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If someone asked Mycroft Holmes how he would describe his apprenticeship, he would give them one word: exhausting. Those were five very exhausting, vexing, but rewarding years. Now, if that someone were to ask about a person that first came to Mycroft's mind when thinking back to the very start of his career, it'd undoubtedly be Miss Florence Russell. As a matter of fact, she was the very source of his exhaustion and vexation. The man would never forget the day he met her. Mycroft arrived in London just a few days earlier, leaving the safety of his childhood home to live with his mother's distant relatives. Honest to God, it was the very first time he had even heard of their existence, let alone seen them. Mycroft was buzzing with stress rather than excitement when Mr Canning was walking him into the Foreign Office. It wasn't Holmes’s first time in London, but the sheer grandeur of the building made him realise how truly serious his situation was. Barely 16 years of age, alone in London, his little brother in school somewhere in Scotland, his mother in an asylum, and then his father God knows where on the continent. And his baby sister… It all happened too fast. A month ago, he was a boy, indeed starting to look for opportunities to grow and establish a career, yet there he was with the choices made for him. How could Mycroft turn down an offer like this from his father? All that he could do was prove himself and make something of his name.
“What are you waiting for, lad? Come on up!” called Mr Canning from the top of the stairs leading up to the entrance.
And so Mycroft straightened his tie and followed the man. What came next was an absolute avalanche of information. Rooms, names, faces, facts, dates, numbers, procedures, customs. He should've brought a notebook as he had planned! At the very end of the tour, at the very last floor that wasn't dedicated to storage, he met his fate.
“And so here's where you'll be working most days,” said Mr Canning, opening the door to a small office… with two desks?
“Oh, Mr Canning! How may I help?”
Mycroft turned. A girl, or rather a woman his age, stood in the door with a stack of papers in her hand. Her dress was most peculiar, almost resembling a man's clothes but with a skirt instead of trousers, all in a very smart shade of charcoal.
“Miss Russell!” Mr Canning exclaimed, visibly happy to see the woman. “Please meet our new colleague, Mr Mycroft Holmes. You'll be sharing this… cozy office.”
Mycroft was ready to kiss Miss Russell on the hand, after all, that's what his mother told him was proper to do when first meeting a woman, but that was not what Miss Russell had in mind. She stuck her hand out for him to shake, and that he did, hopefully concealing at least a bit of his confusion. It was most interesting to make an acquaintance with a woman his age, so accomplished and educated that she was also taken for an apprenticeship at the Foreign Office. Poor overwhelmed Mycroft just had a hard time wrapping his head around it in that very first moment.
“Pleasure to meet you,” he said.
“Likewise.”
“Very well then,” Mr Canning cut in. “I'll leave you two to get to know each other better, as you'll work closely. See you both at the 11 o'clock meeting.” And with that, the man was gone.
Mycroft must have looked like a wet and lost puppy in that very second. He hoped that Miss Russell would prove to be a close companion for his foreseeable future in the ministry. But with the click of the door behind Canning, the woman's smile dropped.
“Back off.”
Mycroft was taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“I said back off. This job is mine and I won't let some washed-up kitten take it away from me.” Washed-up kitten? What was the woman on about?!
“I'm sorry, I was not made aware there'd be some kind of competition, miss.” Mycroft tried his best to appease Miss Russell, but as it turned out, to no avail.
“Life is a competition, Holmes, and I won't be losing mine, so I warn you, don't you dare ruin it.”
All of Mycroft's confusion and stress have now turned into anger… and determination. He won't let anyone wreck this opportunity he was presented. So the young man straightened. He won't be terrorised by some rude coworker.
“Very well,” Mycroft spoke. “Then let the best one win.”
And so began his path to who he was. Calculated, intelligent, influential, and absolutely unstoppable. That very first day, he had completed all reports needed for the coming week, made exemplary notes at the meetings he attended, and most importantly, sent a signal to Florence he would not be backing off. During Mycroft's first year, the two almost jumped over each other at any opportunity to prove themselves, but then again, Mr Canning said they would be working closely, and he did not lie. Most times, Mycroft and Miss Russell were treated like a singular being, and every task given was supposed to be a cooperation. And cooperate they did, for they knew that refusing to do so would sink both of them. That did not mean there were only pleasantries exchanged.
“You write as if you were taught by a chicken,” Mycroft said one day to Miss Russell. He was reading through a report that the woman declared to complete in both of their names.
“I'm sorry not all of us had time to work on our cursive as children,” she replied, looking at him.
“Didn't have time or didn't want to?” He met her eyes whose colour brought to mind spring. Mycroft knew well enough that Miss Russell came from an influential and affluent family, so she did not lack time nor teachers. But given the repetitiveness of her clothes and their last year's silhouettes, she no longer benefited from the wealth. Why?
“Bugger off, will you?”
“Such foul language for such a proper lady, tsk tsk.”
