Chapter Text
In a rare moment in between urgent tasks, Mycroft’s mind strayed to the letter he received yesterday. For the first time since his ill-fated trip to Dubai six months prior, he was uncertain of the appropriate course of action. He hadn’t heard from Hannah in almost two years. They had managed to maintain sporadic contact until she, her husband and toddler moved to Germany a decade ago. Since then, she sent occasional Christmas and birthday cards. He did not reciprocate for reasons Hannah fully understood and welcomed. But the remnants of their friendship became harder and harder to sustain over the years, which made the first non-occasion letter he had received from her in years more concerning.
Dear Mycroft,
I’m sorry I missed sending you a card last year. As you no doubt still understand, things here are continuing their long, slow downhill slide, although we’ve all (mostly) been trying to make it work. Edward’s family is closing the Frankfurt office and they’ve made a decision to move him back to their London office. Deutsche Bank didn’t blink an eye about transferring me to London. The girls have, of course, been to London since we moved but only for family visits here and there. They’re not sure what to think. We’re moving right after their schools’ summer holidays start.
I hope that when we get settled there, you and I can reconnect over coffee… or badly mixed martinis. None of the numbers or the email I have for you work anymore. My mobile number hasn’t changed in over ten years and I know you remember that. Please text me so I can reach you. I think I’ll need an old friend when I get there.
Hannah
Leaning back in his chair, he swivelled to look out the window towards the Thames. He rarely did so, generally finding the constant action of the people going about their business vaguely distracting. He occasionally was a participant in the milling masses, but in the last few years, he had avoided that more and more often. Briefly, he wondered if he knew anyone within his field of vision and then decided he didn’t care.
The letter bothered him in ways he elected not to process. The image of a martini poured into a water glass flickered through his mind and he turned his attention to the dozen emails he had received in the past few minutes.
~~~
Hannah Clarke glanced at her watch as she plated up breakfast — eggs, toast and a quarter of an apple for each of her girls. This morning, they were a little off schedule. She had an early meeting and needed to get them up and moving ahead of their normal time. She walked to the staircase and yelled up, “Breakfast!”
Liv, her eight-year-old, bounded down the stairs, grabbed a plate, and ran back upstairs. Gracie, at twelve, never seemed to manage to eat until a few minutes before she had to leave, preferring to inhale her food and rush out the door.
Standing over the hob, Hannah ate her eggs out of the pan and nibbled on her half of the apple. With any luck, Edward would still be asleep when they left. She didn’t need to deal with another morning of his protests that all the women in the house were too loud and had woken him up. Walking upstairs, Hannah pulled Gracie’s mobile out of her hands so that she would actually eat some food and helped Liv find the maths workbook hiding under the bed. After topping up the coffee in her travel mug, she herded them out of the house. This should feel like a more momentous day, she thought. It was the Monday of the last week of school before they would be packing up the house to move. Yet somehow, it felt very ordinary.
The standing monthly meeting with her team lasted until noon. Most of her department in Frankfurt was behaving as though they would never speak to her again; the transition plan her assistant had drawn up was over twenty pages long. Hannah understood the importance of communication, but she was fairly sure their computer and phone systems routinely connected to their London office.
Her mobile buzzed with a text and she grabbed it quickly, disappointed to see it was Edward.
- I’m tired today. Pick up something on your way home?
She wondered what time he had made it into the office.
- Sure. Some bratwurst from around the corner? Won’t be as good in London.
- Sounds good. Time home?
- I have a call with the New York office at the end of the day. I’ll be home when I can.
- Text me when you’re on your way.
Sighing, she considered how satisfying it would be to throw her mobile against the wall. After a few calming breaths, she responded:
- OK
~~~~
Mycroft sat in one of the wingback chairs in his home office, moodily contemplating the envelope on his desk. Hannah’s letter had arrived nearly a week ago and he had effectively postponed further thought about a reply. He sipped at his brandy and glanced at the clock; it wasn’t quite ten. Twenty years ago, he might have been getting ready to go out for the evening… with Hannah.
She had been his closest friend through much of uni — his first, and perhaps last, confidante. He hadn’t uttered the words ‘I’m gay’ to another person until the unplanned announcement to her one night at a pub. Instead of surprise or shock, they spent a drunken evening comparing notes on which men wandering in and out were the most attractive. That had been a wonderful coming out experience for him, despite the unintended consequences many months later.
He had no idea what she expected in asking to see him, and the uncertainty flustered him more than he cared to admit. He stood and made his way downstairs to his kitchen for some ice and slowly poured his rather expensive brandy down the sink. He reached into the cupboard for a glass and into the refrigerator for olives — one of the few things every refrigerator, even his own, was required to contain. Returning upstairs, he mixed himself a dirty martini and strained it into the plain water glass he’d brought with him.
Retrieving his mobile from the desk, Mycroft settled back in his chair and sipped his drink. It was not as dreadful as he remembered, no doubt the result of better quality gin than he had in uni. He unlocked his mobile and found H Clarke in his contacts. Without any additional dithering, he typed:
- Dirty martinis are still disgusting.