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Britain's PM is currently not a happy woman.
The issue of Brexit has got her elected, but now it may very well herald the end of her career. Her countrymen and -women are of the opinion that on exiting the EU, Britain should keep most advantages while getting rid of all the disadvantages. Not surprisingly, the rest of the EU have reacted with gentle head-shakes and expressions that one reserves for recalcitrant toddlers standing at the window and demanding that it snow right now because, after all, it's Christmastime and it ought to snow, so there. Of course, the sky is grey, but there is no snow falling.
Theresa May, who has won her election by claiming that leaving the EU would make it all better, now finds herself with her back to the wall. Just a few days ago, she has survived her confidence vote by a mere 87 votes. She has now decided that she will not lead the Conservatives in the next election.
Angela Merkel, while sympathetic, hasn't moved an inch during their last meeting. Of course, all the business that the London stock exchange is going to lose will be taken straight to Frankfurt. Apparently, there is a saying in Southern Germany that translates to “Go with God, but go.” The Americans would say, “Don't let the door hit you on the way out.”
Additional concessions for the UK aren't coming. Parliament won't accept the proposed treaty in the mistaken attempt to hold out for better terms, and a hard Brexit – with no concessions at all – is looming.
Right now, the PM feels a bit like a child flouncing out of a room in a snit, all the while waiting for the other children to call out for her to please stay, and of course she can play with the pink pony if she does, but all the other children are absorbed in their game again and no-one is calling her back, and the only way now is out through the door. Only, there is no mummy waiting to console her, no warm hug and no biscuits to sweeten her mood.
The only one who is waiting for her is the Iceman.
The PM sighs softly to herself as she walks the corridors of Whitehall. Mycroft Holmes is scarily intelligent, highly logical and not in the habit of sparing anybody else's feelings. On good days, she appreciates his brutal openness because she always knows where they stand, and he never wastes time with trying to couch unpleasant truths in tons of softening words. On days like these, she'd appreciate a little coddling, but sadly, Mycroft is about as comforting as a blanket knitted from razor-sharp NATO wire.
And there looms his office door, an old-fashioned, leather-padded one. Underneath the hunter-green leather, there are more modern methods of making it sound-proof; it's the style that counts, though. And Mycroft Holmes knows how to utilise style for intimidation purposes. Luckily for her, the PM is immune to those old boy's club intimidation tactics.
There is no secretary behind the desk to announce her and no point knocking on the padded door, and so May simply opens it and strides through.
What she sees surprises her. Mycroft Holmes is still the very picture of a conservative gentleman in an immaculate three-piece Savile Row suit, his posture immaculate. He's not a man to take off his suit-jacket even while working on his computer, believing himself to be alone and unobserved. However, there is a small plate of enticingly delicious-looking biscuits on his desk, and he is listening to music. A solo violin is playing Christmas carols in an incredibly sweet way, and there is a tiny smile playing on his usually so strict, narrow lips.
He looks up, that tiny smile still in his eyes, and rises politely to greet her. “Theresa.”
“Mycroft,” she replies.
He rounds his desk to pull out a visitor's chair and seat her with deeply engrained courtesy before returning to his own seat.
He also offers her the plate of biscuits.
“Lovely music. Who is it?” she asks while she takes a macaroon. She probably shouldn't, but it looks so very delectable.
“Lyra Kingsbury,” he replies, his rare smile deepening fondly.
The sweet fairly melts on her tongue. No store-bought maccaroon, no matter how expensive, could ever taste that way. “I haven't head of her,” she admits. “Oh, but this is good.”
“Have some more,” he invites her as he pushes a button on his phone. In all likelihood, he wants to call for tea, but his secretary doesn't answer. His long fingers dance briefly across the keyboard, no doubt writing a curt intra-office mail, and then he pushes it away and turns all of his intense, almost terrifying attention on his visitor. Being regarded by Mycroft Holmes makes one feel like a slide under an electron microscope.
She'd expect his smile to die, his lips to pinch in that expression of displeasure that so forceful in its very restrained subtlety, but his slight smile remains. “And it's highly unlikely that you have,” he says, replying to her earlier question. “She's only six, after all.” There is a faint hint of pride in his voice.
Her thoughts come to a stuttering halt. Does the Iceman actually have children? Friends? A family? It seems unlikely, but there is that unusually soft expression of his. She takes another biscuit with perfect golden eggwash, and this one is less fluffy than the macaroon but deliciously buttery, and she closes her eyes briefly with enjoyment.
“Goodness,” she says. “However do you manage to keep your figure?”
A twinkle of humour dances through those usually so sharp blue-grey eyes. “Sometimes I wonder myself,” he mildly replies.
It's the most personal conversation they've ever had.
The solo violin falls silent, and their talk turns to treaties and strategies, and ten minutes later his secretary appears with tea and apologies. Mycroft waves away the apologies and the woman and pours the tea elegantly.
The PM succumbs to the temptation of yet another biscuit, this one cut in the shape of an umbrella of all things, precisely iced with dark chocolate and artfully sprinkled with a hint of tiny sugar snowflakes, and he gives another small smile, although she isn't quite certain if it's for her or at a fond memory.
When she leaves his office about an hour later, it's already dark outside, but her thoughts are settled. Of course, she's neither got a hug from Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman, nor comforting platitudes, but she did get facts and a possible way to proceed in order to minimise the damage for the British economy, and also the most exquisite biscuits.
She steps into her limousine, already considering whether a second referendum will be necessary. Perhaps it will be easier to proceed with the backing of the people, whichever way they decide, because dealing with the politicians in the two Houses of Parliament is like herding cats on the best of days, and right now, days aren't all that good.
Back in Mycroft Holmes' office, the secretary has already cleared away the dishes. He consults his pocket watch and decides to call it a day. Gregory will be home soon, and at the rate they're going through their biscuits, they'll probably be baking another batch together tonight and trying to best each other with creative decorations again. Mycroft is looking forward to that, and he leaves his office with a bounce in his step.
Not far away at New Scotland Yard, Greg has actually managed to get out on time for once. The tube will be a squeeze, but at least he has all his Christmas shopping sorted and doesn't need to throw himself into that particular breach. His team has devoured the last of his biscuits today, and he wonders if he can interest Mycroft in baking a new batch. In that case, he'll make extra icing; he already has plans for that.
It's a week and a half until Christmas. Outside in the light of the street lamps, a flurry of tiny snowflakes is dancing. They will melt once they meet the asphalt, but still, it's snowing.
~Fin~