The young Holmes truly made Florence's blood boil. Everything about him annoyed her. The way he talked, the way he dressed, how absurdly clean his shoes were, always! But what angered the young woman the most was that he actually was competent. She heard through the grapevine that it was Holmes’ father who had secured him the apprenticeship, and so Florence expected a spoiled boy. It was truly infuriating that Mycroft had the work ethic of a saint. Honestly, Florence's job was so much calmer before he came. Oh, and his constant leg bouncing!
“Can you stop that for at least a minute?!” Miss Russell shouted at Mr Holmes.
“What?” He looked at the woman, confused.
“That tapping of yours! You're constantly bouncing your leg, and it's driving me perfectly insane!”
Mycroft truly wasn't aware he'd been doing that before Florence made her remark. “Sorry, I- it wasn't intentional.”
The first year of his apprenticeship was definitely the hardest. Next summer, he and Miss Russell grew accustomed to each other’s presence, and their arsenals of (quasi)polite invectives exhausted. Of course, there were still harsh comments here or there, a general coldness, but no more verbal fights that went on for their entire work days.
“Truly, you two are absolutely indispensable!” Mr Canning remarked one day when he decided to invite Mycroft and Florence for lunch. He was a very attentive mentor, and neither of them could accuse the official of favouritism. “Our magnificent Foreign Office had never seen such competent and ambitious apprentices.”
That was sort of a problem. With two very ambitious young people and a place for only one of them, tensions could only rise.
Mycroft decided to visit his mother one day, as a good son should. A good son who was truly the only one fending for his small and scattered family. Father, of course, sent money, paid the bills, and all that, but seeing him at Christmas felt like a miracle so it was hard to call the scientist reliable. The eldest son took care of his mother's affairs and found new schools when his brother was expelled from yet another one.
“How is work, darling?” his mother asked. It was a good day for her. Mycroft could actually keep a conversation with the woman.
“It's alright, mother.” Mycroft didn't want to go into detail and risk worrying his mother or worse, causing another of her episodes.
“No, tell me more! There must be something worth talking about in London,” she smiled. “You must have made some friends.”
That was a harsh subject for Mycroft. All his days were spent in the office, and he meant that literally. The young man would arrive at his desk by 8 in the morning sharp and probably wouldn't leave until 8 in the evening. This lifestyle led to poor dietary habits; his mother would have been truly disappointed. To counteract the sweets and scarcely nutritional meals, Mycroft took up running on his days off. It helped him not only keep his body in shape but also his mind, bringing a sense of calmness at the small price of tired muscles. All in all, the young man didn’t really have time to make any friends. He and Miss Russell, being the youngest in their department, weren't taken very seriously by their colleagues when it came to social matters, so they were excluded from occasional department visits to the pub. In that moment, Mycroft realised that Florence Russell truly was the person he was closest to in London. They knew of each other’s backgrounds, weird ticks, and preferences, and spent almost all day, every day together. Of all people on this planet, he thought to himself.
“My colleagues are kind and helpful, but I’m not particularly close with anyone. There’s one more apprentice besides me, and we work together on almost every task, but we don’t talk much besides the bare minimum." They did talk a lot. His mother just wouldn’t be happy with what he tells the young woman.
“Oh, why not? Don’t tell me you’re being a recluse on purpose,” his mother scolded him.
“No, we’re just not very… like-minded.”
“That’s a shame.”
This conversation with his mother left Mycroft actually thinking about what place Miss Russell holds in his life. They were not friends, far from it. But he knew how she preferred to avoid meat in her meals, that when she was very deep in thought, she’d spin the ring she always wore on her left pointer. Florence Russell was a truly enlightened woman who spoke several foreign languages and possessed a vast knowledge of subjects ranging from literature to chemistry. Mycroft made a mistake once, coming into the office with a book, hoping he’d be able to read it in a spare moment.
“You’re reading that?” Miss Russell pointed out.
“Yes?” the man replied. What business had she in what he was reading?
“Don’t tell me you’re also enjoying it.”
“As a matter of fact, I am!”
That led to Miss Russell pointing out every fault in the novel and in the author’s workshop. The worst part of it was that after giving it a thought and considering the woman’s arguments, she really was right.
“I found The Count of Monte Cristo far more enjoyable.” Here, Florence was also right. When Mycroft finished the novel, he was positively exhilarated.
It was soon after the man’s 19th birthday when he came into the shared office and found it empty. No sign of a Florence Russell at all. At first, Mycroft thought this was what heaven must feel like. No comments on his choice of words, looks, or work ethic. It was heaven for about four hours. That’s when Holmes realised they truly had to work together, otherwise the workload became almost unbearable. And it was also just unsettling to sit with his own thoughts for so long at work. When he went to drop some files off at Mr Canning’s desk, something moved Mycroft to ask a question about Florence’s whereabouts.
“Had she not shown up today?” The man seemed worried.
“No, sir. I've been here since 8 and had not seen her.”
“Then I hope it is merely a cold and Miss Russell will soon be back.” Mycroft was taken aback. Had their supervisor not known anything about the woman’s condition?
“But she does have someone to care for her, doesn’t she?” the young man asked. Where was this worry even coming from?
“No clue! Her family doesn’t own a house in London, so I don’t know exactly where she’s been residing.”
