@54viruses and I had a conversation in this post about Mycroft having a social stand-in who talked for him so he could stay in the back room and do Mycroft things rather than deal with people. This has been burning in the back of my brain ever since, and since we're on a 12 hour car ride, I have nothing to do except write. XD
Charles Higgins steeled himself before stepping into his shared office. Though they had space for four desks, Mr. Thurston had only yet hired two clerks. Unfortunately, Mycroft Holmes's sullen silence and haughty disapproval were enough to make the wide room feel uncomfortably close. When Mr. Thurston had introduced them six weeks ago, Higgins had held out his hand in greeting, hoping that his fellow clerk would be an amiable sort. Holmes had frowned down at his hand, grunted, and then brushed past him. Since that day, they had barely spoken two words to each other despite sharing a workroom, Higgins's every attempt at friendly conversation firmly rebuffed with an impatient, impetuous wave of a hand. Higgins couldn't help but come to the conclusion that Holmes had found him wanting in some way and resented his very presence.
Not that he seemed to regard Mr. Thurston much higher. They had an odd working relationship; every morning, Mr. Thurston would greet them both, and then quietly list four or five reports that he needed analyzed. Holmes would nod, not saying a word beyond "morning" and "yes, sir" and by the end of the day there would be four or five neat piles of paper on the edge of his desk. But beyond his work he did not seem interested in interacting with his fellows.
Higgins could not find it in himself to be surprised on that front. After all, he was only the third son of a low-level clerk who had been given this position only because he had caught Mr. Thurston's eye. Mr. Holmes, from what he had gathered, came from some remote country estate. The firstborn son of a well-to-do lord, who had so impressed his professors at Cambridge that Mr. Thurston had snapped him up before he'd even formally finished his schooling. They came from such different worlds, and Holmes was obviously talented enough that he was destined to rise high and rise quickly. It was no wonder he didn't even deign to acknowledge a petty clerk he would likely leave behind in less than a year.
Higgins reigned in his indignation at the cold treatment and carefully put it away. There was no point, anyhow. Best to just keep his head down and do the work that Mr. Thurston had entrusted him to do.
To his surprise, there was a loud scattering of paper as he entered the room. Holmes was already sat at his desk, tossing loose papers to the ground distractedly as he poured over a report.
"Where did that charlatan even learn mathematical analysis," he murmured to himself. Higgins jolted in surprise. It was the first complete sentence he'd ever heard the man speak. "Corn, yes, fine. Potatoes, undervalued. Come now, the crisis is decades past, we can certainly afford to pay more than that. Opium? Why? Where is the rice? Did he even read the rainfall report from the Indian ambassador's office? If we were to trust his numbers, there would be a shortfall!"
Even in his evident frustration, his voice was surprisingly soft and melodious. "A shortfall of rice?" Higgins repeated incredulously.
Holmes gave a terrific start, rounding on Higgins with an odd sound in the back of his throat. He stared, wild-eyed - not just startled, Higgins realized, but terrified. Their eyes met for barely a second before Holmes ducked his head, glaring instead at Higgins's shoes. There was a short silence been them, broken only by a quiet clicking sound - a subtle noise that he had noticed in their space before, but hadn't known til now was the sound of Holmes's quietly gnashing his teeth. He finally opened his mouth and seemed about to force himself to speak. But before he could choke out more than a whispered "I -" the inner office door opened and Mr. Thurston called out a greeting to them both. Holmes's mouth snapped shut, and he turned abruptly back to his desk, his neck and ears turning red.
"How does the Empire look this morning, Holmes?" Thurston asked in his usual cheerful manner. Holmes's answering hum was more a growl than anything. Thurston grinned, indulgent and a little amused, even as several revelations took firmer shape in Higgins's mind.
