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“They began by using him as a short-cut, a convenience; now he has made himself an essential. In that great brain of his, everything is pigeon-holed and can be handed out in an instant."
Independent Mycroft Holmes of BBC Sherlock
Active since February, 2012
Crossover friendly with alternate versions of Sherlock Holmes and other fandoms
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Romulus let out a low laugh to himself that Mycroft did not want to discuss history or they would be stuck talking for too long, the problem with Romulus was that for the most part he would answer them but as ever it would of course be from a very Roman perspective which was of course false much of the time. He knew he did it, he wasn't too sure why other than to make himself look better but he knew he wasn't going to stop either so perhaps it was for the best they did not speak of history.
He wouldn't have minded speaking about their mutual connections, Romulus wondering around his ancient boarders meant they had to deal with him at some point, loitering around like an unwelcomed ghost in their space as he reminisced on what was lost and how humanity had in his opinion at least, taken a step back from how great and spectacular he had made it. But Mycroft settled on wine and Romulus looked to the glass in his hand.
"Yes it is acceptable, of course if we want to get homely my wine was far stronger." He at least half explained how it was he could gulp down the wine Mycroft had provided for him. He did cock an eyebrow as Mycroft spoke about food options. "You should not offer a Roman food while he is away from Rome," he laughed, "I could clear out your kitchens. However, if you require food then do not stop on my account, I do not begrudge humans from their basic needs." He let his wine glass hover by his face a moment, absently looking into it as he reasoned with himself, "These days anyway."
He took a more polite sip this time and relaxed in the chair again as he considered what do talk about or what to do. "Do you provide food only to your members or are there options for those working on the streets outside?"
"Food is for members and their guests only. I have no interest in running a public restaurant."
If Romulus didn't want to eat, then Mycroft was hardly going to complain. He could already imagine the comments about whatever food he provided - about how it had been better in Rome, and modern cooking simply wasn't up to scratch, and likely all those stereotypical claims about British food too. Similarly, the same comments would likely be present if he were to call for anything for himself, so he wasn't going to do that either. Eating could wait. It wouldn't be the first time Mycroft had put it off, nor would it be the last.
"I must confess, I wouldn't say no to stronger wine. Assuming somewhere still makes something similar, you must send me a bottle one day."
Or not. Mycroft certainly didn't expect any gifts from the other man. However, Romulus seemed the type to enjoy the opportunity to prove his culture better - which, in turn, could also be considered the same as proving himself better, what with who he was - so it wouldn't be all that surprising to have something turn up one day now it had been mentioned. Not that Mycroft expected the strength of the wine to sway him away from spirits, mind you. He was a creature of habit; his preferences were far from easy to change.
"It must be interesting," he then mused, "to watch these things develop. Do you think it is more difficult to watch the progression due to your involvement with it, or less difficult because you can view it through the lens of one who will outlive the changes, and thus they don't really matter?"
It was a question Mycroft had wondered about for a while but had never actually asked. Despite knowing others like Romulus, the relationships were not ones where he felt he could freely satisfy his curiosity, lest he risk causing offense with the wrong questions. With Romulus, however, that was less of a concern. Obviously Mycroft didn't want to provoke him in any way - he didn't want to risk a diplomatic relation, nor did he want to risk his own health - but there were fewer restrictions in play, which gave him the opportunity to ask more than he usually would.
The unimpressed look earned a smile that he did not bother to hide, either way he was not going to be serving Mycroft cold tea any time soon. He could see it was less a joke and more of a mood situation so was mindful not to appear too amused at his disgust. "I'll stick to coffee for you then."
Theo wasn't too worried about the rejection of a take out either, again, Mycroft did not look like the type and he understood that he had more things to worry about aside from the risks of a dodgy fast food joint. He suggested he picked his favourite joint and Theo laughed again, "I think we'll go to my wife's preference instead, I suspect you would not enjoy the local pizza place which is my favourite." He was a healthy man who watched his weight but a pizza on his birthday and any extra excuse through the year was usually bought from that same pizza place.
He closed the files he was working on with the intention of securing them while they were out of the office. "Hers is Manhatta, it's not far away but is atop One Chase Manhattan Plaza," a 60storey building though modern of course. "Or there's the trinity restaurant and bar just a block passed that if you'd rather keep your feet on the ground?"
Theo loved his city and took the time to get to know where to go, he thought his suggestions were more suitable to Mycroft's preferences from what he had seen in any case. He also knew Mycroft enjoyed a drink and while he did not partake, he didn't mind the other doing so if it would help with work or stress and indeed mood.
It was quite right to assume that Mycroft would rather avoid pizza. He had, of course, eaten it before - and he'd even enjoyed it a few times - but eating with his hands in front of another person? That simply was not going to happen.
Mind you, he did make a mental note that if he were to have pizza, at least the New York style was one of the less offensive of the American varieties. Were they in Chicago, it would be an entirely different story! Still though, an alternative place to eat was appreciated, and while Mycroft had no way of knowing whether the other man's wife's sense of taste was worth using as a way of garnering restaurant suggestions, he at least appreciated the thought to pick somewhere else.
"I know of Manhatta," Mycroft confirmed. It always paid to be aware of at least a few suitable restaurants when working abroad, lest he look ignorant should he need to arrange a meal with a colleague or contact. He was not aware of the other option, but given the choice between somewhere that had 'and bar' in its title and somewhere that didn't, Mycroft found he tended to prefer the one without. The noise levels were usually a little lower, and the atmosphere more akin to what he was used to.
"I would eat there. Your wife has good taste." A compliment said more out of politeness than anything else, but Mycroft made sure to slip it in nonetheless. While Beneventi didn't seem fond of talking about his family, that reluctance seemed to be born out of a sense of paranoia rather than a lack of fondness. The man clearly loved them, therefore probability suggested a compliment, no matter how small, would be a tactical idea.
"I'll pay, of course." The FBI paid a decent wage, but it hardly not polite to go into a meal assuming the other would pay, nor did splitting the bill offer any beneficial display of control over an interaction.