A young woman could have been living in London alone for the past 3 years, and no one knew or cared?! Who raised these neanderthals?! Mycroft couldn’t leave it at that. He might have despised Miss Russell and blamed her for his constant headaches (nothing to do with his lifestyle, not at all), but his mother raised him properly. And so the man decided to put his charms and manners to use. It wasn’t particularly difficult. The old man taking care of employee records was almost blind and probably deaf in one ear. Mycroft chatted loudly about the weather with the clerk, and the senior had no clue the young man was browsing through the cabinets of his office. Her address must be somewhere in there. Aha! So Mycroft would be going to Smith Square tonight. He left the office at 6 and first went to gather groceries. Holmes truly hoped to find that Miss Russell lived with a relative, maybe some cousin, but when he knocked on the door at the very top of the stairs at 3 Smith Square, Mycroft saw it was not the case.
“Mr Holmes!” the woman exclaimed when she opened the door. That was new. Florence Russell had never called him 'Mr Holmes'. It must have been the fever.
“Miss Russell,” Mycroft bowed his head. Only then did he realise his colleague was standing in front of him in a dressing gown. The young man must have blushed a furious shade of red. His eyes stayed on the floorboards beneath his feet for the rest of the conversation. “I’m sorry for the intrusion. I was worried you’re sick and Mr Canning seemed to know nothing of your state, so I thought it best to check. We both assumed it was a cold, and so I brought fresh fruit and other groceries.” He extended his hand holding the shopping bag.
Something panged in Florence’s heart at that moment. She didn’t know yet what to call it, but it was a strange and uncomfortable feeling that spread from her heart to the tips of her fingers. “Thank you. That’s very kind.” What are you doing? He’s an enemy! “But you needn’t have worried. I’m doing perfectly fine.” She wasn’t. Florence sent her maid away in the morning, fearing the girl might catch whatever Russell had, and was quite honestly miserable. “Now, please go.”
Could this woman ever find a particle of warmth in her heart? Mycroft wondered on his way home. Seeing Miss Russell at her desk the following Monday was a relief, but nothing changed between the two. To be honest, both of them had a horrid week. Mycroft was absolutely drowning in papers without Florence and barely knew what his name was by Friday. The young woman, in turn, felt as if something had chewed her up and spat her out. Miss Russell hated being sick. And taking into notice that she gave her maid the week off, Florence had to fend for herself, which she was not used to. The groceries that Mycroft brought lasted only two days, and she couldn’t call them varied; they were mostly oranges, a couple of carrots, some potatoes, eggs, and a loaf of bread. Is this how the man ate? No wonder he was so skinny. Florence absolutely despised the young Holmes. He was the most annoying person she had met, and she considered him snobbish (pot, meet kettle). She could not accuse him of not being a gentleman, though. That he was a perfect example of. And he was, in fact, a very hard worker. Miss Russell took careful notice of all the times she left early on a Friday to meet with her friends while the man stayed God knows how much longer, completing another task. And it was not because he was behind with his workload. Yes, Mycroft Holmes was definitely a worthy competitor to Florence Russell.
A true breakthrough in the relationship came a couple of months before the end of Mycroft's and Miss Russell's apprenticeships. The Foreign Office held its annual spring ball, and finally, the two apprentices were invited.
“You're both almost regular employees, and it's high time we start including you in all the typical events,” said Mr Canning when he visited their office to hand them the invites.
Miss Russell looked absolutely stunning that night, thought Mycroft. It was a look so different from what the young woman wore on a daily basis. Her hair was pinned as every day, but this time, it was adorned with thin ribbons that matched the golden hue of her gown. Had Mycroft not known her, he would have assumed the young woman was a princess. But she was not a princess. She was his rude and cold coworker.
The night went smoothly. Mycroft got introduced to several members of the parliament and other influential people of London’s society. The best part was that the young man finally felt like he belonged. He was no longer the teenager who resembled a washed-up kitten, as someone once told him. No, that night Mycroft looked like a true gentleman, a man with a purpose and whose confidence felt reassuring to those he talked to, like they could trust the man with their lives after just a short conversation. Everyone noted how intelligent and well-spoken he was, and that did not escape the ladies in attendance.
“Now tell me, Florence. Why did you not tell me you have such a handsome colleague?” asked Miss Margaret Stephenson, an old friend of Miss Russell, who happened to be the daughter of a very influential man. Miss Stephenson did not know, though, of Florence's living conditions and that she had been cut off from the family fortune when she refused to marry a match made by her parents almost five years ago. Only Florence’s mother made sure she at least had a maid employed, but the operation was, of course, behind the lady's father's back.
“I have no handsome colleagues. Who are you talking about?” retorted Florence, scanning the room.
“Him,” said Margaret, pointing at none other than Mycroft Holmes.
Florence was shocked. Mycroft Holmes?! The worst perfectionist she's ever had the displeasure to meet? Why would Margaret be even interested in him? Mr Holmes had truly nothing to offer to a young woman. Yes, he was well educated and incredibly polite, and maybe he was the kindest person Florence met, with how he cared for his family (she caught him writing letters to his brother almost daily), and it was he who wondered if she was even alive when an illness struck her a year ago. Worst of all, Mr Holmes did look handsome in his dress coat now that Florence thought of it.
