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If you asked Mycroft Holmes why he wore a simple gold ring on the ring finger of his right hand, he’d ask how you got past security. Because evidently, you didn’t have the proper clearance or brain capacity to ask such an invasive question. Especially to a man who was essentially the British government. He’d allow you to answer, which you wouldn’t be able to do adequately. You more than likely stutter and stammer, and use random phrases like 'only curiosity' and 'please don’t phone the police.'
These phrases wouldn’t help your situation at all.
If Mycroft were particularly merciful that day - which would be a rare occurrence - he’d gesture towards the small box of silk handkerchiefs on the right side of his desk. They were out there specifically for these moments where a person might need a way to wipe away sweat from their brow or tears from their cheeks. Mycroft wouldn’t say that you were being overly dramatic, but he’d certainly imply it with a tilt of his head, and that would feel a million times worse.
Within two to five minutes, Anthea would step through the door. Her nails would be a fierce shade of a colour that only she could make work, and she’d calmly explain that you need to get up and be escorted to a smaller room. You’d ask her why in a voice that would be just north of sheer panic, and she’d bodily take you by the arm and tug you to your feet with an unnatural amount of strength.
You’d have difficulty keeping up with her stride, even though she would be in high heels that would break an average person’s ankles. Anthea was created for multi-level bureaucracy and single-minded determination. She’d tell you to quicken your pace even though you’d essentially be in a full run.
The hallways would be lined with photographs of stern men and women who glared as if you’d done something illegal every day of the calendar year. You’d swear up and down that the eyes in photographs were following you, but wouldn’t be mental enough to announce this feeling out loud.
You’d end up in a room that was dark, windowless, and with a single chair in the middle. The air would be cold, and you’d shiver as Anthea told you to sit down and try to be as comfortable as possible. You would sit down, but no comfort would be found anywhere in this room. You’d wish you had just kept your mouth shut about the bloody ring, but alas, hindsight would be destined to always be 20/20.
Eventually, you’d be joined in the room by two overly- muscled government agents. They’d have unassuming names like Basil and Hugh, and smile with all of their teeth in an unsettling way that you’d remember for the rest of your life. Anthea would offer you tea, which you absolutely should accept, and Basil would suggest that you don’t take Darjeeling.
Hugh would crack his knuckles once in a while just to keep you on edge, whilst Basil would occasionally open the door and glance out of the room. What would be maddening would be the notion that he wasn’t genuinely looking for anyone specific. It would be just another tactic to keep you about to soil your pants, and the worst thing about that was how effective this tactic would be.
After another ten or so minutes, Detective Gregory Lestrade would enter the room, looking slightly disheveled because he’d run most of the way to your location. He’d argue with the burly guards that their presence was not needed, and Hugh and Basil would less than politely disagree with the DI’s assessment. You’d watch the three men go back and forth, clearly dreaming of a world where this room, nor yourself, ever existed.
Lestrade would give you an occasional apologetic look, but wouldn’t directly speak to you yet. Instead, he’d demand that Basil get you a proper drink before leaving the room, the door slamming behind him, and racing back up the hallway. Basil would suggest a glass of single malt Scotch, and you’d take it, because why the hell not?
Your drink would arrive a suspiciously short amount of time later, handed to you by Anthea, who would seem somewhat more cheerful, but still just as ruthless. She’d assure you that you weren’t going to be killed, which only helps you to feel moderately better. The scotch would smell expensive, and taste like it cost more than a waterfront property in Sandbanks, South West.
After your glass was empty, Anthea would leave the room again. Hugh still would regard you with ire, but you and Basil would be getting along fairly well, considering the circumstances. Perhaps you and Basil might even go out for a pint at a later moment in time, and laugh about how you all first met.
Or maybe you’d be sent to a secret facility in Wales and have your memory erased.
Both options would seem equally feasible.
The door to the room would open again, and your eyes would widen at Sherlock Holmes, the World’s Only Consulting Detective, stepping inside. In all honesty, you would yelp in surprise. Sherlock would sigh very dramatically before waving at Dr John Watson to enter the room as well. John Watson would be the first person you’ve met today who seemed relatively normal. He’d ask if you were all right, and that this shouldn’t take much more of your time.
Sherlock would traipse back in, all dramatic coat and stunning cheekbones, his eyes sweeping from your hair to your hands, then to the tops of your shoes. He would deduce that you’d only been dealing in governmental business for a maximum of 18 months, and had just returned from a trip to see a close relative.
He would be, of course, correct, and if you weren’t in this very terrified for your career and possibly your life - despite Anthea’s assurances - you’d ask Sherlock Holmes for his autograph.
