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Later that evening, Mycroft stared at the general direction of the fireplace, chin resting on his hands, elbows on the arms of the chair, his legs crossed, pondering what to do about Sherlock. His little brother seemed intent upon destroying himself, if not with the Chinese Tobacco, then with his obsessive determination to destroy criminal London. An impossible task, though one to which he was well suited. More to the point, while Mycroft's presence in Downing Street had protected Sherlock to some degree, he knew that for the foreign gangs, Sherlock had no protection whatsoever beyond his own wits. Sherlock was smart, but smart did not keep bullets out of brains, or knives out of ribs.
He raised his glass of port, yet did not drink. He did have options, though none of them appeased him. The Far East was out, it would be too easy to lose Sherlock in an opium den, or worse, a harem. Mycroft was too aware of his brother's beauty to not think that was a possibility. In his own travels he had come across male harems, albeit ones that were very very secretive. Besides, like everyone else he had heard the rumours about Sherlock. Unlike everyone else, he knew precisely which ones were true. He was not worried for his own reputation, and woe betide anyone who thought to use Sherlock against him. Not all was as it appeared, in regard to relations between the two of them.
So if not the Far East, then where? If he sent Sherlock to the Mediterranean, Sherlock would know he was keeping an eye on him. Paris, Rome, Madrid. Even Geneva was suspect, and St. Petersburg - no. Which really left only one of two options; America or South America. North America, though well populated in the east, would not appeal to Sherlock. Mycroft snorted to himself. For all of Sherlock's wild tendencies, he preferred civilization over the actual Wild. South America...perhaps. Mexico could be entertained. Oh, he was only fooling himself if he thought South America would interest Sherlock. In any case, it would be too tempting for him, chemically. G-d only knew what Sherlock might ingest in an effort to find a new addiction. South America, absolutely not.
So.
America. Given the information Mycroft had received only that afternoon, it was the logical choice. James Moriarty had reportedly already left Ireland for Boston, presumably to join the Forty Thieves in Manhattan. The Irish problem was not going to go away on its own, and if Sherlock could track Moriarty down and bring him back to London, all the better. It would be a pretty puzzle for him to solve, and one Mycroft would relish from afar. The danger would be great, but Lestrade was already in Boston, he could be of great service as he already had been chasing Tommy Ellison out west. An inconvenience he had chosen to stay in America, but now one Mycroft was grateful for. Although he had not been there himself, he understood it to be a very large country, with a great variety of terrain and peoples. No doubt Sherlock would be utterly intrigued by what he would find there, and in so doing, allow Mycroft to his work without distraction.
In addition, Mycroft had received only that very afternoon a message warning Sherlock off of...various things...on the Continent. No names were listed, of course. Mycroft had no need them, he already knew who the letter was from. He was rather thankful for it, which would most definitely surprise the senders.
Yes, he would set Sherlock on Moriarty's tail. Moriarty had proved a slippery customer in England and Ireland, yet Mycroft had his doubts as to how easy he would find America. The gangs there were not intimidated by folk from the old country. He rather found he enjoyed the idea of Moriarty meeting his match. With any luck, they would take one another out and solve his problem before Sherlock ever arrived.
There was a whisper of sound, a change in air pressure, a waft of scent across the room. Mycroft allowed his head to fall onto the anti-macassar, closed his eyes. A moment later a cool little hand rested on his brow. He hummed a little in pleasure. Lydia was not often affectionate, even in the privacy of their own home. It was one of the things he appreciated most about her.
"You're thinking about him again, aren't you."
"A statement, rather than a question," he answered in good humour. He kept his eyes closed, for he had not realized how in need of rest he was. Meetings from dawn until after dusk, dinner at the Diogenes or another club, or worse, at Downing Street itself. When he allowed himself to think about it, he knew was constantly battling the pressure of the world to overrun England. In short, while he was grateful he had a wife to come home to, he sometimes felt as he were intruding upon his wife's home.
"Well," she said in her soft and low voice. "You are very quiet.'