“Could you introduce me?” Margaret's voice made Florence snap out of her pensive state.
“I will do no such thing. You don't want to be acquainted with that man.” Where was this coming from? Why wouldn't she introduce her friend to the man? There it was again! That weird feeling she had when Mr Holmes came to check on her all those months ago! But now, it was almost sour in her mouth.
“Very well! Then I'll do it myself. Excuse me.” And so Miss Stephenson was gone, becoming a pink spot in the crowd.
The sour taste in Florence's mouth only grew stronger. She observed the two from the other side of the dance floor. Miss Stephenson readied her entire arsenal. She was all smiles, blushes, and giggles. And Mr Holmes seemed to enjoy the lady’s attention. Florence thought her supper would make a reappearance at the sight. That's when the two moved to the dance floor, and Miss Russell had had enough. She went to the terrace in order to calm herself and cool down with the help of crisp May air. The sky above was clear, and Florence could even make out some constellations. A soft sheen of light was coming in from the ballroom, but not too much to make Miss Russell fret for her privacy. What was happening to her? Why did she feel so strongly about Holmes? The woman wished she had never met the man. All he ever brought her was annoyance and nerves. That's when she heard footsteps behind her.
“Your friend is very nice,” said Mycroft. “Much nicer than you. I'm surprised you're even friends.”
“Said Mr Has-No-Friends. Surprised someone might want to spend time with me, unlike you?“ Florence retorted.
“I spent my evening making actual connections that could prove useful in my career, in comparison to you. Standing there and glaring. Judging everything and everyone. Tell me, do you even know how to have fun?”
The conversation was getting heated, and the two were standing only closer and closer. So close, Mycroft could feel the scent of Florence's jasmine perfume. “I'm not here to have fun, and those connections you speak of will forget about you come dawn. Including Miss Stephenson, believe me,” said Miss Russell, and it was a step too far for Mycroft.
“You're worse than my brother! Do you even know how much you vex me? I get headaches because of you!”
“That's not a challenge. You're just so easily annoyed. I can even see a vessel on your forehead! Careful, I think it's about to pop.” Mycroft and Miss Russell were standing almost chest to chest, both overcome with their mutual anger and hatred, and something else they couldn't name.
“I hate you!” the man exclaimed.
“Likewise!”
Mycroft doesn't know what happened or how or when. The next thing he remembers was his hands on Miss Russell's waist and his lips on hers. The kiss was fast, deep, and made the man's head spin. He had never acted like that, never let his passions and emotions consume him. No, Mycroft Holmes was as cool as marble and just as though. He took his father's place as a de facto head of the family at 16. He made sure his brother didn't end up in jail. Every word he ever spoke was weighed and thought over three times at least. This is not who Mycroft Holmes was, but Miss Florence Russell made him break all of his rules.
The kiss was actually much shorter than the two later remembered. They broke apart, chests heaving up and down. Mycroft felt absolutely drunk, and he barely had a glass of champagne.
“Never speak of this to anyone,” said Miss Russell, taking a step back and putting the necessary distance between them.
“Of course.”
Mycroft didn't see the woman for the rest of the night. He wondered whether she hid from him or simply went back to her tiny flat in Smith Square. When the young Holmes came back to his room, he couldn't sleep the whole night. The feeling of Miss Russell's lips on his consumed every corner of his mind. He relived the moment again and again. The man's heart beat hard in his chest. The first rays of sunlight were slipping in through the curtains when Mycroft finally realised. He was absolutely and devastatingly in love with Miss Florence Russell. And that was definitely a problem.
Come Monday morning, Mycroft expected everything to fall back to its natural rhythm. He expected Miss Russell's sharp-tongued remarks and stern looks. He wanted them. But he got none of that. The woman was the first one in their office that day, leaning over yet another report, a stack of files to her side.
“Miss Russell,” greeted Mycroft, his voice laced with the usual humour that accompanied their arguments. He tried his best to act as if nothing had changed. Like the kiss never happened.
“Mr Holmes,” she replied… politely? This was not her everyday attitude. Mycroft did not give up yet.
“How are you doing on this fair morning?” He tried to bait her, provoke her, make her tell him to go away, but she didn't even look at him.
“I'm fine, thank you,” she replied in a calm and soft voice.
And that's how every day left in their apprenticeship looked. The two talked only when strictly necessary. At the beginning, Mycroft tried to rile the woman up, make her break this strange act of politeness and reservation, but with no success. The office was calmer than ever before, so quiet, and the man concluded that what happened at the ball must have hurt Miss Russell. Mycroft felt terrible. He tried to apologise several weeks before they would move on to become proper employees of the Foreign Office, but was met with a stern “don't” before even finishing the sentence. And so Mycroft Holmes accepted the one and only possible truth - the woman he loved despised him, didn't want to have anything to do with him, and it was all his making.
