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The next card was left for him at the Diogenes Club.
In the Stranger's Room, the steward placed it on the tray with his usual drink and the evening paper. “The card was left at the door for you,” was the only explanation given.
“Thank you, Richard. Do you have any idea who may have left it?”
“No, sir, but I’ll ask the lads who see to the deliveries.”
“Of course.” He took the envelope and held it to the light. Same flimsy envelope, same shape as before. He could make out the colorful background on the card, and knew that there was nothing dangerous inside. He opened the letter with the provided opener and pulled out the card.
A single sided card with an old-fashioned typewriter on the front, with the words “You’re Just My Type” over it.
Dear lord. He took a healthy swallow of his drink, looked at the animated typewriter, then downed the rest in one large gulp.
Before he could set the glass down, Richard was at his side. “Is everything satisfactory, Mr. Holmes?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Would you like me to refresh your drink, sir?”
He frowned at that, then realization dawned. A man of habit, he’d practically guzzled down a snifter of aged cognac like he was in a common pub. Probably scandalized the entire membership. “Ah, no, Richard. If I could trouble you for a glass of tonic water with lime?”
“Of course, sir.”
Damn. I’m slipping into madness over a silly matter, he thought. I cannot imagine why I am letting this affect me so. Utter insanity. He took up his paper, shook it out, and settled back in his chair to read.
Richard reappeared with his water. “I spoke with the delivery lads, sir. Nothing odd, other than some Yarders about, investigating a purse snatching.” He smiled briefly. “Mr. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, if you were wondering.”
“Thank you.”
***
Ten minutes later, he set the paper aside with a small sigh. Pointless. He couldn’t focus. He, Mycroft Holmes, could not focus.
He picked up the card, and read it again. “You’re Just My Type”. Juvenile, puerile, and just plain silly. He could hear his father’s voice as clearly as if were sitting opposite.
‘Focus on knowledge, what makes someone tick. Love is for the dull. Would you have romance over brains?’
Of course, one couldn’t simply say yes to a question posed in that manner, so Mycroft followed his father’s advice. Which led straight to disaster. By the time he was able to appreciate sex, love, and romance, it was too late. No one gave him valentines, invited him to parties, or passed him love notes.
Uni was worse, but he wouldn’t dwell on that horrid experience. The loss of one’s virginity should not have resulted in the devastation of his emotions, his heart, but it did. After that, he stopped hoping that he would someday find someone to love him, and focused on his career.
As he flourished and rose through the ranks, he realized that power could result in liaisons, but by then it was too late. He didn’t want, or need the distraction. He closed off his mind to love, and that was that.
But now there was this.
To be honest, he was flattered, and it bothered him. He was a middle aged man, for god’s sake, and shouldn’t be all…a-flutter because of a card.
Two cards.
“Enough.” He put the paper aside, and stood.
Richard was there immediately, with his coat and umbrella. “You won’t be wanting dinner, sir?”
“Not tonight, Richard.” He slid into his coat, took his umbrella, and offered an apologetic smile. “Something’s come up. Thank you.”
“Yes, sir. Goodnight, Mr. Holmes.”
He ignored the look of concern that Richard couldn’t hide. “Goodnight.”