"Well, if it's important, make sure there's a report on my desk within the hour, yes?" He said firmly. "I must be off this morning. We're to approve the trade terms shortly, Lord Fairbairn wants it through the committee as quickly as we can manage. We can discuss the day's schedule when I return." Holmes flapped a hand at him violently. Only last week, Higgins might've found the gesture startlingly rude. But now that he could see the violent clench of his jaw? Could hear how his breath hissed out shakily in his frustration? Even Mr. Thurston hesitated, his brow furrowing in concern.
"Sir, about that trade agreement," Higgins found himself saying. "Is it possible to defer until later in the day?"
Mr. Thurston's attention shifted to him, one eyebrow raised. Holmes twitched, but didn't look at either them. Higgins swallowed nervously. Christ, what was he doing?
"Fairbairn won't be happy about it," Mr. Thurston answered slowly. "But it could be done. Why?"
"I..." Higgins looked at Holmes, who had gone still as a statue. "I think you should read Mr. Holmes's report before you make any decision on the matter. Sir," he added quickly. Thurston followed his glance. Then he smiled.
"Well. I suppose the vote will just have to wait, then. Gentlemen, it appears i have a minister to disappoint." He touched his hat briefly before stepping out into the corridor beyond.
The silence that followed was stranger than it had been in the weeks before. An unnamed tension had vanished, but in its place was something tentative, though not quite hopeful.
Higgins took an uncertain breath. "Well, I hope you write fast," he said awkwardly. "I'll get the tea. Milk and sugar, yes?" The corners of Holmes's mouth turned up, barely more than a twitch, but there all the same. Higgins nodded, mostly to himself. "Right then."
They did not exactly become friends that day, but their relationship certainly did improve. The realization that Holmes's standoffishness came not from a sense of superiority, but rather a crippling shyness, melted away much of Higgins's own resentment. He found that Holmes did not mind if he spoke now that they both understood he was not obligated to reply in words, and Higgins in turn began to notice the slight differences in the little hums he got in reply. As their new rapport strengthened and solidified, Mycroft would mumble a word or two occasionally. He even managed to get Holmes to let out his version of a laugh - a tiny puff of breath, not quite a scoff. It made Higgins beam to himself the first time it happened, which only made Holmes give another cough of amusement, his hands fluttering for a moment before he schooled himself.
A little over a week after their new understanding, the door to the office slammed open with enough force that they both jumped, Holmes's hand jerking hard enough to knock over his inkwell.
"I demand to speak with Thurston!" The stranger fairly bellowed. "Damn the man, he's been holding up this damn trade agreement long enough."
Holmes flinched at the man's words, staring wide-eyed at the ink spilling across his papers, practically radiating distress.
"Mr. Thurston isn't in," Higgins said quickly, standing to intercept the man. "I could take a message and you could return another - "
"I'll not be turned away, you impertinent little rat." The man looked down his nose at Higgins, his lip curling into a sneer. "I am here to discuss my trade agreement, and I'll not leave until that man agrees to let it through. And what are you sniveling about back there?"
Holmes let out a quiet whine, like air escaping from a tea kettle, and Higgins felt his temper abruptly unravel. "Mr. Fairbairn, I presume?" He said coldly, then barged on before the man could do more than sputter in surprise, "if you wish to discuss your frankly embarrassing excuse for a trade agreement, perhaps you'd like to explain how you've managed to miscalculate the value of potatoes twice in as many paragraphs."
"I beg your - !"
"Have you read the weather reports from India?" He interrupted sharply. "Lowest rainfall in a decade. Do you know how much water is required to produce a decent rice harvest? Why have you not accounted for the inevitable shortage?" Fairbairn's face was mottled red with fury. Higgins was afraid to look behind him to see what state Holmes was in.
The stand-off was broken by the sudden, sharp clearing of a throat as Thurston stepped out of his office, his expression warring between amusement and disapproval.
"If you want a full accounting, Fairbairn, you can read it here," he said, holding up a sheaf of papers filled with Holmes's neat, round handwriting. "It will only take a handful of changes to make the terms acceptable. Now, if you don't mind, I've a beastly amount of work to do and I've still only two clerks to help me."