Miss Florence Russell became the diamond of Britain's diplomatic corps. Freely speaking in five foreign languages (Mandarin Chinese included, thank you very much) and being able to converse on probably any and every subject under the sky, she quickly gained a strong standing in the Foreign Office. The whispers in the hallway speculated that she might become Britain's youngest ambassador ever, but the truth was that Miss Russell was too important to be sent away. Her Majesty's government needed her right where they could see her, in London. While at the office (that she did not have to share anymore), she handled reports, correspondence, and attended meetings with foreign representatives, but the truth was, her work did not have an end time. The young woman spent her evenings at banquets, dinners, soirées, balls, galas, and every other type of gathering more formal than not. What did not change was her address, as the landlady did not inquire about Florence’s marital status as long as the rent was paid on time.
Mycroft could only observe the dazzling career of his beloved. Being a man specialised in intelligence, it was only natural that their paths would cross from time to time. But all the young Holmes could do was watch. Fate and coincidence weren't on Mycroft's side. Somehow, the two were never seated together at dinners, and at balls they always danced with someone else. The only chance Mycroft had for having the woman's attention, only for just a second, was when they passed each other in the grand building that housed the Foreign Office. With the politeness Miss Russell adopted after that hopeless night, she would bow her head gently when walking past the man, and every time Mycroft thought his heart might stop beating. It was painful. It was truly painful to know he had ruined any chance he had with the woman he loved before even realising his feelings for her. Mycroft could not bear it. The subject was too intimate to talk about with any of his friends (of which he now had several) or his brother, who still remained honestly too young for matters of the heart, at least in Mycroft's eyes. He did try to talk about it with his mother, though.
“Can I- can I have a question? A personal one?” he asked during one of his visits.
“Of course, my darling. What is it?” she replied, sipping on her tea.
“I believe I have offended… a woman… who I feel affection for.” Mycroft couldn't remember the last time he opened up like that to someone. If he ever had before. His eyes were fixed on his cup. “And I don't know what to do.”
“Oh, honey, you should apologise.” His mother's sympathetic look made this even worse. If she only knew what he had done! “I am sure it wasn't intentional.”
“I'm afraid it was. And I did try to apologise, but she cut me off.” Yes, the bottom of his cup was most interesting. No wonder people invented reading the tea leaves. “I believe she doesn't want to talk to me anymore.”
His mother's hand found his. Mycroft didn't deserve this empathy, at least according to him. “Then you can only give her time.”
Of that, Mycroft had an excess. Of course, his work was demanding and highly detail-oriented, but he could easily choose to leave it in his office and spend an evening in a pleasant way. Maybe reading? Or perhaps a game of bridge with the commissioner of Scotland Yard? The possibilities were truly endless, but had Mycroft been left alone with his own thoughts for more than strictly necessary, he'd go insane over his feelings for Miss Florence Russell. So Mycroft became a loyal servant of the Foreign Office, either staying at his desk until late evening hours or simply (if possible) taking the papers to his flat on Pall Mall. Sherlock also felt the effects of his brother's efforts to keep his thoughts away from the woman. Mycroft managed to move his younger brother to a school much closer to London than the previous ones and frequently visited the boy to check if he was behaving himself (never) and whether his grades were satisfactory (far from).
And so seasons changed, time passed, and Mycroft was still in love with Florence Russell. He truly tried to change the sentiments of his heart; he really did, but it was pointless. Holmes tried to meet with other women, all of them pretty and accomplished. He thought that it was mathematically impossible for there to be only one woman on this planet, or at least in London, who could make his heart change its rhythm. Well, turns out mathematics failed him, too. All the women he met with were nice… just nice, but when the young official tried to talk about any subject deeper than the latest opera performed in London, he was met with wide eyes and soft ‘I don't really know’s.
The change in Mycroft didn't escape Miss Russell's attentive eye, either. She watched him in passing, growing more confident every day. He wasn't the exhausted youngster who spent entire days nodding and writing whatever someone told him to write. No, Mycroft Holmes was now the one to tell other people what to write. He exuded this aura of wisdom and stability, and disarmed his speakers with pure personal charm. When Holmes said something, it had to be taken most seriously. Florence saw not once how the man turned someone's argument against them so indisputably that the person didn't have anything left to do but nod and agree. Holmes's physique also changed. It was as if he finally grew into his own body. The man could have been definitely classified as one of the tallest employees of the Foreign Office. He was now also sporting a rather fashionable moustache, but sans the sideburns. Thankfully, thought Florence to herself. The woman dared say that no one in the Foreign Office wore better-tailored suits than Holmes. Truly, their creator should have been applauded. And all that was tied together with a signet ring on Holmes's pinky that caught Russell's eye at dinners from time to time.
It was a warm summer evening, almost 10 years since Mycroft first arrived at the Foreign Office. He finished his work surprisingly early that day and decided to go for a short run around St James's Park. Holmes hoped that the evening exercise would bring him a good night's sleep. He did not know yet who was awaiting him at his very own doorstep. Mycroft slowed down to a faster walk back on Pall Mall, and he thought his eyes were deceiving him when he saw a figure clad in navy standing right outside his door.
