my face, the tin lips rise a little, thankful — When we get there, she was locked in the principal office, the man was going to sell her because Louise deduce he was having an affair — uncle Myke turn to me, wide eyes telling how many times we already talked about deductions at school — We left without trouble. She's a precious little girl.
— I know, Dr. Watson — his voice it's soft, the big hand on my back, holding me in his chest — Thank you for taking her out, I wasn't available — he seems guilty, but John would never notice — And where it's Sherlock?
Uncle Sherlock opens the glass doors in a urge, John clearly calls him a drama queen. He is dressed in pijamas and get rid of the lab equipments, his look to uncle Myke is full of meaning. I turn to him, scared of what he might say, still keep my back on uncle Myke's chest, his hand on my shoulder, holding tight.
— Mycroft — Sherlock sits in his chair and grab the violin, silently I ask to not play until we're out, I don't want uncle Myke to see how he affects me — You have to increase her security, take her out of that school, even if you change the principal, not good for her to stay.
— It was already made — his sarcastic voice sounds in his chest in a way I can feel it in my back — But not by me... Two shots on the head.
I let my eyes wide, I was already waiting for something like that, although the bile comes to my throat, he was with me last than few hours ago, alive. Nobody should die like that. The big hand goes through my hair, discreetly calming me down.
— I imagine his phone was taken — Sherlock relax on the chair putting his ear in the violin and start testing the sound, the first note was slightly wrong, but I keep it to me — How you pretend find out who wants her?
— I have my methods... — they stare at each other, a silent arguing, John observes them, confused, waiting. For a second I take the liberty of believing that Sherlock cares about me, but I know it's not quite true. I swallow hard, noticing, uncle Myke softly shakes my shoulders, marking his presence — Well, let's go, Louise. Dr. Watson. Dear brother...
His hand grabs mine, holding with more straight then usual and start pulling me to the door. After years living with him I know that means how stressed and worried he is, worried with me. My chest flood of guilt.
John gives me my backpack, smiling. He blinks with one eye to me, conspiring, I let a short smile scape and let my uncle take me away.
I want to say goodbye to them, but my voice hesitate for a second and I miss my chance, but it's fine, I don't know if I could bare the sadness if only John answered it.
We practically run out the building, his hand still firm on mine. He doesn't look at me, angry just like I say to John, we were going to have a fight. Well, fight wasn't exactly the term. He was going to talk, and talk, and talk, and I was going to patiently listen. I hold his hand harder. The secure touch keeps me calm, my only worry was hold myself to him and everything was going to be fine.
A black car stops beside us, the back door opening. Inside, with a beautiful and in a thigh black dress, was Anthea, blackberry in hands. I sit by her side and smile at her, she touches my hair, without saying a word asking me if everything was ok. I didn't know how to answer.
Normally we actually verbally talk banalities, I think she feels I need someone normal in my life, and uncle Mycroft seems to agree because he avoids the maximum role his eyes listing to us. But today that's not going to happen, my uncle is trying to make his lighter work, stressed, disposed to smoke with us in a closed car. Anything could make him furious in that moment, even a minimum noise.
I decide not test my theory and observe the cars on my window. He was going to spend the hole day without talking to me, only by orders and short frases, as I was some is his workers, and, when more calm, he would come for a talk. Probably about uncle Sherlock, about changing school, increasing my security. I let a sight go, life was going to be harder now on. But I could see John either way, I was a guess in there, for tea and talk, and uncle Sherly couldn't say no, neither could uncle Myke. Well... He could, by only if my securities could stop me, and I was too good sneaking out for that.
— Anthea, What did you find? — he finally manage to light the cigarette, hard rock expression.
— Nothing. Not price, no names, no upcoming revenge, suppostly, everything is quiet — he let go a dark cloud of smoke, thinking. They know what that means, and don't want to say it because of me, but I know. That was personal, organise and very calm, wasn't going to stop until complete it's objective. We didn't have how to find out anything unless who ever it was made a mistake. And that was very risky to me, too risky for uncle Myke.
— Double Louise's security and drop mine to half — he orders, leaving no space to question. I stare at him, letting my mouth fall. No. That's was his solution? He couldn't be the target. What if I lose him? The cold green eyes fall on mine, inflexible — Not even a word, young lady
— But, uncle Myke...
— Not. Even. A. Word. — he raises his finger close to my face — When we get home, you go straight to your room and stay there. I just want to see you at dinner. Do you understand? — I just stare at him, I want to question, fight for it, but it wasn't a good moment, a good place for it — Do. You. Understand. Me?
— Yes, sir, uncle.
The violoncello takes me out of the planet when I need. Since my mom died is the only less irritant way I have to cry. Uncle Myke like it too, music was his solution to communicate with me in our first year together. Me in the cello and he in his saxophone.
That time was made of sad songs, but when I talked to him for the first time, I was gifted with a happy solo. Mom used to say he was the most paradoxal man she knew. He was the controlled and cold government officer, the dark side of the British government, he could control wars, deaths even! But in the music he was the beautiful and chaotic jazz.
