Chapter Text
“Mycroft, leave him be. We both know either of us telling him not to will make him more determined to.” Isabelle didn’t know the voice, but she suspected there weren’t too many men named Mycroft this near Sherlock Holmes’ flat. She didn’t often come near the flat. She loved the younger Holmes dearly, but she did not want to end up mothering behind him as his brother did. Getting as invested in Mycroft’s little brother as he was wouldn’t end well.
“It is dangerous, John. He needs to stand down.”
“And how would you like me to do that?”
“By whatever means necessary.” Isabelle stepped through the open door into the cafe, seeing Mycroft sat across from a stern blonde. His back was to her, but after seven years, she could always spot him. She gave a wave to the blonde, careful to step into Mycroft’s line of sight; he didn’t handle surprises well, and she knew what was in the umbrella. John didn’t know what to think of her, a petite blonde in a silky wrap dress for the rare sunny day they were having approaching Mycroft fearlessly. He never saw someone approach Mycroft with such apparent warmth.
“Erm, hello?” the doctor managed, his head tilted.
“Hello,” she nearly sang. “I’m Isabelle. You must be Dr. Watson. I spotted Mycroft and wanted to say hello before I go meet my friend for lunch.”
“Delilah?” Mycroft said, and she didn’t miss a more calculated cool than she was used to.
“The only person I know in Marylebone besides your brother.”
“You know Sherlock?” John looked too perplexed, and suddenly, a creeping realization began to wash over her, and Mycroft caught the way her shoulders drooped, his grip on his umbrella tightening.
“Of course I know him.”
“Who exactly are you, Isabelle?”
“He doesn’t know you’re married does he?” She looked directly at her husband, and Mycroft suddenly became very invested in picking imaginary lint from the leg crossed over top the other. She could feel her face heating, and her eyes welling up. It wasn’t often they were out together; sure, she attended all of his events, and they went to dinner regularly. He spent so much of the day keeping England afloat or his brother alive, she’d accepted that she wouldn’t be enmeshed in his day to day life. She would, however, be the woman he woke up to and who he came home to. But to know someone like John Watson, someone who had been to Christmas with the Holmes family, didn’t know?
“It has never come up.” The nonchalance was forced, she could tell. She gave a tight lipped smile to him.
“You’re his wife?”
“I am.”
“How long?”
“Five years.”
“And you didn’t think to say anything?” Isabelle felt grateful for the affront on her behalf, giving the doctor a soft smile.
“It has never come up.”
“Not even at Christmas?”
“Your flight had been cancelled due to inclement weather. He would have met you had my brother not meddled in affairs he had no business in and drugged us all.”
“Shut up,” she finally bit out through a polite smile much like her husband’s. “You’ve been friends with the man for years. You chose not to mention me. Stop. You knew him through his wedding, through his own marriage, through mourning. You chose not to. I’ll see you when you get home.”
“You could join us,” John offered, and she gave another grateful smile.
“I’m off to meet Delilah. Give Sherlock my love, John.”
“ He could have mentioned you,” Mycroft added.
“ Sherlock isn’t my husband ,” she said plainly, and when she didn’t place a kiss to his temple he could accept begrudgingly, he reached for her hand. She pulled it back. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“I’ll see you tonight, darling .” The term of endearment, one he steadfastly refused to use unless it was only the two of them and perhaps his immediate family, stung in the presence of John Watson. She turned on her heel, making her way quickly to the winebar and packing her hurt down until she returned home.
“You’re fucked,” the doctor said plainly, brows raised. “Not mentioning a wife , Mycroft? You’re supposed to be the more socially aware one.”
“You’ve seen what dangers my job entails, Dr. Watson. I simply wanted to keep my wife safe, as I do the rest of my family. You do not know the half of what I must keep her from.”
“Oh shut it . She knows Sherlock. She’s in as much danger as the rest of us.”
“You need not concern yourself with my marriage.”
“I can tell you that all I want to do is be able to tell people my wife is waiting for me at home, and here you are keeping a woman willing to love with you locked away.” A pause and horrified look. “You didn’t marry her for appearances did you?”
“If I did, don’t you think I’d be ensuring she’s more known? Many of my colleagues don’t even realize the nature of our relationship. She is safer that way. Wouldn’t you also rather Mary be here and unknown than gone and known?”
His lunch with John was over at that, and he ensured he was able to leave the Diogenes office early. He’d promised to pick up her bracelet from the jewelers where the clasp was being repaired, and a second small box left with him, and it had been joined by a bouquet by the time he opened the door to the country house she’d made a home. When he went to place the bracelet in her jewelry box, he found her in the window seat of their bedroom reading, a regular occurrence. He slowed, and when she didn’t acknowledge him, he moved to sit at the end of the bench. Isabelle steadfastly ignored him, and the deductions came though he didn’t want them.
No make up now: she showered when she got home.
Eyes were visibly swollen: she’d cried hard when she returned. If it had been at lunch, Delilah would have followed her home and stayed.
She was on the same page as the night before: she hadn’t read a word.
The ice in her glass had melted: she’d been staring at this page at least an hour.
“It’s safer for you.” She took a shaky breath, setting the book beside her before she sat up and moved as far from him as she could, gaze fixed to the opposite wall..
“When it comes to work, I can understand that. Your day to day life alone, I can understand that. I don’t like it. I don’t like being a secret, but I always assumed you told people you knew personally. I thought John Watson would know. Detective Lestrade. Molly Hooper.”
“You’ve seen what happens to the people around Sherlock. It’s no safer.”
“John was at Christmas , Mycroft. I was in an airport crying because I couldn’t be near my husband, and he didn’t even mention me. Detective Lestrade and Molly, I understand. John is family to Sherlock, Mycroft. You see him with regularity when you visit your brother. You added him to the monitored list. He knows your parents. But it’s too dangerous to tell him about me?”
“He knows now.”
“Because I stumbled upon you.”
“I’ve not met your friends.”
“But they all know about you. If you came up to me, they’d be so happy to meet you. Not shocked you exist.”
“It’s different.” A bitter laugh escaped her as she scrubbed her eyes.
“I’m going to stay at Delilah’s tomorrow. Her sister goes home and I’ll be able to stay in the guest room.”
“Don’t,” he said softly, and she finally looked at him. He hated the streaming tears, how fragile she looked, the way her shoulders shuddered when she tried to inhale. More than that, he hated the creeping panic as he realized he may have alienated the only person who accepted him as is. “Isabelle, I cannot make you understand, but I am only doing what I must.”
“Just decide if you want to be married or not, Mycroft. I’m content to be that girl that attends galas with you, but I won’t live a life where I can’t know if my husband’s non-work acquaintances or friends or whatever know I exist. I need to know you’re proud I’m your wife. I’m either your wife or I’m not.”
“You know I love you.”
“No, Mycroft.” Her voice was angry more than broken now. “ I don’t . No public displays of affection, I can take. You don’t call me anything but Isabelle in public, that’s fine. You don’t say you love me in public, understandable. You don’t introduce me as your wife to work colleagues, sure. I am fine to be a secret at work. To be minimally public. But I won’t be hidden away like some dirty secret. Because that’s how I’ve felt since seeing you this morning. Like some dirty secret you keep on the shelf.”
“What can I do?”
“I don’t know, Mycroft. I truly don’t.”
“But I can remedy it?”
“I don’t know.”