“Miss Russell?” he asked, thinking that his longing had finally got to his wits. But it must have been her. Holmes would've recognised her anywhere.
“Mr Holmes,” they exchanged bows.
“I hope you haven't been waiting long.”
“No. No, I- what are you wearing?” A hint of the woman's old attitude could be heard in her voice. It made Mycroft's heart beat even faster.
“This is my exercise attire,” Holmes stated plainly. He had been wearing a white vest (that fit him quite tightly, given the man's athletic form) and knee-length trousers. An absolutely regular ensemble for running, though the pastime itself was considered quite peculiar by London's high society.
“You look- no. Nevermind,” Miss Russell bit her tongue. “I need to speak to you."
And so Mycroft let the woman in. He excused himself for a moment to quickly freshen up and change. When he returned, she was in deep contemplation of the man's personal library. He smiled at the sight.
“Please, if any of the titles interest you, you may borrow them,” he spoke, making the woman jump just a little bit.
“Thank you, but I've read most of these already.” Mycroft invited the woman to sit with his hand, but she only shook her head. “No. I hope it won't be necessary for me to stay that long.”
“Very well. How may I help you, miss?”
“I come to ask a favour, a deeply personal favour.” Miss Russell took a deep breath and looked straight into her colleague's eyes. “I would greatly appreciate it if you agreed to pose as my fiancé next week at the supper organised by the new American ambassador.”
Had Mycroft hit his head during the run? No, he would remember that. Then again, if his brain produced such hallucinations, remembering the hit wasn't guaranteed. Oh my God, was he in a coma and this was all a figment of his imagination? Lying there in the park at other people's mercy?
“Mycroft!” His head snapped up. Miss Russell was still very much standing right in front of him. “Sorry, you… froze for a second. So?” And frozen he was. Holmes's eyes were the size of saucers, his skin almost paper-white.
“Why?” he asked.
“What do you mean 'why'?”
Mycroft leaned over his coach, hands clutching its back. His look was stern, and Miss Russell couldn't say she had ever seen the man in such a state. “Why do you need a fake fiancé? Why me?”
“Because the American ambassador is this utter buffoon who will never accept a woman speaking up and having opinions, unless she's married and her husband shares that opinion, but I hope a fiancé will suffice. The man believes women can only repeat what their husbands have taught them. Can you believe his wife has to ask him for permission before she speaks? Ugh, if I could, I'd avoid him like fire!” Mycroft observed as the woman got more and more riled. God, the ambassador really sounded horrid. “Excuse me. It's you because I believe you're the last bachelor in the entire Foreign Office.” Was he really? “Well, besides Tom the apprentice, but he's barely 18.” Oh.
A silence fell over the room. Medicine probably didn't have an apparatus accurate enough to measure whose heart was beating faster. Miss Russell tried to conceal her emotions as best as she could, but Mycroft noticed how she played with her ring since crossing the doorstep. His stare was so intense she thought it could burn a hole straight through her chest. The woman was losing hope when Holmes finally spoke.
“I'll do it.“
Miss Russell sighed in relief, head dropping to her chest. “Thank you,” she said softly.
“Shall we talk about the details then? I can make tea and-”
“No. As I said, sir, I don't want to take too much of your time. I'll send you a note with all the details to your office,” said Miss Russell as she started to make her way to the door.
“Please, it's really not a problem.”
Florence put a hand on Mycroft's chest. He thought he would die at that very moment. “I insist,” the woman whispered.
And with that, she was gone, and Mycroft tossed and turned the whole night. As Miss Russell promised, Mycroft found a neat note on his desk the following morning. She provided him with all the topics she'd like to raise at the supper and her stances on them. Or maybe the government's stance? No, those were definitely her own. The list ranged from Britain's economic strategy through American foreign policy to global women's suffrage, and Mycroft couldn't say that Miss Russell's views greatly differed from his. He still didn't believe he agreed to this farce. But he couldn't refuse his beloved, not when it was the first time they exchanged more than two sentences since the kiss. She needed his help, and he would help, as best as he could.
The night of the supper arrived faster than either of the two had expected. Mycroft was waiting outside of 3 Smith Square. The supper was supposed to start in 30 minutes, so it would be the perfect time to start heading for the embassy. And that's exactly when Miss Florence Russell emerged from the building, adorning a gown in the shade of light blue, with pearl pins securing her updo. Mycroft felt like that faithful night, when he first saw her. The woman was surprised to see Holmes already standing there, a cab parked right behind him.
“How did you know I still live here?” Mycroft chuckled at her question. No ‘good evening’, no politeness, just the directness he was oh so used to years ago.
“I work in the intelligence department, my dear. Shall we?” He helped the woman into the cab, and so their journey began.
“Here,” Mycroft pulled out a velvet box from the inside of his breast pocket. Russell opened it carefully, and her eyes were met with the most gorgeous ring she had probably ever seen. On the gold band sat a pink tourmaline circled by several pearls. “It used to be my mother's. If we're engaged, you have to have a ring.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Russell, slipping the piece of jewellery onto her ring finger.