"It's late," he answered. listening to her putter about the room. Tidying, he expected, even though that's what Havers was for. He heard her passing by again and reached out blindly, caught her bare wrist in his fingers. Startled, he opened his eyes - and then sat up in shock.
Lydia was a vision in cream lace. She wore a cream silk robe edged with fine embroidery in a floral pattern, and underneath, underneath he couldn't tell, as she was swaddled from neck to ankle, only her wrists showing below the sleeves. Not...what he was expecting to see in their sitting room at this time of the evening. Of course, she was not exactly the woman he thought he would marry, either. "What is it, my dear?"
She stepped closer to the fire, held out both hands to warm them after he released her wrist. "You've been very preoccupied these last few weeks."
Mycroft nodded, wondering all the while what she was doing downstairs dressed in such a manner. He found himself...intrigued.
Until he had met Lydia, he had felt himself to be a confirmed bachelor. Oh, one who enjoyed the company of women on a very occasional basis, but he had never envisioned himself in a home dandling toddlers on his knees. Lydia had been Lady Howard's companion during her confinement, a widow with no children and few prospects. Mycroft had spent the Yule holidays with the Howards, ostensibly to get some fresh air in the country among people he could tolerate. Facing Mummy and Father about his lack of control over Sherlock had been a horrible thought, and he used any excuse to stay away from them, holiday or no.
The estate was generously proportioned, and the house magnificent in its utterly common decoration. Lady Howard professed little interest in the interior of Pinewood, leaving Lord Howard to eagerly pour over the books and the architecture catalogs. How unfortunate Lord Howard had little taste.
Mycroft had been taking an early morning stroll along the banks of the Avon, fog blanketing the land all around, everything quiet save for the low trill of birds going about their business. The fog was clean and grey, making everything soft, when as he approached the little footbridge leading towards the house, a figure stood silently before the water. It was dressed in fine white wool, draped in it from head to toe. Mycroft quickened his stride, threw one arm around the person's shoulder's just as they began to step into the river. "Mrs. Jessop," he had said, drawing her back a few steps. "Please, whatever you are considering, pray change your mind."
Mrs. Jessop had looked up at him with grey eyes nearly as pale as the fog surrounding them. The line of her hair along her forehead was dewed with moisture, turning it even more black. He had seen her before, of course, impossible not to, really. She was demure, and spoke only when spoken to, meek as a mouse. In all honesty he had dismissed her from all but the most polite attention, because he had no interest in her constant sewing, or the way she sat at the very edge of conversation during tea, smiling gently at nothing and nobody. Even those times he had seen her in the library, sitting at one of the deep window seats, always reading a book of some sort or another, had not induced him to do more than smile and bow in her direction before finding his own entertainment. Lady Howard certainly lacked for no books. Pinewood had one of the finest private libraries in Oxfordshire.
"I do beg your pardon," Mycroft unhanded her and motioned towards the water. "I was too quick to an assumption. Do please forgive me."
Mrs Jessop didn't precisely smile, but the corner of her mouth did twitch. Mycroft wasn't sure if he was about to face tears or laughter, so he glanced down at his feet to give her time to recover from whatever emotion she was feeling.
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she said, clutching the neck of her all-encompassing cape with one hand.
Her voice was low and tremulous and Mycroft in no way felt it was safe for her to be alone. "Please allow me to walk you back to the house. It's so easy to get lost in this fog."
She glanced up at the water once more before looking up at him, then turning back towards the house. Mycroft did not attempt further conversation, nor did she. He was glad of the silence, though he was mildly surprised to discover within himself a curiosity about her. He did not think he knew anything about her beyond what Lady Howard had mentioned, and in turn, was surprised by that as well. Information was his business, the true reason, in fact, why he was at Pinewood. Falconer, Hunter, and Barnes were all here, Falconer with his wife, who had the information Mycroft needed.
Yet now he found he was consumed with the question of Mrs. Jessop, and what he should do about her. Casualties were a matter of fact in his work, whether by design or accident, though now he was at a loss.