Mycroft spoke as if Edgar would not welcome the work, if nothing else for the chance to keep his finger on the pulse of just what was happening back home and in the wider world. Sending him to spy on, threaten or whatever else to certain figures meant he could do his own investigations and indeed with the mission briefs he'd had a decent idea who was friend and who was foe. "I doubt it," was his confident response and a little smile Mycroft's way perhaps as assurance he meant that he trusted whatever he would send him to do would be important and thought out.
The joke earned another soft laugh and a shake of his head, "No, I'm not disappointed to hear that, though I'm sad that it will be less frequent." He'd come to care about Mycroft and his career. He'd admittedly been a thorn in everyone's side for so long that it was refreshing to find someone who could or at least would tolerate his behaviour because he recognised his value. Insubordination was tossed around a lot when it came to describing Edgar and his own career, yet he'd so far always listened to Mycroft. There was something in that which Edgar left unaddressed.
"Of course you can consider that you'll have somewhere to stay when you are here, though I can't say Sir Anthony or whoever it is that comes in as his replacement over the coming years will be able to turn you away even if you wanted them to." No, more likely they might recognise him as Edgar's boss and complain directly to him instead. He'd have to make sure they had some decently funny stories to complain to him about at least.
"Though I do imagine you'll hear about me if not from me," he smiled knowingly because he was such a headache, but he felt as if he'd more than earned the right to be so. Maybe one day Mycroft would feel the same about himself, who knew.
"I will be taking advantage of that offer." Whether or not Mycroft's response was a warning came down to interpretation. He had never been a fan of unfamiliar places, though, and so if he had the choice between staying with Edgar and finding a hotel, the other man's home would win ever time. If he didn't like that, then he should have put some limitations on his kind offer.
The other perk of the accommodation would be Edgar's presence. It would be nice to have his company, just as it would also be nice to know that should some kind of nefarious party be seeking to hurt Mycroft while he was aboard, they'd have to get through a human weapon shaped guard dog first.
Were Edgar allowed to step foot anywhere Mycroft owned a home, he would have made the same offer in return. As it was, though, he was saved from that particular obligation by that other man's practical exile. Mind you, this was, to some extent, a shame. Were anybody to have to stay with him, Mycroft felt as though Edgar would be the best option. The two of them were similar enough that they could survive within four walls together for at least some time without being at each other's throats.
As for hearing about Edgar, yes, Mycroft was certain that he would. He Imagined that would be the case even if he hadn't purposefully set himself and his career up to receive every available snippet of information he could, what with the way the other man worked and all. Edgar got results, but it was not uncommon for him to leave chaos in his wake in he process. Somebody had to clean that up, and that rarely happened without some kind of grumbled complaint.
"Whenever I hear people cursing your name, I shall pay rapt attention so I may find myself fully up to date on all your endeavours," Mycroft promised after a small chuckle. "If deserving, I may even remind them that we rely on men such as yourself for a large number of tasks we'd really rather not do ourselves, and thus the should treat you with a little more respect. I doubt they will listen, but an attempt will still have been made."
Moriarty's own envisioning of the house had been similar to his own in Ireland. Messy, chaotic, signs of life both the good and the bad scattered about the rooms in no particular order nor careful thought. Hand made items, photographs, old greetings cards, funeral service leaflets, appointment reminders, bottles, knives, clothes and half claimed packets of food. Mycroft's house being as empty and devoid of life had been hard to envision until he had set foot in it for himself and learned his younger friend had been describing it perfectly. He ignored the annoyed glance back to him for his commentary.
He couldn't ignore the reveal he would have been welcomed, that Violet would have been looking to discuss mathematics with him, which admittedly he knew he would have enjoyed but he cracked out a short laugh of disbelief, "I don't doubt she would have welcomed it but I suspect that your father might have had other feelings around such a visitation." Though it was assumed that Moriarty held little to no interest in the pursuit of romance in any case, reputation seemed most important to Siger.
Another question came and it surprised him in its delivery, had there been a little more light for him to properly assess Mycroft he might have been able to jump at the chance of manipulation but it eluded him that time as he turned to look back at the house beside Mycroft. Letting out a little puff of air for their walk, he was fit but the fall had taken its toll on him nonetheless, it became more obvious to him only after he had been granted the freedom to properly move again that night. However, he was not going to surrender his chance at star gazing even if in a bitter reminder to himself that escape was not as accessible as it might once has been for him.
"Yes," he answered him at last, "I can admire the history of it of course but there's a prestige to it that is unmistakably yours." It was the truth in his eyes at least, the house was indeed somehow very Mycroft fitted. "I'd risk being out of line in suggesting that it is better suited to you than to your brother in any case." And he checked if that was a note he should not have struck.
Siger Holmes was not a fan of Moriarty. This was not something that had ever been said aloud, but it was a truth that was evident nonetheless. He had never liked the man's influence over his son, nor had he been fond of his influence over other connections. Mycroft knew his father well enough to know he would have despised the fact that a mere mathematician held any sway over significant figures such as the Prime Minister. Then, of course, the truth about Moriarty had come out, and Siger's dislike had been valided entirely.
Amusingly, or perhaps not, the flaw in the man that he'd have cared about least was, very likely, his desire to torment Sherlock. The younger Holmes brother may have been his mother's favourite child, but his father wanted nothing to do with him. The only reason he would care about that whole situation was because it reflected badly on the Holmes family name, and because he would have had to pretend to be terribly upset should Moriarty have achieved his aims.
And, speaking of Sherlock: "That would hardly be out of line. It is no secretly that my brother was never at home here."
Again, that was never something that had been spoken, but Mycroft knew a man such as Moriarty was capable of intuiting it, especially after having heard tales of Sherlock in his youth over the years.
"I think he always preferred the cottage we lived in for a while after the fire, while the house was being rebuilt." His mother owned that house now. Her sons still visited her there from time to time, always somewhat begrudgingly. Sherlock, however, never visited Musgrave Hall to see their father.