Mycroft was vetted on every subject mentioned by Miss Russell in her note. The woman wanted to really make sure there would be no discrepancies between their opinions during the key moments. Their cab was nearing the embassy when Miss Russell changed the subject.
“And also, don't call me dear.”
“Then what should I call you? Darling? Honey? My heart?” Mycroft asked, amusement present in his voice. The woman blushed, and it spread from her cheeks, through the neck, and down to her exposed chest. Russell wondered if Holmes's eyes were always this intense shade of blue. She thought he could see right through her.
“Just call me by my name. Please.”
And so the two soon stepped into the embassy. Everything was in shades of white, red, and blue as the Americans were wont to do. Several of Mycroft's and Miss Russell's colleagues were present, and they could not believe the sight. Everyone knew the two worked closely during their apprenticeships, but they also knew of their screaming matches. And so Florence’s hand on Holmes's arm and the beautiful ring on her finger were bound to be the hottest piece of gossip in the Foreign Office come Monday morning. People were slowly taking their places at the table. Mycroft and Florence were naturally seated next to each other, but one of the seats opposite them was still left empty. Entrées were being served when the door to the dining room opened, and a male voice carried through the room.
“Mr Ambassador! Please forgive my late arrival.” The hairs on Florence's neck stood up. Oh no.
“Mr Russell! I'm so glad you could make it after all! Please, take a seat,” the ambassador replied.
The man appeared in front of Florence and Mycroft, his eyes the exact same shade of green as the woman's. Oh no, thought Mycroft.
“Florence,” the old man looked at his daughter and took his seat right opposite her, “how lovely to see you.” The sarcasm in his voice was palpable.
“Father,” Miss Russell bowed her head slightly. Out of impulse, Mycroft took her hand in his. He wanted to send his beloved a signal that, pretending or not, he would support her through this. The gesture easily caught the attention of Mr Russell.
“Oh, how sweet.”
The meal went on without any major bumps in the road. Conversations across the entire table were kept to a minimum. Florence could feel her father's eyes on her the entire time. It made her skin crawl, made her want to hide. Russell never forgave her father for how he treated her after she refused the match he had found for her. The boy was sweet and kind, she didn't blame him for agreeing to a plan drawn for him by his own parents, but Florence was barely 16! Mere years earlier, she grew out of playing with dolls; she was still figuring out who she was, what she wanted in life. No, 16 was no age to get married.
It was when the drinks were served that Miss Russell decided it was time to start the work part. She quickly engaged the ambassador in a conversation on the British government's views on American trade policy. The ambassador, as expected, checked in with Mycroft whether he shared his ‘fiancée's’ views, to which the man gave only affirmative answers and backed Miss Russell's statements. Florence was preparing herself for a subject change when her father's voice cut in.
“And who are you exactly to speak on such matters?” he asked. Florence felt so small under his gaze, as if she were 16 again.
“I'm a diplomat, father. I work at the Foreign Office,” she replied, trying to keep her voice steady but averting the man's eyes. Mycroft straightened slightly in his chair.
“A diplomat? At the Foreign Office? Your humour grew quite abstract over the past 10 years. And who's the man acting as your guard dog?” The room grew silent, and the atmosphere was severely uncomfortable.
“I am not joking, and this is Mycroft Holmes… my fiancé.” Mycroft's heart grew warm at the sound of Florence's words despite the conditions they found themselves in.
An amused expression appeared on the old man's face. “Huh, what a strange name, but I did meet your father, and he's an even stranger man. Do you know you're getting married to the most ungrateful girl in the entire British Empire?”
“This is not a word I would use to describe Florence,” Mycroft finally spoke, as always very diplomatic, deciding to omit the comment about his father.
“Then let me tell you later what a disappointment of a daughter she is. I doubt you'll want to marry her then.” The blood in Mycroft's veins started boiling, and he really had to force himself to keep his composure. Every hurtful word towards Miss Russell felt like an insult to him, too. His fiancée for the night grew smaller right by his side, as if collapsing in on herself. Her eyes were now clouded with a watery sheen. “Tell me, Florence, where did you learn all of this? Was he the one to teach you?” Mycroft tried to interrupt the spiteful man's rant politely, not wanting to cause a scene in front of several colleagues and, well, the American ambassador. “Is this how you got the job? By sleeping with that fiancé of yours?” Gasps were heard through the room.
“Mr Russell!” Mycroft's voice boomed through the room, making a few people jump in their seats. “I will not tolerate such harmful insinuations directed at my fiancée! Florence is a brilliant diplomat and, truthfully, one of the brightest minds I've had the pleasure to meet, who has earned her spot by hard work alone. Just because you do not see how remarkable she is does not mean everyone else is blind, too. And the only person who's not suited for this room is you.”
If looks could kill, Mr Russell would have been a dead man. No one in London's society had seen Mycroft Holmes so passionate. His perfectly combed hair was now slightly dishevelled, a single strand falling on the man's forehead. One of the couple's colleagues wondered whether he should clap or maybe raise a toast to Mycroft's words. Florence was looking at the man with sheer wonder written all over her face. No one's ever seen this strong an emotion on her face, either. Mr Russell was preparing to retaliate when it was the ambassador's turn to speak, a stern look on his face.