He determined he would watch her closely and if necessary, make sure a doctor was available.
After their morning encounter, Mycroft discovered Mrs. Jessop had the most annoying way of being noticeable when she was not in the room. Lady Howard was constantly enquiring after her well being, and whether or not she should take the air, and of course if only she and Mr. Jessop had been able to produce issue, but more was the shame, that he had died in such an unfortunate manner. Utterly unbecoming, with that actress, and so publicly, too! Yet what else could Lady Howard do? Yes, Mrs. Jessop was only a distant cousin, yet she was family, and a kind person, deserving of all the social guidance Lady Howard could provide.
Lady Howard enlisted his help in trying to brighten Mrs. Jessop's days and nights.
There were long walks in the park, chaperoned by Lady Howard and Mrs. Frank.
There were many, many bouts of whist and cribbage.
In the evenings Mycroft played the piano while Mrs. Frank…sang. What it was she was singing was beyond his knowledge, but he played the piano nonetheless. Then Mrs. Frank played while Mrs. Jessop sang, Mycroft turning the pages of sheet music randomly, not that it ever upset whatever tune or rhythm to which Mrs. Frank was accustomed. There was a slight warble in Mrs. Jessop's voice, the third page he turned, and glancing up at her, it became clear from the set of her brows and the concentration with which she studied the score that she was greatly amused.
He took to sitting across her at the breakfast table, even though she was only equal to the salt.
He passed the paper to her at tea, and joined her in making sketches of the house and grounds outside.
Staring at her now, Mycroft was bemused that he had never even considered the fact that he might have started falling in love with her right at then and there. Nearly a year since Pinewood, three months into their marriage, and he felt he knew her no better. Perhaps that was what made her so interesting, a source of endless fascination in the privacy of their own home. "Of course, you don't have to answer me."
She moved from the fire to stand before him, close. Boldly looking him straight in the eye, she reached up and pulled on the top ribbon, the one holding her robe closed.
Mycroft's mouth went dry.
She pulled the second ribbon, revealing the lace at the top of her camisole.
By the time she untied the third ribbon, Mycroft was clutching the arms of his chair. Still, he didn't reach for her. Their wedding night had been...not difficult, for she had been married before and knew what to expect, yet neither had it been easy for him. He liked enthusiasm in the people he slept with, and Lydia had lain back and taken him without complaint. Which was...fine. They had had relations twice more since then, and Lydia had shown no signs of producing children. But this...this was different.
Besides the camisole with its tiny row of pearl buttons up the front, and delicate lace edging along the neck and waist, she was wearing pantalettes, the lace fall of which daringly came just below her knees. Allowing the robe to slip off her shoulders and puddle on the floor, Lydia took one step forward, two, slowly put one knee outside of Mycroft's, then the other, until she was straddling him. Her breathing was shallow, as if she was scared. As she had every right to be, being so forward.
The pantalettes were split along the seam.
"What's this, then?" asked Mycroft hoarsely, still gripping the chair's arms. She was a warm weight on his lap, and she smelled of woman.
She licked her lips and put her arms to either side of his head, resting them on the back of the chair. "You've been so very occupied with your work, and your health is suffering. You're lacking sleep and it's affecting everything."
Although he didn't want to admit it, she was not wrong. His sleep had been abysmal with the news out of South America and its intersection with what was happening in Rome. The PM was in a difficult position, and though Mycroft would get no public recognition for it, it was up to Essex and himself to conclude the business. Lydia's offer was...generous. More than generous. Obviously he could take what he wanted, but that was not in his nature. Yet now he was being invited to touch, to explore, to take his mind off of what might face him when he went to Parliament in the morning.
Mycroft put his hands on her thighs, her skin oh-so-warm underneath the silk. He broke his gaze with her to watch the seam on the pantalettes part as he slid his hands up, up, up. Yes, there was her Mons Venus. Even in the soft light of the room he could see it glistening with moisture. That was it, he could take no more. He crushed her to him, kissing her chest above the camisole hungrily, caressing her neck and enjoying the faded scent of her rose hair oil. He rubbed the nape of her neck, but then she leaned back, leaving him to fondle her breasts through the camisole while she pulled the pins keeping her hair bundled at the back of her head.
