Partners
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For purposes of this story, I have widened the age gap for Mycroft and Sherlock from 7 years to 10 years.
Good lord, how you hate these “pair off parties” your mother and father force you to attend! It’s a chilly Friday night in November and you can think of 1000 other things you would rather do than attend a party designed to introduce the young lords and ladies of the London peerage to each other. Like organize your sock drawer. Or learn to knit. Anything would be better than this.
Getting dressed up to go out to dinner isn’t really so bad. That’s kind of the fun part! Tonight you’ve chosen a cashmere sweater dress, in a buttery caramel color. With your h/c hair and some dark red lipstick … yowza! You’ve never looked better! It’s the conversations at these things you dread. They are always so boring. Everyone spends all night bragging about themselves because they want to highlight their best assets, naturally, but instead of learning about their studies or hobbies, you hear about their land holdings and inheritance, their cars, or their clothes. No one talks about books or art at all, and if you bring it up, you frequently get vacant stares. It’s all so very DULL.
To be fair, a lot of people meet their future spouses at these parties, but at 20 years old, you’re not sure you even want to get married, let alone be married to Charles Emerson Mc-boring or someone else of his ilk. You want to travel and dance in night clubs and play your violin. Maybe audition for a place in an orchestra or just busk on the street for tips. All of the things that make your father cringe and your mother furious.
They are both extremely vocal about their feelings on your “galivanting around London” and fiercely disapprove. Your vulgar lifestyle has been a weekly hot topic at the dining room table for years and it gets exponentially worse around the holidays. Every winter break it’s an absolute guarantee your darling older sister and her perfect husband and children will come home to visit. She and your mother will inevitably join forces to criticize everything about you, from your perfume to your posterior. Nothing is off limits.
You’ve finally learned to laugh off their negativity and now you might even go out of your way to highlight your spinster-like qualities, just to start an argument. You’ve been on your worst behavior this year and already, this Christmas is gearing up to be epic.
You did have a minor victory recently, in your war against social convention, and have managed to reach an accord with your parents. You have agreed to attend these meet and greet parties once per month, and they agreed to stop inviting random men from your father’s office over for Sunday dinner. You’re never going to fall in love with Stuart from accounting, Dad. Sorry.
The whole thing is tedious and unnecessary, but at least this way, if you are inevitably going to be forced into a marriage, it will happen on your terms. Just probably not anytime soon.
The family hosting tonight’s party is one you have heard of but never personally encountered, The Holmes Family. They are an old and wealthy family with mysterious ties to the English monarchy, or at least that’s what your father said when he thrust the invitation at you during breakfast this morning.
The Holmes’s have two sons, Mycroft (20) and Sherlock (10) and gossip says they are both somewhat unusual. Frighteningly intelligent and extremely introverted, no one claims to know the boys well and your mother mentioned they may not even attend tonight’s party. That seems kind of odd, since it is their home, but you really can’t blame them for hiding.
You’ve been lucky enough to avoid hosting one of these miserable soirées so far this year, but you know the clock is ticking. For certain, when that night comes and 30 to 40 young socialites invade your mother’s home, you’ll be hiding too. You give a little sigh as you hand the butler your coat and mentally prepare yourself for battle. It’s going to be a long night.
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Act one of these parties will always start with an early evening cocktail hour. The women get herded into some outlandish, Victorian parlor for tea while the men go off to a dark, moody study for brandy or whatever. You’ve never liked this blatant display of gender role assignment, but as your mother says, “Everyone knows a lady should never indulge in strong drink. It simply isn’t civilized!” You can’t even remember how many times she has described your actions as such. Uncivilized. The word is practically meaningless to you now, but nonetheless, you’ll put on a genteel performance when you enter any tearoom. You don’t want to be the subject of gossip, now do you? You chuckle to yourself, knowing that really, you could not care less.
You do recognize that appearing at this cocktail hour is important for a few simple reasons. This is the first time tonight you will be exposed to the other players of this nasty game. You can see which girls have already grouped together and which are going to go it alone against their competition. This is when the claws come out and snarky barbs about someone’s hair or an unusual dress will be thrown down. It’s mean spirited and you hate it, so you plaster on the fakest smile can manage while skirting around the outer edges of the group, avoiding all eye contact and the catty conversations.
Most of these stately homes are stuffed to the gills with old paintings and antiques, so it’s easy for you to amuse yourself by examining the collection. It also works as a great deterrent for when the harpies come at you, since no one wants to hear your take on oil paints versus water colors or the difference between Victorian and Edwardian. It works every time!
The cocktail hour is also very important for doing some covert reconnaissance. Inevitably, these women will start to talk about the men in attendance and the knowledge gained here is invaluable. One lap around the room is enough to tell you which gent has wandering hands and which has miserable halitosis, who gets too pushy at the end of a date, and who has a hidden mean streak. You certainly won’t be sneaking off to a dark corner with any of the male attendees. No, thank you! But you can keep a watchful eye out tonight for the safety of all of the other girls. These women may not be your closest friends, but you are all on the same team, after all.