Pleased that Moriarty seemed to appreciate the house, Mycroft's previous annoyed look slowly faded away. It was an impressive home. It was only correct that it shlhld be admired.
"Perhaps I will show you the grounds in the light of day tomorrow. My father still keeps them maintained as they used to be, just in case he needs to entertain important guests again. If you are lucky, you may also see some deer."
Mycroft had his doubts that Moriarty would care for deer or neatly arranged gardens, but what else had they to do with their day? A wander through the grounds would keep the other man out of trouble, at least.
"I got that part-" Basil replied, a little on edge as well as increasingly selfconscious about the fact that someone as high ranking as Mycroft was witnessing him at the sort of low you hardly shared with a close friend. This would have been bad had he overindulged in company, but drinking alone reflected an infinetely worse image.
"-but you brought it up. That it would be a shame if something 'planned' were to....", he couldn't quite remember the wording, "Do you suspect they're planning something? Is that why you're here, at this hour?"
His questions were voiced almost the instant they popped up in his head and while Basil wasn't normally the nervous type, Mycroft's suspicion had unsettled him. Why was he here? It had to mean someting was wrong. This wasn't an ordinary visit, or else he would never have found Basil in such a state, and why bring up plans being put into motion at all if you didn't suspect something like that was going to take place?
"Look, if there's anything I need to be made aware of...you- you should tell me, instead of making vague statements..."
He wanted to say more - something along the lines of an apology or a promise to assure tomorrow would go smoothly - but, thankfully, he still possessed enough reason to realise that nothing he tried to voice now would land the way he intended it to, and remained silent.
"As I have told you multiple times, I am looking for copies of paperwork which somebody - not you - failed to provide me. You would remember that if you were a little more sober."
As much as Mycroft hated the concept of coincidence, there really was no ulterior motive to his presence. If everybody else had managed to be even a little competent, he wouldn't have turned up on Basil's doorstep at all. Now he found that the other man was a problem too. That was incredibly irritating, but it was far from the first time every cog in the wheel had managed to disappoint him.
There was one saving grace for Basil: while his response did seem overly worried in a potentially suspicious way, once everything else was considered - his body language, his drunken state, and so on - the balance of probability fell on him being worried somebody thought he was up to no good, rather than him actually doing anything nefarious. Mycroft could see how that concern could arise. After all, to an outside eye, a man such as himself showing up because a series of failures meant he had to resort to personally chasing down a few documents hardly seemed like a likely story, did it?
"As far as I'm aware, the greatest threat for tomorrow is incompetence - a risk which, might I add, you are not currently doing anything to negate," Mycroft pointed out, his tone stern. "However, there will be bigger problems than your hangover. For example, have you seen some of the planned outfits? They're hideous. If audiences don't take them as a new trend, heads are going to roll."
"That's not going to work on me anymore." Mycroft @ Moriarty
His expression darkened at the comment and Moriarty looked on at Mycroft seriously, he had indeed been trying to manipulate him as he had done for years but even he knew there would come a time when he would realise and start to mitigate against it. Moriarty eyed him for a moment, a man mindful of his expressions just as much as Mycroft was, perfected after years of work curating his persona he appeared offended.
"What's not going to work on you anymore? Delivery of advice or are you referring to something else?" His gaze stayed fixed on Mycroft, a teacher scolding a student, "What are you accusing me of here?" Because he was right to accuse him but Moriarty had intentionally flipped the switch from his usual manipulation to something out of character and stronger. Now he was apparently offended and he expected Mycroft to explain or fix it.
It wouldn't be the last time Mycroft would spot his behaviour but Moriarty imagined there would be a good few years between each and Mycroft seemed to hold at least some empathy which Moriarty knew he was deeply lacking, despite the act he could put on. He counted on it in fact as he appeared to vent frustration and insult in tidying up his student's papers on his desk with more hurried and heavier hands than usual.
To the very few who truly knew Mycroft, it must have been hard to ignore how his life had been shaped by the immense need to prove he wasn't going to be a disappointment. Subsequently, at Moriarty's scolding tone, it wouldn't have been too surprising to see the man flinch. Well, no, that was a lie. It would be surprising to see Mycroft flinch, as he had trained himself to be far too visibly stoic for that, but it wouldn't have been surprising it see it in real people - the individuals in the street who represented the average citizen.
But he didn't flinch. What he did do, however, was seem to shrink into himself just a touch. Mycroft's instinct was to immediately leap to his own defence, but he managed to stop himself for the moment. To seem petulant or whiney would only worsen the situation. He needed to seem calm and composed, and to stand firm lest he seem weak.
That didn't mean the task was easy, though. The shift in behaviour from Moriarty set off countless alarm bells in Mycroft's mind. His need to keep the man pleased with him triggered, his eyes tracking him like a hawk as he watched for any sign of what to avoid if he did not want to worsen the situation.
"I am not accusing you of anything," Mycroft attempted diplomatically. "I am merely pointing out that I am no longer a child, and you can not compel or cajole me into blindly following your without the expectation of pushback. I have my own life experience to draw on too, and not all of it agrees with you."
His actual meaning had been somewhat stronger. Mycroft had felt as though Moriarty had been trying to twist him into agreement - manipulating him through knowledge of his character rather than any actual argument. It was not a good feeling to have. Not only did the manipulation make him feel uneasy, but the disrespect and the lack of acknowledment of his own experience irritated him enough that he had felt the need to actually comment on it.
It might have been different if Will had siblings. Where his parents had failed him, another child would have been innocent. Will, undoubtedly, would have been a difficult brother to have, but a protective one as well. As if keenly aware, this was all he had. He would have protected any sibling if there had managed to be one. No use in two suffering because they were born into the wrong family. Will’s martyrdom would have been justified, selfishly entangling himself in the fate he couldn’t escape.
But he was born an only child.
