Chapter Text
Mycroft walked hurriedly past rows of shelves containing thousands of old books of various genres. Occasionally, he glanced at the pocket watch that never left his waistcoat.
Looking out the window, he noticed the sun becoming increasingly obscured by autumn clouds that would soon give way to winter. There was a reason for his concern. During this season, the library closed early. Today, for instance, the library was already silent. He saw no one else there, only faint shadows passing by that Mycroft was too rushed to investigate.
Mycroft frantically searched through several shelves, his hands trembling as he raced against time and the fading sunlight. He clicked his tongue in frustration whenever he failed to find what he was looking for.
"The library will be closing soon."
Suddenly, a firm yet gentle voice sounded from behind him, startling him in his focused race against the clock. Mycroft turned immediately. "Pardon?" he asked. But he saw no one there.
Then, a tall and slender figure appeared with skin as pale as porcelain, hair as dark as ebony, and eyes the color of a comforting cup of morning tea. Her thin lips, stained the color of dark wine, curved into a faint smile.
"The library is closing, Sir. I must ask you to leave before dark."
"Ah?" Mycroft stood momentarily with his mouth agape at the sight of the girl's beautiful face. He quickly composed himself. "Forgive me, Miss. I was only here for a moment. I am looking for a book."
"Which book, if I may ask? I might be able to help you find it."
"Well, how about John Stuart Mill?"
"Ah? Which one?"
"How about On Liberty?"
"Oh." The girl laughed softly. "Follow me." She beckoned Mycroft to follow.
Mycroft complied, though he was unsure if the girl he met was human or merely a ghost haunting the library. After all, the Bodleian was an ancient place.
"You won't find it there, Sir. That section is usually filled with newer philosophy. If you want something like John Stuart Mill, you will find it here." The girl pointed toward a shelf. She pulled a rolling ladder nearby and began to climb.
"Miss, perhaps I should be the one to get it. I would not want you to fall from such a height," Mycroft offered politely.
The girl was halfway up when she heard him. She looked down and, instead of being offended, she laughed. Her laughter was quiet yet elegant.
"You worry too much, Sir. Not all girls are fragile, you know?"
"Of course. I have a younger sister, and she is remarkably strong," Mycroft said with a socially awkward laugh.
The girl pulled a thick volume from one of the shelves.
"Found it," she said, holding the book up for Mycroft to see.
"Excellent."
As she descended the ladder, Mycroft reflexively offered his hand as a gentleman. She accepted it gracefully. Their skin touched. Her hand was not as soft as Mycroft had imagined; it felt smooth but also cold. Perhaps he really had met a library ghost. But what did it matter? The ghost was polite and helpful.
"Here is the book."
As Mycroft reached for it, the girl pulled it back.
"But you cannot have it now, Sir."
Mycroft frowned. "I beg your pardon, but may I ask why?"
"This is the only copy. It cannot be lent to just anyone. It must be approved by the Head Librarian."
"I assume that is you, Miss?"
She laughed. "Well, if I were a grumpy man in his seventies, yes. But unfortunately, I am not. He is not working today. You can collect it from Mr. Smith tomorrow morning."
"Tomorrow?"
She nodded.
"So I have come all this way for nothing," Mycroft whispered to himself.
"For nothing? Certainly not. At least you met me, and I can secure this book for you before someone else tries to borrow it, Sir."
"Ah? True. Thank you, Miss." Mycroft waited for her to provide a name.
"Very well, Sir. It is getting dark. I do not wish to be trapped in this haunted library alone. You should head home as well. I will put this book away and then leave."
The girl walked past Mycroft. A refreshing scent of lilies filled his senses, leaving him stunned for a moment.
"Wait. Miss, may I know your name—" When he turned, the mysterious girl had vanished. Even the sound of her footsteps had faded. "I think she truly might be a ghost," Mycroft muttered to himself with a faint, amused hum.
Mycroft decided to leave the library quickly, especially as the light was fading and the place was deserted.
"If that girl really was a ghost, I cannot imagine what other spirits I might see if I linger here," he joked to himself.
Mycroft continued his day. It was tedious work that never seemed to end, involving officials who constantly pressured him to be honest about the events in Istanbul and the status of his father's chemical weapons. His father had died there, after all.
Behind his suffocating desk, Mycroft rested his head. He looked exhausted, and indeed he was. Eight months had passed since the explosion in Istanbul, but the memories never left him. He thought especially of the secret his father had left behind. A secret Mycroft had forced Sherlock to bury in Istanbul along with their father's unrecovered body.
Mycroft checked his pocket watch again. It was already five o'clock, marking the end of his workday. He rose from his chair, grabbed his coat, and left the office.
He hailed a cab with a wave of his hand.
"Appleton Manor," he said.
He arrived as darkness fell. He opened the main door and was immediately greeted by Beatrice, who was arranging flowers in a vase.
"Evening, brother dearest," Beatrice said, kissing her brother’s right cheek. "Dinner in fifteen minutes."
"Thank you, dearest sister. I shall bathe quickly and come straight to the table."
After the tragedy in Istanbul, Beatrice had finally been brought back to the manor. She was his sister again. Meanwhile, Mycroft and Sherlock also decided to live at Appleton Manor to look after their mother, who was still unstable. Additionally, Mycroft had to ensure that Beatrice and Sherlock did not try to tear each other's eyes out, given their equally fiery temperaments.
"Brother dear," Sherlock greeted him as they passed on the stairs. "I thought you were going to borrow a book from the library?"
"Ah? Oh. The book is being held by a beautiful ghost," Mycroft said without thinking, walking straight past Sherlock.
"What?" Sherlock looked confused by his brother’s nonsensical answer. "Are you ill, brother dear?" he shouted.
"No," Mycroft replied with his characteristically soft shout.