It’s during this little tour of the room when something catches your eye out in the main hall. A flash of dark, auburn hair is gliding quickly passed the parlor doors, with a long legged stride and an arrow straight back. Who ever this party goer is, it seems that they are running late or possibly trying to avoid someone. Curious. You don’t get to investigate further however, for as you inch closer to the doors, a quiet bell sounds to signal the end of the hour. Thank god. You’re one step closer to the end of this charade.
You take a quick glance into a nearby mirror, checking to be sure your h/c hair is still in place, before you turn to follow the other women out of the parlor.
Act 2 begins. It’s time for dinner.
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The Holmes dining room is massive and elegantly decorated. The mahogany dining table in the center of the room is exquisitely laid with fine china and crystal, and the silverware gleams from a fresh polish. It’s a subtle display of the family’s wealth and position, and it’s really quite beautiful.
As always, the seating is configured in an alternating, boy-girl fashion on both the left and right side of the table. Each place is labeled with a neatly scribed name card, dictating who sits where and who you will be stuck making conversation with while you dine. You find your place card at the final seat of the long table, seated next to… Ugh. Your nasty cousin Bertie on your right and… how about that? Mycroft Holmes seated to your left, his chair looming at the head of the massive table.
It’s still unknown if Mycroft will actually make an appearance at dinner tonight, so you steel your nerves for the next 90 minutes of not-so-veiled insults and rude commentary you have come to expect from your cousin, Albert. (a.k.a. Bertie.) He’s the one the ladies were talking about when they mentioned chronic halitosis earlier, and he is certainly no favorite of the group. He’s a grade “A” nuisance and you can’t help but silently wish he might be struck by lightning before having a chance to sit down. No such luck.
“Helloooo, cousin!” He oozes with slimy charm.
“Hi.”
“Let me pull out that chair for you, gorgeous.” His hand is on the small of your back and your skin is absolutely crawling.
“Bertie don’t be disgusting. And get away from me. I can pull out my own chair, thank you.”
“Hey!” He raises his hands in front of him, palms up. “I’m just trying to show you a little pity, cousin! I don’t see anyone else here rushing to help you right now.”
“That would be my fault.” A silky voice is heard behind you.
Unfamiliar with the deep tone, you turn to identify the owner and find a very tall and attractive young man standing there. He takes a deliberate step forward to take your hand, physically placing himself between you and Bertie. He is ignoring Bertie’s presence altogether as he drops a barely-there kiss on the back of your hand.
“Mycroft Holmes. Welcome to my home. Please forgive my tardiness, Miss…?”
“Y/L/N. Or Y/N. Just Y/N. Whichever you prefer.” Your cheeks go hot as you force yourself to stop babbling. Why are you babbling? Maybe because you’re face to face with the mystery man you saw in the hall just moments ago and he’s giving you a sexy, enigmatic smile? He’s here now, holding your small hand is his much larger one, rescuing you from your nasty cousin and making you blush. He is handsome and imposing, but seems surrounded by an air of intrigue. But why is he making you feel so nervous?
“Forgive me, Miss Y/N. I have been remiss in my hosting duties tonight. Please allow me to assist you with your seat.” He pulls the heavy wooden chair away from the table for you.
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” You give him a relieved smile as you lower yourself to the seat, allowing him to adjust it.
“The pleasure is all mine.” His voice is soft as he replies to you, but takes a sharper tone in an instant. He turns to Bertie and waves his hand dismissively at the man. “Albert. Why are you still standing there? Miss Y/L/N does not require your assistance, so you may take your seat. NOW.”
“Of course. Yes. Thank you, Mycroft!” Bertie sits down quickly and immediately turns his back to you. He’s afraid of Mycroft Holmes, but you don’t know exactly why. Curiouser and curiouser.
Seeing that everyone is now seated, Mycroft gives a signal to the head of the wait staff and suddenly the room is flooded with servers, delivering the first course of tonight’s meal and offering water or wine. Before long, everyone is happily making conversation with their neighbors as they dig in to their starters; a light Caprese salad for some and a hearty mushroom soup for others. There’s not a lot talking happening at your end of the table, however, and you quickly take stock of your surroundings to determine why.
At first glance, the pair seated across from you had seemed like they might be good dinner companions. The young lady was bashful and demure, while the young man appeared carefree, with a good sense of humor. You were about to introduce yourself, but then Mr. Carefree mentioned his love of horses to Miss Bashful and just like that, another couple was formed. At that moment, it was as if an invisible cocoon had surrounded around their bodies and all outside interactions ceased to exist. Well, good for them. That is what they came here for, after all.
To your right, Bad Breath Bertie is still staunchly ignoring you, which is wonderful, actually, since you really didn’t want to deal with his antics tonight. Previous evenings like this one often found you physically hiding from Bertie, because once the other women at the party had rejected his advances, he would then turn his attention to you. And you certainly weren’t interested in Bertie. You’re cousins for goodness sake, and this isn’t the Middle Ages! Maybe someday, that will finally sink in for him.