“Interesting,” Will hums and offers nothing else as he considers it. He likes to imagine it, just the differences of their lives, only to end up in the same unending performance of duty. Will counts himself lucky he doesn’t feel indebted to it. The other’s discomfort is palpable as if the person underneath was finally growing consciousness of himself. He wants to poke at him, but he cannot wager if Mycroft is the type for fight or flight when cornered.
“My plan was steadily evolving.” There hadn’t been a plan. Will would have figured it out. He had a proficiency for those things. Lying and getting his way when it was required of him to be a bit more charming. The switch was laughable, but a result of his world. How could he begin to explain that to Mycroft, who loved his family? He shrugs, allowing the distraction; he doesn’t want to fight him just yet. “I get sick of it. I know that in the end, I will sequester myself from all of this. But for now, I want control and freedom of particular choices, good or bad. There is an entire world out there that we cannot easily walk into due to responsibilities. So pardon my manners when I say fuck that.”
"I see."
In Mycroft's opinion, an evolving plan was no proper plan at all. It was improvisation under a safer sounding name - an attempt to fool oneself into believing preparations had been made when, in fact, quite the opposite was true.
Knowing that Will had no real plan of action was not a relief, though it wasn't necessarily a bad thing either. On one hand, it made the situation a lot more malleable. On the other, a lack of plan also made it a lot more unpredictable. Mycroft could only hope that he managed to spot and redirect the other man if he began to pivot down an unwanted path.
There was a temptation to point out how, with Will's desire to run from his duty, he was glad to not be one of his subjects. Thankfully, though, Mycroft managed to resist that urge. He knew such a statement was unlikely to go down well, even if he believed it to be entirely justified. Considering how open and agreeable Will was being - which wasn't to say he was being overly open and agreeable, but certainly more so than he had been before - breaking whatever strange trust had formed between them hardly seemed wise.
Plus, on some level, Mycroft understood. While didn't want to distance himself from his family, there were certain elements of what came with them which he wished he could avoid - most notably, the public appearances. Oh, how Mycroft wished he could keep himself hidden away and not have to bother with the tedious masses. In the future, when his status as not the one to inherit the throne meant his importance dwindled after his father's death, he could probably get out of the majority of it all. What then, though? Mycroft wasn't allowed to have any meaningful employment, especially so in the areas he was interested in (that being, mostly politics). The charity work and opening hospitals may drive him insane sometimes, but it at least gave him something to do!
"So your act of great rebellion is to make a point of all this by making an impromptu visit to the coast?" Mycroft hummed, not particularly impressed, but not saying anything more either. He didn't want to do anything more than their current plan, thank you very much! But, at the same time, he thought it looked like more of a petty act than anything significant.
Edgar remained pleased with himself when Mycroft disagreed with his ideas of staying relevant in people's minds. "It's worked for me so far, they tend to get very panicky when they haven't heard that I have caused some sort of trouble for a while." He cocked an eyebrow because he was well aware that they were worried what secrets he could actually spill if someone ever did decide to capture him, true compromise of his new identity, as far as Edgar had learned upon accepting it, was a bullet between the eyes from ally or foe alike.
He'd gone fishing once many years ago and due to the weather, he and Russell had remained out on the water for an extra couple of days, when he had returned to the embassy he found his apartment and office crawling with fresh agents looking for clues to what might have happened or where he might have gone. He supposed it was valid, it wouldn't have been the first time he up and disappeared when he reached a boiling point of patience with MI6. He'd returned both when the panic was intentional and when it wasn't of course, which is where he had discovered the contingency plan.
He confirmed at least that this time the report was just for M and Edgar nodded, "Good," he knew he drove them up the wall but M at least had his back still... right? He was more confident that Mycroft did at least and he chuckled at the suggestion that he should keep the reports coming in only reaching M's desk.
"Well I don't know, you keep turning up in person so I am not sure which desk ends up being higher," he cast him a playful glance but was making a lot of effort not to move too much too. "Does the buck stop with you these days or is there someone even more mysterious that is foolish enough to believe they can scold you?" Being on the wrong side of the ocean did that to man, he was limited in what he knew of the hierarchy back home in the modern MI6.
"My masters, should they exist, would hardly be the type to appreciate me discussing their presence, don't you agree?" Mycroft replies, his words giving neither a lsotive or negative response to Edgar's question. He would surely understand. These weren't things to be casually discussed.
The chain of command was a complicated one. On paper, M was above Mycroft. In reality, Mycroft held enough sway that he was typically left to his own devices without any question of his activities from his superior. He was influential enough that he could shift matters in another direction should he feel the need to, but played the game well enough to at least allow M the dignity of pretending to have some say in his activities.
As for anybody even higher up... Well, that was a secret, wasn't it? They did exist, it was true, but Edgar didn't know their identities already, then it was not information suitable for his ears.
The way the other man moved - or rather, the way he didn't move - was obvious to Mycroft's observant eyes. Clearly, Edgar was in more pain that he was willing to admit to. This was hardly a surprise, of course. They were both stubborn about such things, and Edgar had the added incentive to hide his discomfort of not wanting to risk attention being drawn to his age.
Not too concerned yet, Mycroft didn't comment. Edgar knew him well, though, so it seemed safe to assume he knew that he knew. It also seemed safe to assume he knew that he knew that he knew. The layers on unspoken words between them really did have the potential to get confusing very quickly!
"I'm sure M would claim to be the one holding the reins," Mycroft instead continued. "All things considered, I hardly think that's too damaging of a delusion."
He laughed and flashed a momentary grin to signal his joke, but, to those in the know, the truth of Mycroft's successful control over the world he inhabited was still present in the background of the conversation.
Observing Mycroft trying to justify his appearance and then the internal debate on whether or not to accept the offer of a drink was really very amusing. In a way he was lucky that humans could not enjoy reality like he could, they might too easily realise the good fortune of life and its complexities and thus prove him wrong and he couldn't have that now could he?
In any case Mycroft was as close to that awareness becoming a reality as any human had come so far, though it was not a telepathic gift, it near enough was from what he could deduce from simple observation. So naturally, Lucifer wanted to turn up and confuse the clearly very busy and exhausted man.