Fine, silky strands of hair cascaded over his hands. And then she was pushing his hands away so she could undo his trousers. It was an impossibility to take his trousers off with her sitting in his lap, yet somehow between the two of them they managed to push them down just far enough.
She sank down on him with that little sigh that women always made when he joined with them, and began to rock. The motion was exquisite, though he was not in a good enough position to enjoy it to its fullest capacity. But he liked her initiative, and urged her closer, closer, until her breasts were jiggling against his still clothed chest. Mycroft bent his head to capture a nipple in his mouth, was gratified by her little squeal as his teeth scraped across the front of it. He sucked harder, noted how her panting grew, how her movements grew sharper. He slid down in the chair until his arse was just on the edge of it, allowing her to have most of the room on the seat for her knees. Holding her tight by the waist, he had her lean forward while he stretched up a little to capture the nipple dangling just above his face. He was immediately gratified by her sharp little cry.
Lydia was close, her hot breath washing his forehead until it suddenly wasn't - she gave a high pitched grunt as her movements went all jerky and stiff. Mycroft would have given anything at that moment to shove up into her, but there was no way he could move until she was done.
And just like that, even as the thought occurred to him, she went limp on top of him. He patted her back, kissed her shoulder, hoped to G-d she would get recover and soon so he too could get some relief, whether by his hand or her own.
Lydia pushed herself upright again, grimaced as she straightened her legs back onto the floor, slipping off of him entirely. Mycroft pushed himself upright as well, winced at the ache in his lower back. Though pleasant for her, it was not a position he cared to repeat. Before he had a chance to suggest they retire to the bedroom upstairs, Lydia knelt between his spread legs. Without further instruction or indeed, asking what he wanted next, she took him in her mouth and lightly sucked, twirling her tongue around the head of him.
Shocked, Mycroft bore it only for a moment before sliding his hands around the back of her head, gripping her hair and pulling her up and off.
Lydia gasped and reached up to grip his forearm.
They both froze. Mycroft looked her straight in the eyes and...did not see fear. He had expected fear, in fact he was surprised at himself for reacting so badly to her unexpected action. Not the kind a thing a respectable woman did...although she was a widow, married to a sea Captain, and he was very well aware of what lonely men at sea got up to in the privacy of their own cabins. Lydia...she was not afraid of him. She was not scared of what he had done. Startled, yes, but not afraid. Dare he think...?
Mycroft tightened his grip, watched her mouth fall open - she didn't cry out - watched her look at him through her eyelashes. He was conflicted; torn between feeling utterly powerful at home, the way he was at his job, and utterly ridiculous, with his trousers half-way to his knees, wet cock arching towards his shirtfront. In for a penny -
"Up," he commanded, awkwardly getting to his feet and forcing her to do the same. They weren't going to make it to the bedroom, that much was clear, and the chair was too low for him to be comfortable. She was still holding onto his forearm, so without letting go, he quickly swirled her hair into a long ponytail with his free hand, then wrapped it around her wrists, effectively binding her to herself. Glancing around the room - ah. He guided her to the mantel. The fire had died down somewhat, though it was still throwing out heat. She would not be uncomfortable. Well, she would not be cold. He said, "Lean forward. Rest your elbows there, that's it."
Once she was positioned to his satisfaction, leaning against the mantel, he unbuttoned the waist of her her pantalettes, kicked them away. The curve of her belly was a delight, her skin milk soft. Her backside was gorgeous, all smooth, a heart shaped fundament, the swollen lips of her Mons just visible. He positioned himself, bent his knees, sank into her glorious heat.