You shift your gaze to your left to observe Mycroft… and well, Mycroft isn’t really doing anything. He’s not eating, he’s not making conversation, in fact, it seems he’s barely even blinking. It’s almost as if he’s in a sort of trance, here in body, but not in spirit. Whatever he is thinking about has his full attention and has created a worried line between his lovely blue eyes. You can’t help but think he seems too young to be so stressed. You’d like to say something, crack a joke maybe, to make that line go away but decide to take this opportunity to discreetly give your peculiar host a thorough once over. Who knows if you will ever have this chance again, right?
You already know that Mycroft is tall. Much taller than you are. By a lot. And he’s fit! Strong shoulders, a trim waist, and muscular arms, all wrapped up in a luxurious black suit. He presents an image of power and poise and you’d say his tailor deserves a raise for the way he can highlight all of Mycroft’s best attributes with just a few yards of fabric. A red silk tie completes his impeccable ensemble but when you spot a tiny umbrella shaped tie pin affixed to it, that little bit of whimsy surprises you. It’s clear the man can dress, but he might be hiding a sense of humor too? Interesting.
Your eyes are then drawn to the small bits of skin that are visible under the elegant suiting and as you scan Mycroft’s flawless face and hands you’re perplexed by what you see there. Could it be Mycroft is sporting a bit of a sun tan? Rather unusual for a man in this society, where office buildings and conference rooms are certainly seen more frequently than beaches. Hmmm. So Mycroft has spent some time working outside recently, possibly for an extended period of time. You wouldn’t say it was a regular thing, as his face doesn’t show any lasting sun damage, but the extra color does look good on him! What kind of job does Mycroft have that he’s spending long hours outside? The plot thickens.
The last stop on your Tour de Mycroft is obviously going to be the man’s face. His striking features seem perfectly designed to fit him, though he would not be called classically handsome. He has his own kind of uniqueness that sets him apart. Some would say it’s the aquiline nose that gives his face it’s character, but for you, it’s got to be his mouth. There’s something there that draws you in. It’s almost Mona Lisa-esque with his infrequent and small, wry smiles and the dignified way his lips perfectly form the words of his sentences. It's like they’ve never known anything but perfect pronunciation and diction. You imagine if he ever cracked a real, genuine, face splitting grin, it would be a wonderful sight to see. Maybe you could be the cause of that? Would he let you? You’re definitely unsure. You wonder what his mouth would feel like if you kissed him… Whoa. Where the hell did that come from? Maybe you need to move on to something else before you get yourself into trouble.
What about his eyes? Mycroft’s iridescent blue eyes… Uh Oh! Mycroft’s iridescent eyes appear to back in focus now and the current target of his gaze is most assuredly you. He’s obviously making an assessment of your person, like you did his, but something in his study seems much more intense. Almost as if he’s trying to read your thoughts. Your cheeks flush with embarrassment, due to your less than pure thoughts about kissing him, but there’s no way he could know about that, is there?
Hoping to break the tension, you give Mycroft a smile and initiate conversation.
“I’m not very good at these parties, I’m afraid.”
“Nor I, Y/N. It’s all so very…”
“Dull?” You laugh.
“Precisely. I couldn’t care less about the square acreage of someone’s horse farm.” His eyes skip to Miss Bashful and Mr. Carefree briefly, causing you to laugh again.
“I feel the same. The pageantry of it all just makes me uncomfortable and I honestly would prefer if my future partner liked me for more than just the state of my bank account.”
He nods his agreement before asking, “Have you ever been witness to what happens to these couples after the party? What comes next?”
“Well, there are a few dates, typically, but I use the term date very loosely.”
“Ah. More like a public appearance?”
“Yes. Exactly. The more people who see them together, the better. I would hope that during that time together, they get to know each other somewhat, or at least find out if they could live harmoniously together without one wanting to kill the other.”
Mycroft chuckles as you continue.
“Then comes the meeting of the fathers, then the lawyers, and then the families. If everyone is in agreement, a wedding is planned and then you and I will be forced to attend another “wedding of the season.”
He laughs again. “How romantic.”
“Isn’t it just?” You grin at his sarcasm and are pleased to see his own mouth curve upwards into a small smile.
Before you have the chance to say anything more, the Holmes’s butler materializes out of nowhere, preventing it. He leans down closely next to Mycroft and speaks softly into his ear for a moment. You watch as Mycroft’s demeanor instantly changes, and his posture goes rigid. Obviously, he’s not pleased by what he hears and Mycroft the charming socialite must revert back to Mycroft the businessman. He gives you a polite nod and an apologetic look as he excuses himself from the table to make his way out of the dining room. As he reaches the doorway he turns slightly, sparing you a second glance before he exits. A brief look of regret flashes in his eyes, but as quickly as it appears, it is gone.
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Mycroft never does return to the dining room, so you spend the rest of the dinner period alone with just your thoughts. For some reason, you don’t have much of an appetite now and you decline any additional courses. You’re not exactly sure why you’re feeling so melancholic all of the sudden, but when the bell finally rings to signal that Act 2 is over, it’s a much-welcomed relief. You rise from the table and follow the rest of the party into the ballroom, for the first time ever, wishing you had a partner.
End of part 1