He agreed to a drink and Lucifer beamed at him, more so at him suggesting he get himself one as well. "Go on then, be a devil," he encouraged with a terrible pun only he would get but at least confirmed he would join him. He stood and went to the decanter Mycroft had glanced at earlier and set out two glasses without asking, as if he owned the place despite being with the actual owner right in that moment.
"A man can work himself to death you know," Lucifer warned as one glass was poured, measured by eye but perfect for what Mycroft wanted nonetheless, he knew what quantity he was craving in a glass for now and it was in part a tease or façade as if he had the same observational capabilities, in a mortal sense anyway. "A sit down and a drink every now and then can ease a burden of exhaustion just enough, don't you think?" Mused with no real thought as he poured out his own glass before returning to offer Mycroft the glass.
"I find that a particularly well timed indulgence does wonders too, for the soul." He eyed him and lifted his glass before taking a short sip. Indulgence indeed, gluttony was an easy one to play with. Pride was easy with Mycroft too but he wasn't there to play that time at least. "Care to share your burdens with a stranger, Lord Holmes? Perhaps I can help."
The way the other man went straight for the correct drink did not escape Mycroft. It could be a coincidence, of course, but he was not a man who liked to believe in such a thing. It was more likely, he decided, that he was opposite somebody who possessed their own observational abilities. They were something that anybody had the potential for, but the general public's lack of interest in investing in them made their use notable.
How interesting. Thought a little surprising, it wasn't something that Mycroft had never come across before. Within the circles where he spent his time, the population of people making use of their senses was larger than usual as a result of the kind of work they tended to do. However, it was still worth making note of, even if only to take precautions against.
The way he poured the exact amount that Mycroft had been considering himself raised alarm bells, though. Now that was just a little too much coincidence for his liking! Were he not doing his best to ensure he gave away little of his inner thoughts, Mycroft's eyes would have narrowed at the sight. Was he being watched? It wouldn't be far from the first time that had happened, but it would be the first time he hadn't noticed.
Despite his roused suspicions, Mycroft accepted the drink anyway. He'd watched it be poured, so he knew nothing had been added to it. Of course, there was always the possibility that something had been added to the decanter before he entered the room, but the probability of that being a legitimate concern seemed minimal. If this man was smart enough to have been observing him for some time without drawing attention to himself, he would very likely be smart enough to realise how suspicious he had revealed himself to be. That meant the game currently at play was something more than a simple assassination attempt. Mycroft was being played with. Why that was, he didn't know, but what he did know was that he didn't like it.
Watching the other man drink from his own glass further reduced any worried of the drink containing anything it shouldn't, and Mycroft soon followed suit with his own sip. He had to admit, it did make him feel better. Well, he could admit that privately, anyway. Such a thing didn't feel sensible to agree with verbally.
"I'm afraid the matters weighing on my mind would be too difficult to explain to somebody not directly involved," Mycroft diplomatically responded. That wasn't a lie - he was currently working on a matter involving the cooperation of the Americans, the French, and the Russians, and getting them all to agree on anything was nigh on impossible - but his reply served more as an excuse not to reveal any real details than anything else. Obviously he didn't want to discuss his work with a stranger - especially not one who had an apparent unknown interest in him!
"What is it that you do for a living?" He asked in return, trying to extract some information of his own. The details he could observe on the other man were irritatingly lacking. He was clearly a professional, which was never good news.
Mycroft wondered what exactly he had done to deserve such a thing being set upon him. There were all manner of possibilities, of course. The most likely, based on his current work, was the Russians wanting to ensure he want double crossing them. Why, then, his tail was deciding to speak to him, Mycroft didn't know. The whole situation felt somewhat unprecedented, and that was never good.
It was a decent point, of course. He knew it, and no matter how many times he could point out Robert's apparent health, it wouldn't do a thing to change the fact that he could drop dead tomorrow, or could end up dead in a ditch on the side of the road. After all, Matthew's own presence in this house was due to the sudden, unexpected death of the proper heir. If it came to it and he needed to ensure a bond with one of the girls, then so be it. There was no rule that Matthew had to court one of them, of course, but it would make things so much easier. He would not force himself upon anyone, not until the choice was made for him. Even then, he would try to find a solution that worked for all parties.
"I am a stranger, here, Mr. Holmes, and there is little evidence that anyone here views me as anything but that. I am an imposter at best, an enemy at worst. If I am to make myself a part of this home, I believe it would be best done through settling in before I begin to change their ways of life." He didn't know Mycroft's opinion, of course, so he wasn't trying to defend himself to him, not in the way that he might have, but was only, if anything, defending his actions to himself. Mycroft may not agree, and he did not have to, but in Matthew's opinion, the cooperation of the family was vital. These people, regardless of blood, were not his family. Perhaps one day they would be, but they were not yet.
Some ridiculous flutter within his chest bothered him at the mention of this particular person. Utterly ridiculous, of course, but he couldn't say he hadn't been captivated by the headstrong eldest daughter. He did have a point, though. While something told him that Mary may like a man who knows what he wants, he did agree that it would be best for everyone if Matthew remained noble. Mary may be a new-aged sort of girl, but Robert and Cora most certainly were not.
"Point taken," he agreed with a smile, though he hadn't intended to stray too far from the beaten path, anyway. "I don't think I should start my position here by drawing that sort of attention." And if he did, he didn't think he would want to do it with Mycroft, or anyone else. He would follow Mycroft's lead, in this case. It may be nice to have somewhere to spend some time. Assuming he had time. It was entirely likely that he might not.
"If I were you, I would work to avoid such attention no matter what," Mycroft pointed out. "It doesn't matter who you are with or how well you know them; word travels fast in these circles."
The problem, which he was sure Matthew would come to appreciate even if he hadn't realised it yet, was that everybody knew each other. The world of the upper classes wasn't a particularly large one. Circles were small, especially considering how many individuals had no real employment to supplement their social lives with exposure to regular people. When somebody learnt a secret, they inevitably spread it at their club, or the next house they spent time visiting, or whatever else, and from there it would continue to travel until everyone knew but pretended not to.