I smile, playing the iron, felling the vibration in my chest. The notes of that day were forever printed to my mind, weirdly in the cello their sounded sad, but that was ok, it reflected my mood.
The door opens without making any kind of sound, I only observe him, still playing, as he passes through the place, and sits on the bed, heavily sighting, observing my room. It wasn't a very healthy room for a 13 year old, but it fits me. Lots and lots of book about crime and murders, white walls with some posters of old rock bands, a closed too big for my limited number of clothes and my desk, probably never used, my place if study was actually in his office floor.
— Louise — I stop playing, looking at him — We have to talk and you know why — his expression is firm, eyebrows raised and firm eyes — First: what do we already talked about deductions at school?
— People won't like it, or understand it. It's better keep it to myself — I let my eyes fall, observing the carpet — But she already was with the suspect! I just confirmed — he cleans his throat loudly making me raise my eyes to his face, and rise and eyebrow sarcastically to me — But she puts me out of her class, it's like you always say: the masenger it's always guilty — I bound my head — I'm sorry, uncle Mycroft.
— Second: when you are in danger you call the police! Not every single uncle you have! — he gets exasperated, and a little red. I have to hide my smile the maximum I can — You know my influence and codes. You panicked and called Sherlock!
— I'm sorry, uncle Mycroft — I whisper, letting any sign of a smile fall, he was right, I should be rational, black and white, I should be more like him — I didn't knew if I was just being paranoid.
— The job of the Scotland yard its take care of you — I rise my head, wanting to desagree, but his finger silentting me — It's their duty! Specially because I don't even know what I would do for you — I just stare at the green and sincere eyes, he was scared. He hated not knowing — I could put the hole British national on risk for you... Well! And talking about risk!! You call your uncle Sherlock! How do you even manege to get his number? Now you right there, playing happy songs on a sad arrange, calling Dr. Watson John and thinking about Sherlock!! And him? He must be on his floor, devastated, thinking about you. Both of you are. You two don't have enough mental health for a meeting like that!
— Uncle Sherlock isn't thinking about me... — I touch the iron of the cello, Sherlock's pale face covered of blood showing in front of my eyes — I'm only a bad memory.
He takes my hands in a sight, it was basically bigger than my hole face, but, therefore the size, it was gentle and soft, always kind with me. I turn myself to his eyes, the big sad green eyes. He was handsome, in a way different of John and Sherlock, but yet beautiful, an sad and mature beautiful.
— You will never be a bad memory. To no one! — I want to desagree and give examples, but he pressed his finger in my lips — What happened it's a bad memory, for Sherlock and your grandparents, too hard for them. You are only the second victim of that night. You are not guilty, that was not you. Uncle Sherlock have hard memories, he is a very complex and hard man who doesn't always know how to deal with his feelings, that's why he does what he does with himself, and that's why is better you two be separate. He doesn't hate you, he never did. That man always adored you. How many times I'll have to say that?
Until it's true, I want to say, but I can't finding my voice. Hate that sensation, I can force myself to talk. I want to play the cello until my fingers bleed, scream while doing it. I've already done that. Uncle was so desperate that day, he only calmed down after the blood stoped. He holds my hands harder, it was uncle Myke, he always knew what I was thinking.
— Now come, you haven't eat all day — he puts me on my foots and guides me to the kitchen. My room it's on the second floor, right beside his room. The furniture make it obvious that he wasn't the kind of man who wanted a child living with him. Longs and darks corridors with art everywhere, hole rooms turned into libraries and his private movies place, even his kitchen was lonely, with no table or food... He was never expecting visits. When I think he didn't need to go through that a hard pain goes through my chest. In another live he would only be uncle Mycroft from London, too far away from me. Yes, I observe the tall and ginger man, still dressed with parts of his suit and caring his umbrella indoors. He was my bright side.
— What are you thinking about? — he opens the fridge even knowing it's empty, I pick up the phone and hand it to him, ignoring the question — We could try bake something... It's different...
— Dear uncle, having food it's parts of baking something — I put myself on his side, looking up to his face.
He bounds to put his eyes closed to mine. I know he rather not to buy anything because he doesn't want to eat. Before me, he barely eat anything for longs periods of time, but it was our deal, if he eat, I eat, and that compelled us to not starve. Caring for each other.
— I like living here, you know? With you — I kiss his front head and hug his neck. His muscles relax slightly, his surprise getting evident — Don't ever leave me, uncle Myke... Let's ask pizza! It's different!
I step away, looking for the greens, searching in his face something, parts of me want to know if he really wanted me there. His kind expression makes me warm, while his own search eyes go through my face.
— I... — the rest of the grade seem to stop on his throat, he was as silly as mom used to say, I let myself open a smile — I'm also very satisfied of having you with me. — that's it. The best he could do. It was enough, I knew him.— have pizza! Cheese.
— Chicken! — I try to steal the phone back, but he was simply too tall for me — Uncle Mycroft!