Mycroft watched himself pull in and pull out, the pink of her vulva gripping him like silk every time he moved back. He silently promised that the next time this happened they would be in the privacy of their bedroom or, better yet, the summer house in Devon, where the servants had their own quarters and would not disturb them. But that was so far away, and he had better things to do, such as reach his crisis. With only the slightest hesitation, Mycroft slipped one hand between her thighs, against her rough pubic hair, into the slickness of her. He rubbed against her hard little pearl and she gasped, so he did it again, and so did she.
He knew he was not going to be particularly good at this, doing more than one physical thing at a time had never been one of his strong points, and given the distraction of fucking her in two places at once, well, it would be a miracle if he could keep it up. Then again, she was gasping, little whimpers escaping her, her body trembling hard in front of his. Just when he was sure he could not bear it any more, she clenched tight around him and he abandoned his touch to slam into her until everything whited out as he jetted into her twice, three times, four.
Then it was his turn to tremble, his legs shaking as he rested his forehead against the back of her neck. He had to wait a moment to collect himself. Finally he let her go, slipping out of her with a wet squelch. As he bent down to pull his trousers back to his waist, he looked at her pudenda and froze, watched his seed drip out of her body. Far from being disgusted as so many of the gentlemen he knew would be, he was fascinated. Yet this was really neither the time nor the place. Simpkins or Havers could come in at any moment; they were, in fact, over due to bank the coals.
Mycroft refastened his trousers, scooped up Lydia's robe, held them out to her without looking in her direction. Ridiculous, to give her modesty after they had just had sex, and in public, but that was habit for you. Mycroft shook his head in disgust at himself. After her bravura performance, she deserved more than his apparent shame. He waited until he supposed she was...decent...then looked over his shoulder. She had turned her back to him and was very busy trying to untangle her arm from her hair. Ah. Mycroft moved closer, said, "Allow me."
She did not look at him in turn, merely bowed her head forward slightly - stood still while he attempted to undo the damage. He pulled hair free of her wedding ring, the diamonds glinting like sparks in the light. When she was free, he placed his hands on her shoulders, felt her freeze as she had not done before. He turned her around, watched her stare with quite some determination at the rug. He looked down, too, noted how prettiness of her bared feet, how big his house slippers were by comparison. The moment passed, and he was only wasting time trying to recover a feeling fast slipping away. Taking her hands in his own, he rubbed the back of them very gently with his thumbs. "I did not hurt you?"
She shook her head.
"Because I do not want to hurt you. I am not a brute, Lydia. You must tell me if I hurt you in the bedroom."
At this, she glanced up, though she did not meet his eyes.
"Yes? You will tell me?"
"I will."
Mycroft was a little unsettled by her response. As he had discovered at Pinewood, Lydia was a fiercely intelligent woman, prone to keeping her own council. When she did speak, it was always on a matter of importance. He was reminded, in fact, of Aunt Eleanor, the smartest woman he had ever known. A woman who could run circles not only around Sherlock, but himself as well. Had she been able to take to politics, well. The world would be a difference place entirely. "Promise?"
She snorted, and Mycroft instantly felt better. She had made the same response when he had asked for her hand, the two of them sharing a private moment in the library. That day had been miserable, the wind whipping the trees into a frenzy, rain driven willy nilly against the windows, thunder rattling hard every window. The library was cozy with the fire blazing, lamps lit, tea mashing in its pot, a stand of little cakes and delicate salmon sandwiches on the tray, ready to be devoured. Bored, Mycroft wandered away from Lady Howard and Lord Tewksbury and the assorted visitors playing games at the tables in the corner to where Lydia stood, watching the sky momentarily lighten. She glanced up at him and smiled slightly and that had been it, Mycroft had been pierced as thoroughly as a cushion by a pin.
Blinking furiously, he clasped his hands behind his back tightly, utterly shocked by the depth of his feeling. He was a giddy as a boy, for the love of G-d.
"A beautiful day," commented Lydia. She swayed in his direction. "These are my favorite days to be in a library. It's warm, cozy, with plenty to read. Everything a person might want."