So, considering that, it was best never to find oneself in a scandal of any kind. Of course, that was easier said than done. Mycroft managed, but he was hardly known for having fun. When you kept to yourself and didn't partake in nonsense, it wasn't quite so difficult to keep your name out of rumours where there was little of interest to be said.
"Of course, the benefit of the speed of gossip is that you yourself will hear things about others. Sometimes, this can be very useful. It certainly gives you an idea about what disgraced nephew or whatnot may be doing a tour of houses across the country as his family does their best to rid themselves of him while it all blows over."
Mycroft chuckled a little. Were his family the type to do such a thing, it would undoubtedly be the name of his brother on everybody's lips. Thankfully, though, Mycroft's preference for isolation was a general Holmes family trait, and he was spared the indignity of his brother embarrassing him on a much larger scale.
Edgar chuckled to himself with some agreement that there were in fact quite a few places he was not welcomed, officially listed and not. He was even a little proud of it it seemed for the smile stayed on his face far longer than hit should have.
Officially, he was not allowed in the United Kingdom (save for such an occasion as rescuing Mycroft), the Republic of Ireland, Finland, the Russian Federation, and all 14 of the former Soviet States. Unofficially he was deeply unwelcomed in most of Southern and Central America. Either way it supposedly narrowed down the guess work for Mycroft in his mention of it and he was so sure he caught at least a glint of gratefulness for the offered puzzle.
"I am looking forward to it," though undercover for Bond could mean anything but and Edgar didn't let on whether or not he was going to make an effort this time to remain hidden or if he would simply return to his usual routine when assigned a mission. He chuckled again at the final question and nodded his head, "It is a habit I have been trying to kick, but a quick fix every now and again soothes the itch." He reassured him given what Mycroft had witnessed him doing in rescuing him.
He shifted ever so slightly and on purpose, lifting his hand to face and allowing his elbow to pull at the fabric of his jacket just enough to reveal his shirt sleeve properly. The material was unmistakably light and airy. Edgar was off somewhere hot but the fabric weave itself was specifically shweshwe fabric, just lacking it's usual vibrant colours.
"This one supposedly is more spying than blowing things up," he at least tried in some attempt to offer him another clue, though it was of course quite vague, if Mycroft wanted a puzzle to solve then he was going to make him work for it at least a little while he was currently in such a poor state.
Mycroft did not believe for one minute that Edgar was actually attempting to quell his urge for a little (or rather, a lot of) destruction here and there. He'd believe it when he saw it, which more than likely would be a day that never came. Not that he held it against the man, of course. Even with as much trouble as his methods could cause, they were undeniably effective. Sometimes - more often than Mycroft would like - Edgar was an invaluable tool they would not do without.
Movement caught Mycroft's eye, and he couldn't help but wonder if it was on purpose or not. Either way, he drank in the details.Judging by his shirt, he was dressing for the heat. That couldn't be because of their current location, so it was reasonable to assume that Edgar had readied himself just in case he got called out to his next mission earlier than expected.
The fabric was interesting. South African, if Mycroft was remembering correctly - which he generally did. As far as he was aware, though, Edgar had no issues travelling there. Not on a national scale, anyway. It wouldn't be surprising to learn that there were certain areas he needed to avoid due to past escapades, but would he really expect Mycroft to know the exact locations of all his missions? Of course not. He had no way of knowing that information - not yet, anyway.
The requirement of spying suggested something at least somewhat visible. Something public or political, maybe. Certainly not tracking down a notorious villain to a secret lair under a mountain, though.
With the planning for warm weather, Mycroft was leaning towards one off the countries in the Americas - specifically the southern hemisphere, of course. The public element suggested a city, likely a big one. But Mycroft wasn't quite certain of any of this, nor could he narrow it down further. It could be somewhere else hot. Unless something had changed, Edgar was far from welcome in the former Soviet Union, and some of those were literal deserts and thus also met the requirement of being hot. The potential for a political element would have usually helped but, for obvious reasons, he was rather out of the loop with all that.
"Well, at least you'll be able to do some sightseeing that way. I assume you'll have some interesting surroundings?" Mycroft asked, fishing for a little more information, the game their were playing having most certainly hooked him.
Cold tap water splashed against his hands as Basil filled up a glass. He finished it in one go, and, with a drunken man's conviction, suspected it to take effect with the same speed a similarly sized glass of Whiskey might. When, unsurprisingly, it did not, the artist glanced over at Mycroft and hesitated a moment before turning the tap back on and splashing his face. Patting his face dry with a stray kitchen towel, he missed the droplets dripping down his neck and onto his shirt.
"I have considered the possibility -" he replied to the assertion he was going to feel abominable tomorrow.
"At worst they'll assume I have been celebrating the start of the Game season a little overzealously."
He had had the common sense to assure everything was seen to before he got himself into such a state, and people hardly payed attention to him anyway. Not on a day like that. But Mycroft's next words made him shed his self-assuredness. Even in this state, it sounded a lot like the man knew something. With only slightly less effort than before, Basil made his way back to the living room and sat down, trying his best to look more dignified than he felt.
"What...planned- what do you know?"
Mycroft had been in Basil's position before, of course. He too liked a good drink on occasion. The difference, however, was that he never got caught indulging. He kept it private and ensured that he was incredibly unlikely to be disturbed,
Mind you, Basil had done the same. He'd had no way of knowing that Mycroft had been about the arrive on his doorstep. Should he have planned for the possibility? Potentially, but that was always easy to say in hindsight. Whatever the case, the point was that Mycroft was not unfamiliar with the other man's pain, though it would be a lie to claim that he had sympathy with it.
"Your work," he replied, because that had been what he had been referring to. "You're going to be busy tomorrow. I am commenting on my hope that you'll still be able to function without the risk of mistakes."
