If I had a boat, I would sail to you

Sherlock Holmes steps out of the car at the dock where the world's largest ship, the RMS Titanic, awaits him for her maiden voyage. Sherlock tugs down the edges of his black suit coat then holds out his arm – all proper to decorum – to assist his fiancée, Ms. Molly Hooper, from the car. Molly steps out of the car, hand on his arm but with her eyes toward the ground. Though they are engaged to be married, Molly barely manages speech in his presence, always fumbling over her words, speaking only of trivial things women seem to focus on which hold absolutely no interest for Sherlock. Sherlock recalls about ten sentences in total they have spoken to each other which included any form of real substance.

Molly gasps when she looks up at the ship. "It's so large."

"Unsinkable," Mycroft says, coming up behind them from the second car. "A perfect ship that ever was made."

"With no doubt a horrific turning radius," Sherlock counters.

"I would think at nineteen years you should be able to appreciate craftsmanship, Sherlock." Mycroft grumbles. "It is a passenger liner not a battleship."

"It still must turn."

"Sir, the bags?" Anthea, Mycroft's manservant who perfectly fits the role in every aspect but her sex, appears out of nowhere holding her notebook – bun on top of her head, masculine clothing, paisley tie, full Windsor knot.

"Yes, of course." Mycroft points with his ivory topped umbrella at the car behind them. "Just see them all safely on board, special care with the safe, of course."

"Yes, sir." Anthea writes in her notebook and whistles loudly at a passing crewman. "All these trunks to the ship, first class."

"Are we to..." Molly rubs nonexistent wrinkles out of her pale blue skirt with her gloved hands. "I mean, do we plan to... dine together tonight?" She peeks up at him from under her matching hat, simple but becoming with a floppy navy blue bow at the back.

Sherlock frowns and pulls down the brim of his hat. "No doubt we will have to suffer that."

"Come along." Mycroft puts a hand against Sherlock's back and pushes him forward. "Titanic and America await."

Sherlock's frown turns to a grimace.

-------

In their three adjoining suites, Anthea leads the charge of trunks and boxes carried by half a dozen crew members to their proper locations. As soon as Sherlock walks in behind the first of the parade, he unbuttons his jacket and throws it onto a chair by the door, followed soon by his hat which misses and rolls under a sideboard.

"Really, Sherlock," Mycroft chides, picking up the hat and throwing it back toward Sherlock.

Sherlock dodges and lets the hat bounce off the wall. Mycroft sighs then sits on one of the pair of couches in their sitting room to peruse a stack of bills from the House of Lords - ever the civil servant. Sherlock loosens his tie then slouches against one wall watching the mechanics of class in motion. He sees his violin case come into the room on top of one of Molly's trunks and stands up straight. Sherlock weaves around one carried trunk and plucks his case off before the men carrying the trunk even have a chance to put it on the floor.

"No Rachmaninoff," Mycroft says without looking up from his papers. "You know I hate that modern music."

"I should not be held at fault for your severe lack of taste, Mycroft."

"Then play nothing," Mycroft grumbles and turns a page.

Sherlock puts the case on the chair where his coat landed, flips open the clasps and carefully pulls out his violin. He slashes the bow across the strings once loudly just to see Mycroft cringe. Mycroft glares up over the edge of his papers. Sherlock smiles then puts the violin on his shoulder, considering what piece would annoy Mycroft the most.