"Marry me," Mycroft blurted. The look she sent him was filled with incredulity, and as his cheeks heated, he could not help but agree with her. His mouth kept saying things. "Please. Would you consent to be my wife, Mrs. Jessop?"
Lydia rocked back on her feet, still staring at him with a furrowed brow.
"Please say something, Mrs. Jessop," he pleaded. "Yay or nay, that is all I require."
"Why...why would you want to marry me? I have nothing to offer you, Mr. Holmes."
Mycroft shook his head, eager to disabuse of her of the notion. "Quite the contrary, Mrs. Jessop. You are everything I need," said Mycroft, understanding the rightness of his words only after he said them. Horror swept through him as he realized he had spoken the unvarnished truth.
Mrs. Jessop flushed, her pinkened cheeks contrasting prettily with her dark hair and her navy dress. "I...don't know what to say, Mr. Holmes. Your offer is entirely unexpected."
To him, not least of all! "If I may list my reasons?"
She nodded once, equally gravely.
"You are an intelligent woman. You have no children and your prospects - " As he spoke, Mycroft watched her face fall a bit, and tried desperately to think of other reasons which were not so...clinical. "Though you have a small yearly stipend which is sufficient for your needs - "
Mrs. Jessop held up one hand, turning away from him with a small shake of her head. "That's quite enough, Mr. Holmes. I see you have my financial constraints well in had. Nonetheless I make do with what I am privileged to receive. Lady Howard will never see me so far gone as to marry any man merely for his money. Far be it for me to marry for love!"
"But I do love you!" burst Mycroft, reaching for her hand before she could walk away. "You have stolen my every thought since I saw you that morning! You are first in my mind in the morning, and the last in it before I sleep!
"Mr. Holmes, pray keep your tone low, sir!" she said, smiling and nodding at someone behind him.
Oh, they were still in mixed company! Mycroft felt his cheeks heat and immediately let her go, turning towards the window to gather his wits. If this was why love made fools out of people, no wonder Sherlock eschewed it. A lesson he thought he had learned before Sherlock had even been born, but apparently he was wrong. He would leave immediately. He would make his apologies to Lady Howard, take himself back to London and never see Mrs. Jessop again. He would throw himself into his work and remain a single man, free to do anything he liked.
"M. Holmes," began Mrs Jessop, looking at him intently. Hesitantly, she continued. "I am flattered by your attention."
"It is not mere attention!" he said shortly. "Yes, I am a wealthy man, and it would please me greatly to afford you the everything you deserve. I have a house in Devon, and another in Cumberland, a summer home in Northumberland. You would attend any social event you wanted, and of course we would go to Europe after the wedding. France, Italy, Greece. I would show you the sights! I have a library, and a little brother who with luck you will never meet. My mother will be ecstatic to meet you, as will my father be. My library is one of the best in London, and you would have access to the Bodleian. "
"Say it again."
He did not want to. Shooting her a quick look, he saw that she was amused, and clearly by him. "You want me to say it again? In public?"
"You've already said it once, why not again?"
"It's rather private..."
"Lydia? Mr. Holmes?"
The call was imperious and the tone not one in the mood to be disobeyed, which meant Lady Howard had lost her last bet for the evening. Mrs. Jessop looked at Mycroft sidelong before heading towards the gaming tables.
"Yes, Lady Howard?"
"Oh, Lydia, do come and play a round or two with me. Mr. Frank is the very devil at beating me again so cruelly," said Lady Howard, fussing with the entire deck of cards.
Mycroft faced the window again. He was surprised to find it had darkened once more, hopefully the worst of the storm going over them now, and a calm day laid in for the morning. Dear G-d, that he was party to such a scene as he had just experienced! It was something straight out of a wretched romance novel, such as the unforgivably dramatic Wuthering Heights, which Aunt Eleanor had pressed upon him in her eagerness to have him enjoy it as she had done.
Mycroft was not convinced.
Still, he had said his peace to Mrs. Jessop, and with any luck, he would have a proper answer by dinner. He started at that - he had asked a woman to bond in marriage. Himself! Mycroft Holmes! Unbelievable.