Like any wise citizen of the Capitol, Mycroft had a suspicious streak to him. With the political climate being what it was, it paid to be paranoid. So, with that in mind, it was hardly surprising that Basil's response triggered some concerts.
What did he mean 'what do you know'? What was he hiding?
Mycroft's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Unless you believe I should be referring to something else?"
Indispensable was a hard position to achieve in the FBI, it was a very rigid organisation that seemed focused on processes, its own red tape and hierarchy. He appreciated the honest answer all the same and still offered a nod for it. "I see, well if ever such a position can be built up, I shall try to do so." Given his schedules though and his demands elsewhere he doubted that would come about for him but perhaps he could encourage someone in his team if something ever came up.
Yes, egos were indeed a problem and Theo's smile faded into something more serious. They had an understanding it seemed and while they were in very different positions it seemed they faced similar 'corporate' issues.
"If we could tax the size of egos our economy would be booming," he agreed with a joke, "I do find it hard coming up against someone with more ego than actual skill, they seem more convinced they have something to prove." He thought of the procurement manager in the FBI who'd been stubborn with him about supplying PPE once, he'd praised him since to soothe over any resentment and hoped that he'd settle since but ego was a funny thing. "They're so easily bruised when things don't go their way too, even when you're dealing with them professionally the way they will attempt to sabotage others so no one excels just baffles me."
It wasn't like he would purge them from the FBI though, "Sometimes they can be useful though," he diplomatically avoided suggesting 'useful idiots' though he supposed to a man like Mycroft, he'd pick up on exactly what had been unsaid. "Just have to move them into the right positions."
The joke managed to elicit a small amount of laughter from Mycroft. It was true; an ego tax would certainly solve the problem of national debt! Mind you, he'd likely end up owing quite a bit himself despite his insistence that it wasn't ego when it was demonstratively true that he was the smartest man in the room, so - even ignoring the impossible logistics - perhaps it wasn't the best idea after all.
He hummed in agreement to the observation about bruised egos. Yes, Mycroft had experienced that all too often. Politicians were notoriously fragile underneath all their bravado. One only needed to watch a snippet of PMQs to see the way they tried to cover up their fragility with insults and jeers hurled across the room. The FBI was undoubtedly similar. Mycroft could picture it clearly - all the individuals trying to prove their worth, taking the credit for every little thing they could and pushing each other out of the way in the process.
Beneventi, at least, wasn't like that. Combined with his relative competency, it was one of the main reasons why Mycroft was content to continue working with him.
"Every man has his use," Mycroft agreed. He was no stranger to the concept of taking advantage of another's motivations. Ego had a habit of putting blinkers on people. Make them think they were getting what they wanted and they were so blinded by it that they rarely realised they were being played until it was too late. This was especially useful when Mycroft found himself in a situation where somebody would need to take the fall for something. That way, he could kill two birds with one stone - offer up a sacrifice, and get and irritant out of the way. After all, there was rarely a point in trying to hold on to these examples of ego. They were a type of personality where there were always plenty more fish in the barrel.
"You are very good at minding your words," he then chose to say, speaking an observation he had made during their first meeting aloud as it was demonstrated yet again. "Is that training or a natural talent?"
𝐌𝐘𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐓 & 𝐅𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐋. @governmentofficial
Fish knew very well that the lack of challenges had not been the only issue Mycroft had faced in school, but she had the gentleness to keep that to herself. It seemed that his own childhood was something of a sore subject -in the sense that he refused to admit that it was. Besides, she supposed that boredom had only made his school years more excruciating.
She had enjoyed school, of course. Fish was a sociable child, and never had much trouble making friends. Her studies had never bored her, either. Perhaps because she wasn't as intelligent as her friend, though that didn't trouble her much. She was smart enough.
"My childhood was really happy," she insisted with a chuckle, "I mean, I suppose there were times where I was sad, but it was... kid problems. Heartbreak, because of a boy. A fight with a friend. Nothing too serious." It occured to Fish that she had lead a privileged life for more reasons than one.
"Hopefully not a fight with me?" Mycroft replied, attempting a little light humour while his brain whirred away in the background. In comparison to Fish's examples, he supposed it was true that his own childhood was far from ideal. The death of a sibling and his home burning down could hardly be considered a mere trifle, even if the house had been rebuilt just as it once had been and the lack of his sister in his life had been a relief.
The isolation, at least, hadn't been upsetting. Or rather, he didn't think it had been. Mycroft liked to be alone. He liked the quiet, and the ability to think without excess information flowing in from elsewhere. He liked the lack of inane conversation. Okay, so maybe it had meant he hadn't been quite certain of how to interact with his peers, but was that really such an issue? The vast majority of them hadn't been worth his time anyway.
And besides, he'd had Fish. They had always got on exceedingly well, and one friend was enough for Mycroft. If he had any more, how would he decide how to split his time between them!
"I did always enjoy visiting you," he then admitted. "Your home always felt nice. It was warm - both in terms of interactions, and also it not being a large, draughty manor. I was happy too during my limited time there."
Happier than he had been at home? Maybe. In fact, if Mycroft were to be quite honest with himself, definitely.
That was a bit of an upsetting thought, actually. His face fell a little as he considered it, not concealing the expression as much as he usually would given the only other person present was his best friend. If he was happier when he'd been with Fish, then maybe his childhood hadn't been so great after all?
"Plenty around that are coming up for sale," Gatsby suggested, seeing an opportunity in a man not from the area purchasing a building to run and then going across an ocean, presumably leaving building management in the hands of a local. "Plenty of opportunist thugs too though, you have to be really wise and watch where it is you're putting your feet these days, can't be too careful with everyone eyeing up a well kept wallet."
He at least convinced himself that he would keep Mycroft safe by suggesting building management that he knew and used, that was of course people who were running in his more interesting circles but if anyone would be able to keep a building and whatever was going inside it safe, it would be those who New York City rightly feared.
