The Man With The Umbrella

- 7 -

Mycroft had dropped Amelia off, outside her flat and she noticed how the car remained stationary until the door was firmly shut behind her.

A week later, another Wednesday, Amelia stumbled to her front door sleepily. Someone was knocking on her door. Since the incident, Amelia learnt to keep her baseball bat and nunchucks in the hallway.

She knew Inspector Lestrade would keep his word on keeping an eye out for the pair, if it meant catching Jonathan Wood. Then there was Mycroft Holmes. It was either himself or his minions who were watching Amelia and Viola, constantly.

Opening the door barefooted and wearing no bra underneath her jumper, she was greeted with Mrs Holland, the landlady. Amelia's grip loosened on the baseball bat. Mrs Holland had a frazzled look about her but a keen smile all the same. She was an older lady, a little yellow from years of smoking and her eyes looked bloodshot from always nursing a hangover. "Amelia." She smiled.

"Good morning, Misses Holland." Amelia returned the pleasantries. "Thought I'd just pop in and tell ya that we're gettin' rid of the lock and key for downstairs. Bein' replaced as we speak with some fancy scanner. You gotta use -" With quick hands, she brandished a bundle of fobs, like ones Amelia remembered from Harvard halls all those years ago. "These now!"

Amelia blinked. "Oh, really?"

"Sure thing, sweetheart." She replied, handing her the small black object. "It hooks onto your keychain, like. Proper good for security, and all. Never thought I'd own a buildin' with such a fancy way in, but apparently one of the tenants has a rich family member who wants the best for their little one. Not you, is it?"

Amelia snorted. "No -" Before realisation hit her. No. No! No? Surely this wasn't Mycroft?

Mrs Holland went on her way with a wave and smile and after closing the door, Amelia practically ran to grab her phone. There were no new messages and no recent calls.

Amelia chewed the side of her mouth, debating whether to message Mr Holmes or not. If this, in fact, had not been him, then Amelia was mortified. Why would he care so much? Was this the pent up worrying that was usually spent on his brother? She wondered.

Really, sir? Was that necessary? – Amelia

She practically threw her phone onto the bed, face hot, and brushed her teeth whilst staring at the tired expression hard and light purpilish bruise fading her neck underneath the foundation in the mirror. She had showered a night previous, intent upon getting the grime of the incident off of her skin, and the smell of Jonathan out of her nose. Even a week later.

Amelia wondered if she should tell Jolene what had happened but she decided against it. Why worry her, when the people who could help knew already?

When she finally picked up her phone, ten minutes later, his initials blinked up at her.

The door was archaic. A mentally stunted child could have picked their way into the building, let alone our killer who has a penchant for blondes – MH

She thought about messaging back but decided against it. Instead, she slunk into the living room in her pyjamas, intent upon staring at the blank canvas intended for Mycroft for the rest of the day.

In conclusion, she didn't paint once that day.

***

That night, she sat cross legged in front of a blank canvas, a well-used box of paints to her right, and her phone to her left. Music played slowly in the background; a playlist from Spotify of classical music that, according to the creator of the playlist, needn't have gone so hard.