At dinner that evening, everyone took the seats to which they had become accustomed. This left Mycroft facing Mrs. Jessop, as usual. She had changed into a gown of deep rose that served to highlight her complexion and the darkness of her hair, which in turn was highlighted by a strand of pearls. Even her eyes seemed abnormally large, and Mycroft could just imagine Sherlock's commentary on the matter. But Sherlock was the one who he did not need to give any consideration to. Which was just as well, really. Mrs. Jessop would not scared off before there was the possibility of even her giving Mycroft an answer.
Conversation with Lord Tewksbury and Miss Anne, to his left, was interminable. Every now and again he looked up to catch Mrs. Jessop either deep in conversation with Mrs. Frank, or looking away from staring at Mycroft.
It was very frustrating.
Nonetheless, during a lull in which Falconer was slurping his soup, and Miss Anne was drinking another glass of red wine (a delicious vintage indeed, but more than one glass was over doing it, given the rest of the dinner to come), Mycroft happened to glance across the table just as Mrs. Jessop glanced at him. They smiled at one another. "How is the soup, Mrs. Jessop?"
"Lovely, thank you, Mr. Holmes. The pease are especially sweet this time of year."
Mycroft nodded idiotically.
She said nothing more, and Mycroft was soon engaged in more needless commentary about Thompson and whether Baxter ought to run and of course the trouble in India, which was just ghastly.
Standing in his own parlour, Mycroft shook his head, amazed Lydia had said yes after all. That she appeared to love him in turn, though he had no reason why that should be so. He was not a particularly lovable man.
"You didn't hurt me," she repeated. And then, shyly, "I liked it."
Mycroft nodded, even though she was not looking at him. Still. He knew there were men and women who enjoyed that sort of bed play, though he had never attempted it himself. If Lydia did, however, he would do his best to fulfill her desires. Up to this point their lovemaking had been...Mr. Jessop had clearly not been attentive to her needs. Well, Mycroft was going to ensure he did not do the same, to the best of his ability.
"If you'll excuse me," she said, shouldering past him without a further by-your-leave.
Mycroft watched her go, remained behind to finish his drink, and indulge in another. When he found himself nodding off in the chair, he concluded that Lydia had chosen her moment well; he was utterly exhausted, and had not further thoughts in his head than sleep. With that in mind he banked the coals and turned off the gas and headed upstairs to his bed.
Lydia's room was opposite his own, and as he approached his door he paused, then turned to lean against the door frame. Would she be up at this late hour? Would she welcome him to her bed if he asked? He wanted…her companionship earlier had been so lovely, so lovely and unexpected…perhaps he had not been demonstrative enough with her. Maybe if he showed her the depth of his feeling with his body, she would be equally demonstrative? Which was ridiculous, considering her daring bravery this very night. Licking his lips, he put one hand on the door knob and turned it, before he had a chance to convince himself this was not a good idea.
To his surprise, she was sitting up in bed, reading. Her hair was braided neatly over her shoulder, and the bedclothes drawn up, tucked under her arms. They blinked at one another without speaking. Mycroft slowly advanced into the room, allowing her time to shoo him away. Instead, she watched him come closer, said nothing when he pulled the sheets back with two fingers, exposing her bare breast. Oh G-d, the rosy nipple called to him and he swayed a little, half drunk on arousal as well as brandy.
Lydia stared at him, the rise of her chest coming quicker when he touched that nipple with one finger. He flicked it a little, and she closed her eyes.
"Tell me if I hurt you," he whispered once more, and crushed her beneath him.
~*~ fin ~*~
Open the door now.
Go roll up the collar of your coat
To walk in the changing scarf of mist.
Tell your sins here to the pearl fog
And know for once a deepening night
Strange as the half-meanings
Alurk in a wise woman's mousey eyes.
Yes, tell your sins
And know how careless a pearl fog is
Of the laws you have broken.
~Fog, by Carl Sandburg