He watched him admire the interior of the lift, traditional but polished up and well cleaned even with the busy workmen coming and going, Gatsby had standards that didn't quite slip even beyond his mansion. While it was supposedly a token of his expectations it was more that too much dirt often reminded him of that dust farm he had come from and then anything that stuck to him was of course too similar to the front lines.
Flattered indeed by the compliment, Gatsby smiled. They had managed to get off on the wrong foot and while he was still mindful not to reveal too much to the other man, he was still practically a stranger after all, he thought they could get along at least. He asked about investors and cracked a smile. "I am admittedly not looking at present," because he was too involved with fraudulent handling of bonds.
"But I am open to discussion if you have a proposal in mind?" Not wanting to shut the man out completely anyway, if he was genuinely interested then it wouldn't hurt to hear him out, right? "What did you have in mind? Something here?" In the building he assumed.
For a moment, Mycroft thought back to the clear gangsters who were lurking outside the building. Gatsby was right to be concerned about thugs, especially considering the stories he'd heard coming out of New York, and if wondered if he should warn him of them. Ultimately, however, he decided against that course of action. The other man did not seem to be a fool. There was something sharp about him, and the balance of probability therefore fell in favour of him already being well aware of their presence.
That, of course, raised a question of why he hadn't sought to remove them. It could be possible that he had made an effort and it simply hadn't worked. These organised crime types could be stubborn, and if they had their eye on Gatsby's shiny new building, they wouldn't be so easy to chase off. It didn't seem likely that he was afraid of them, nor did it seem likely that he was electing to do nothing. His warning felt too casual to be born of fear, and it was too shrewd to result in a lack of action on his own property.
It was also entirely possible that he was already in the pockets of the very people he was advising Mycroft to avoid. That wouldn't be surprising - many entrepreneurs in New York were, and it would explain the presence of certain individuals he had seen at Gatsby's party the night before.
For now, Mycroft decided that he wasn't overly concerned whatever the solution to the question of Gatsby's alliances was, though he did make a mental note to seek further evidence to solve the puzzle. Currently, he was leaning towards the answer of him already being involved with organised crime. If he wasn't, there just a few too many coincidences at play for Mycroft's liking.
"Oh, I'm open to considering anything," Mycroft said in response to his thoughts about potential investments. "You see, my career doesn't actually pay as much as one might think, yet I still have a lifestyle to maintain. My family take a dim view on not earning your own keep - rightfully so, of course - and generational wealth cannot last forever without wise investments, so I'm seeking to position myself for the future."
Mycroft was already set up well in that regard. His uncanny observation abilities combined with his phenomenal memory made him a force to be reckoned with when it came to the stock market, and it certainly didn't hurt that he was forming a number of connections which allowed him to better predict economic twists and turns. It never hurt to diversify his holdings, though.
Mind you, if Gatsby was involved with organised crime, he'd have to do some thinking about just how much he wanted to get into that bed too, even if it was through somebody else and he could maintain a claim of ignorance.
"I'd ideally be looking for something big, but small opportunities are welcome too. Are you sure you don't have anything? Or anything you yourself have invested in that I could also consider?"
Even if he didn't want to invest, a greater understanding of Gatsby's holdings was hardly going to be unwelcome.
It was not supposed to be a common experience, William reckons, his own youth distorted and strange, resulting in an equally so man. William could have survived no displays or notions of affection if there had been a basis for it to begin with. Instead, he had a father who should not ever be a father, and his mother was long since dead, with no hope to rectify his familial shortcomings.
He holds a lot of resentment for it, as if keenly aware that if the necessary attachments had been made, he would have been entirely different, blissful, almost as if ignorant of the particularly nasty uglies in the world. Instead, William Graham was a thorn in the side of the universe, a bitter bitch indeed.
They’re not friends. Will simply is not required to pretend with Mycroft. He didn’t care if the other liked him or not, nor did it matter. This was a temporary fortress William could not escape. But someday, he would be allowed back home, and Mycroft would be the footnote in an exiled summer. There is no risk and certainly no investment in any of the outcomes that could be produced from their interactions. Will’s temple presses against the car window’s glass, eyes following the terrain outside, transforming from even ground to pretty meadows and falling cliffs. His tongue runs on the roof of his mouth.
“And what do you feel for that man?” Will asks, not being cruel at all. In fact, he only wondered if it was similar to him or not. Was Will so strange in his resentments, or was it a shared experience? Jilted unwanted kids and their indifferent parents. He vowed not to have them, no matter the political pressure. After William ascended, it could go to a distant cousin or a bickering noble. His father’s legacy lived and died with him.
He smiles.
That was not an easy question to answer. It had all be quite a while ago and, truth be told, Mycroft had never been particularly good at emotions. His understanding of them could be off - something he was aware of, but felt no need to spend time dissecting. To be different was rarely a good thing, especially when it came to sensitive matters such as feeling, and he didn't want to draw attention to himself when it may result in him being viewed as broken in any way.
He supposed that he loved his late father, but Mycroft doubted that was what Will wanted to hear considering his clear issues with his own father. Besides, that lingering loyalty to the man was complicated. He loved him, but he didn't think he missed him. He certainly didn't miss him in the way that he missed his brother, or the way that he missed his new family when he was apart from them for extended periods. Explaining that would be difficult, though. It would raise more questions than it answered, and thus it was another topic best left unexplored.
"When he was alive, I felt better than him than I did my mother, as I at least knew that, despite his distance, I was not unwanted by him. My mother, on the other hand, always preferred my other siblings. I struggled with that a lot."
That felt like a suitable alternative to respond with. It was simple in an understandable way, while also being a confession that felt personal enough to be of note. In a typical conversation, it would be enough to satisfy an interested party.
Mycroft would much rather it satisfied Will in a way that would move the conversation along, though. There talk had quickly become far too personal for his liking. If it went on any longer, it was bound to get out of hand.
"But anyway, considering how you've put so much effort into escaping for the day, do you really want to spend your time talking about what you've left behind?" Mycroft pointed out, keen to change the topic. "I am curious to know what your plan would have been had I refused to help you - or, did you not have a plan at all?"