“I believe that's enough, Mr Russell. Goodbye.”
Mr Russell left the room, red on his face, and not without first throwing his napkin on the table. All the tension escaped Florence, and she let herself close her eyes for a moment, taking in a deep breath. Mycroft's hand found hers again under the table. She did not move it until it was time to leave.
The rest of the supper went as smoothly as possible, given the theatrics provided by Florence's despicable father. Mycroft's blood pressure did not drop one bit even after the man left. What was this sick situation he found himself in? Why did he agree to this charade? Mycroft needed his answers, and he was getting them that very night. The cab ride to Miss Russell's flat was silent. The woman was still shocked from seeing her father after 10 long years, and Mycroft's mind was working overtime. They stood in front of Florence's door, meant to bid each other goodnight.
“Thank you again, sir.” Back again with the politeness and coldness. “I appreciate you defending me in front of my father, but it wasn’t-”
“Don't,” Mycroft interrupted, which surprised the young woman. “Why do you hate me?”
“What?”
“Why do you hate me?” the man repeated. Miss Russell was not comfortable with this subject. “Why, after all these years, do you still hate me? Is it because of the ball?”
Florence knew perfectly what he was referring to. “I owe you no explanation,” she said, already turning towards the door. Mycroft caught her wrist, spinning the woman back to face him. So unlike him.
“You do. After all those years, and especially after tonight's events, I am entitled to it. So tell me.”
Florence met Mycroft's gaze, and all the tension and all those feelings she had tried to suppress so hard for the past several years threatened to spill over. Yes, his eyes would burn a hole right through her. The woman drew in a shaky breath, her eyelids falling. This was a surrender.
“I don't hate you. I haven't for several years,” she confessed.
“Then why did you stop talking to me just to appear on my doorstep to ask me to act as your fiancé years later? Because it was most cruel.” Mycroft's hold on the woman did not falter. It was grounding both of them, ensuring they both knew this conversation was actually happening.
“I- yes, it was because of the kiss! Are you content?” Florence's temper was slowly running out.
“Then why-” Why, why, why! Russell couldn't take it any longer.
“Because I love you, you fool! And you said then that you hated me!”
The world stood still. Clocks stopped ticking, and birds froze mid-air. All Mycroft Holmes could hear was the hum of his own hot blood in his ears. She loved him. She said it herself. The man's brain shut down completely. The only word on his mind - love. Love love love love love. All these years, Mycroft thought there was no hope for him, and yet, Florence Russell reciprocated his feelings. He felt light as a feather.
“I lov-,” he started after a moment.
“No!” Florence exclaimed, tearing her hand out of Holmes's grasp. Tears started to gather in her eyes. “Don't you dare finish that sentence!”
“Why? Give me one good reason!”
“Because I can't give you what you want! Those 10 years ago, after my father cursed me out for refusing a match he had found me, I promised myself I'd never marry!” The tears were now in full force, rolling down Florence's cheeks uncontrollably. “I refuse to become someone's property.”
Mycroft could not believe her words. Is this truly how she saw him? That accusation hurt. “What makes you think I would ever treat you as property were we to get married?” asked Holmes, his voice soft.
“That's how this world works, doesn't it? We're born the property of our fathers and then given away to husbands.” The woman sounded resigned, out of the will to fight. “I cannot live like that. I cannot give up my freedom, it's too sweet.”
Mycroft took a step towards Florence, taking her hands into his. “I would never treat you so. I promise you, my love.”
The woman shook her head and finally looked at her beloved. “Wouldn't you expect me to leave my work? Take care of your home and give you children?”
“Never,” Holmes assured. “I could never expect such a sacrifice from you. I could only hope you'd like to build a family with me one day, but if it's not something you wish for, then that's alright too. You are the most important to me.”
The two stood in silence, hands intertwined, the weight of their confessions heavy in the air but light on their hearts. The only witnesses to the scene were the stars above. They were so bright. Mycroft lost count of the heartbeats passed.
“Alright,” Florence whispered, and Mycroft sighed. There was no alcohol strong enough to make him feel the way he felt that very moment. “But I will kill you if you break this promise.”
Holmes smiled, resting his forehead against hers, propriety be damned. “I will give you permission in writing, darling. I'd rather be dead than become a man like the ambassador.” That earned him a sweet laugh from Florence's lips. He could get used to that sound. “I love you. I've loved you for so long.”
“Likewise,” Florence smiled.
Neither of them remembered who initiated it, but they very well could recall how amazing that kiss felt. Through it, the couple tried to tell each other of all the years of longing and the restless nights consumed by their passion. It felt as if they were among those stars up above, far from the petty worries of the mundane world. Nothing could compare to that feeling. After they broke apart, blissful smiles graced their faces.
Finally, deciding to part for the night (although it was a difficult task), Florence was halfway through the door when she remembered.
“Mycroft! The ring!” she exclaimed, grabbing it.
“Keep it,” he said. “It could only ever be yours.”