After your interaction and a fair amount of superfanning, Sherlock offhandedly would state that you are of ‘ no reasonable amount of interest’ and you would not know if you should feel relieved or insulted.
Five minutes later, you would be completely alone in the room. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson took off talking about afternoon tea, and Hugh and Basil now right outside of the door. It would feel like they were all waiting for you to do something that would allow them the legal licence to shoot you on sight.
You would not give them the satisfaction, and would stay put in your chair.
Lestrade would re-enter the room with a frown and a set of documents in a canary yellow three-ring binder. He’d make sure that the door was tightly closed and locked before he spoke. His face would be somewhat less strained - as if he’d taken a glass or two of that Scotch himself. The DI would stay standing, arms crossed and looking like he was trying to decide if you were trustworthy to be let in on a secret.
“Ok, so…” Greg would say, slowly and carefully. “You saw the ring.”
Not sure if this was a trick, you would neither confirm nor deny. Instead, you would just blink a few times - to indicate that you weren’t a statue. Lestrade would run a hand through his hair, then try again.
“You’re new here,” Greg would continue, “And don’t know the rules. The ring isn’t talked about. At least, not around Mycroft or where his goons can overhear…which is everywhere…”
Lestrade would let the end of the sentence sit there, dying a slow death by lethal implication. You would be patient as Greg gathered more of his thoughts, because this was now where your life began and ceased.
“The ring came from me,” Lestrade would go on, in a rush. “As a promise of a promise of a promise of events eventually happening.”
This admission would cause you to raise your hand in the pursuit of follow-up questions. Questions like Is this like a pre-pre-pre one day I may marry you ring? or Can we just pretend like I never came into this building today?
“We’re dating,” Greg would admit, which you, at this point, assumed. You might not have the deduction skills of Sherlock Holmes, but you could connect enough dots for that conclusion. “And Mycroft isn’t…great about public declarations of affection. Or declarations in general…or affection at all . Our anniversary of sorts came and went, but I wanted to give him something small that he and I both knew was symbolic, so I got him the simple gold band. He agreed to wear it, but made it clear through talking to the right people who would pass it on to everyone else that it should not ever be commented on. If it ever was…there was a list of protocols.”
You would stare at Greg, which would be a very understandable thing to do. This man standing in front of you, with access to the entirety of The Met and tangential access to the British Government, was part of a protocol in the case of anyone asking about the symbolic but not symbolic-ring-of-his-boyfriend-not -boyfriend-not-boyfriend.
The leaps in logic and potentiality of kidnapping charges would run through your head, and maybe you’d talk to an attorney at some point today or tomorrow. Then again, how would a person even begin to explain how this odd series of events had occurred?
Would anyone even believe your story of how a random inquiry about jewelry landed you here?
“Look,” Greg would say, his dark brown eyes looking quite tired. “I know you weren’t expecting…well, any of this. Now you know what the ring is about, and I am imploring you to keep this information under strict secrecy. Can you do that?”
You would nod, and Lestrade would exhale a deep breath. The Detective Inspector would leave you alone in the room once more, and just when you would be about to get nervous, Hugh would step back inside and escort you into a waiting black car outside. The driver would smile as you get into the back seat, and would take you back to your flat. How he knew the address wasn’t asked, but frankly at this point, you would be too exhausted to care.
When you get into your flat you’ll wonder if it was time to change careers, because this wasn’t what you signed up for at all. You would slump down into your chair in the sitting room and purposely not check through your messages, because you might have multiple texts and emails from people you don’t want to talk to at all.
Somehow, you’d drag yourself to the bathroom and take a very long shower. You’d try to scrub away the lunacy of the last eight hours, but it would seem to be stuck in every pore of your skin. Then, you would sigh to no one in particular.
Then, just when you would be toweled off and wrapped in comfortable night clothes, your mobile would ring. The caller ID would be from an unlisted number, and you don’t want to answer it because rarely anything positive came from answering a call from an unlisted number.
However, you would click ACCEPT, and the voice would be that of Mycroft Holmes. The background noise would be of classical music and the soft muttering of voices, so he most likely would be at an expensive dinner.
“In the future,” he’d say, his tone dry, but very official, “I will not be as lenient regarding queries into my personal affairs. Do I make myself clear?“
He would not wait for you to reply, and the phone call would disconnect. You would crawl into bed and turn off the lights, but stay awake for at least the next hour.
A gift basket of yellow roses in a glass vase would arrive on the doorstep, with a card that would say ” Sorry for the interesting introduction” with no signature.
You would keep the vase full of yellow roses on your dining room table, and would never speak of this day ever again.