So saying, he took the man by the shoulder and firmly escorted him into the hallway, somehow managing to keep up an amiable, half-apologetic chatter. "You'll have to forgive my clerks, Fairbairn. They mean well, but I'm afraid Holmes has some very strong opinions about economic theory, and I don't know what's gotten into Higgins, he's normally a very agreeable sort..." he was saying as they left.
That's me sacked, he thought forlornly even as he turned to his coworker. Holmes had one hand tangled in his hair, fingers clenched so hard his knuckles had bleached white. The other was clasped over one ear, and his whole body had curled in a tight ball in the chair, trembling and making a strange, high noise in the back of his throat. With a pang of alarm, Higgins realized it was a voiceless scream.
"Oh god, Holmes. I'm sorry. He's gone now, sir." He said, keeping his voice low and soothing. "What can I - would you like -" he stopped, helpless. Tentatively, he pulled the worst of the ink-spattered papers off the top of the pile before the ink could soak into the pages beneath and set them aside. Uncertain what else to do, he slowly sat in the chair across the desk from Holmes. Remembering the man's discomfort with eye contact, he fixed his focus on the wall next to him and began to talk - low but not a whisper, a nonsensical yarn from his childhood. When his voice didn't seem to make matters worse, he started another story, then another. He waited out the stifled sobs, the shaking and the rocking, until Holmes finally slumped back in his chair, an exhausted listlessness overtaking him that was no less concerning than the previous panic.
Higgins had decided to make some tea, hoping it might revive the poor man, when Mr. Thurston returned.
"I take it you read Mycroft's report, then," he said, his face expressionless.
"Yes, sir," Higgins said, resigned. The room was quiet as he poured three cups. He set one on the desk in front of an unmoving Holmes, who only stared glumly at it. "I can make it a brandy if you'd prefer," he said. Holmes's face twisted into an expression that Higgins couldn't read, so he left him to it with a quiet sigh, returning to stand in front of his boss. "I apologize, sir," he said quietly. "He was aggravating Mr. Holmes and I... rather lost my temper."
Mr. Thurston looked past him to regard the quiet man at the desk. "Are you all right, Holmes?" He asked. Holmes twitched, but didn't even hum per his usual custom. Mr. Thurston frowned, then turned back to Higgins. "Fairbairn was not pleased. He is not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner by a junior clerk."
Higgins felt his shoulders slump. "I understand, sir. I'll pack my things."
There was a strangled noise of protest behind him.
"I don't like to see you go, Higgins," Mr. Thurston said with an unhappy frown. "But Fairbairn is a Lord, you know, and he's going to be difficult enough to deal with as it is with the negotiations - "
Holmes slammed a fist into the desk. "He's embezzling," he burst out, raising his voice to a near-shout for the first time since Higgins had met him.
"I beg your pardon?"
Holmes's jaw worked furiously for a moment and then he pulled a stack of papers from a bottom drawer and slammed them on Higgins's desk. Higgins pulled the stack closer. Sitting on top was a list of annotations in Holmes's handwriting -
China agreement, March 2, page 14.
Trade negotiations, April 6, pm edit, page 6 third paragraph.
26 & 27 vict. C. 102, May, clause 4 (rum duties).
Higgins skimmed the next several pages, which seemed to be excerpts from the references documents, all meticulously copied in Holmes's looping hand. Choosing a page near the center of the stack, he started reading. His eyebrow jumped.
"Well?" Mr. Thurston demanded. Higgins flipped to another page.
"He - they're excerpts from..." he flipped to another page. It was a newspaper article dated two years ago. Eyes wide, he passed the article to Mr. Thurston.
Mr. Thurston's brow furrowed as he read through the article. He frowned thoughtfully at Holmes, then at Higgins. "Can you give a verbal summary of these papers by the end of the week?" He demanded.
Higgins looked at the smugly daunting stack, then nodded tentatively. "With Holmes's help, i believe so."
"Then get to work," he said grimly. "And it better be convincing, you two."
