Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mycroft Holmes had never minded solitude at times.  He welcomed it, in fact, particularly after a long day in the office or being out of the country for work.  He was more than grateful for it when his parents decided to visit. He would let out a sigh of relief when their car pulled out of the driveway, and he would close the front door and lean against it, taking in the silence of his home. 

He never cared much for small talk, or if he had to be honest, people speaking to him in general. He would replace all meetings he had with an email or a live chat if he could to avoid having to listen to moronic ramblings.  The silence at home did not bother him either. He liked to listen to the hum of his thoughts.  He did his best thinking when he was on his own.  No one was there to interrupt him with any silly questions or statements.  The landline only occasionally rang, and it was only his father who called him, usually on a Sunday morning, to tell him about the process with the garden.  No one ever rang his personal mobile phone. His parents insisted on the landline, and Sherlock was unlikely to call him. He had no friends to call or communicate with. 

 Lestrade texted him occasionally on his work phone. He asked about his day occasionally and sent him pictures and videos of his brother in compromising positions. Mycroft had secretly enjoyed the picture of Sherlock with glittery hairclips that Rosie had put in his hair while he glared at the camera as he was being forced to participate in a tea party.  

He had no idea why he had even continued to have a personal mobile phone. It was more of a glorified music player these days, and he only used it when he was on the treadmill. Everyone else phoned him on his work phone, and even then, work only bothered him when it was an emergency out of hours. Work had been rather insistent on the concept of the work-life balance of late. Mycroft still came into work dutifully even on the weekends, though for a half day or he worked from home. 

 He liked the structure of being alone.  He could spend his evenings from work doing what he liked and when he liked-  mostly it was paperwork and catching up from the emails that came into his inbox, though he did often have a film noir in the background, or he listened to music. He occasionally indulged and listened to the music that he enjoyed in university, though he believed that he ought to have outgrown Morrissey and The Smiths at his age.  The music still spoke to him almost as much as it did when he was eighteen.  

He used to feel as if Morrisay was the only person who understood how he felt while he spent days without speaking to anyone at university. The Smiths were the musical soundtrack to his days in Cambridge. He had so many long evenings in the library poring over his dissertation, listening to The Smiths on cassette tape.   He almost felt as if  Morrissey was writing music about his life, a rather self-indulgent thought, though he would allow himself to entertain back in the day.  He still had his vinyls from back in the day that he kept on his shelf, though he had the CDs and digital albums these days.  

He had seen The Smiths during the first leg of The Queen is Dead Tour in July 1986.  He considered it to be one of the few occasions that he had enjoyed himself and felt young as he was in that crowd, almost being crushed by all those people. He had phoned in sick to work the day before so he could be in Manchester on time and find his feet with his surroundings.  He had a drink spilt on him that evening, but he did not care. He chanted and shouted in the crowd in worship of Morrissey. He hadn’t felt so alive in his life, and he knew even back then, he would never feel that way again.

He did not have to think hard to imagine himself back in that concert. He could remember where he had been standing when Morrissey had been singing ‘Panic’, and he swore that Morrissey had made eye contact with him. The song had remained his favourite all those years because of that moment. He could remember the cheap cologne of the stranger and the electric shock of feeling- for once, he was part of something instead of being on the sidelines. A momentary intimacy with thousands of people, none of whom he’d see again or knew his name, but he felt important and connected to the world instead of floating above it.  

He had longed to experience that feeling on occasion. The connection with something or someone. The rare moments when the solitude felt oppressive. When he stepped into an empty home after being away for so long and there was no one there to greet him. He knew that no one would notice if he had disappeared from the world. Hundreds of people go missing every day in London. 

He could easily be one of them.  He doubted that anyone would notice. Not for a while, at least.  He almost felt reassured in a morbid way that no one would pay much attention to his disappearance.  

Sherlock would probably be rather celebratory about the matter. He had his own life to be occupied with, and there was little space for him in it these days. He had friends, unlike Mycroft. He also had a partner. He had Rosie to help raise, and he had his cases to keep him busy.  His father might notice, mostly as there was no one to pick up the landline on Sunday. He always felt a voice message would be left if he did not pick up the phone. He would probably assume that he was busy at work.  Not anyone at the office- they would assume that they would have been transferred to an International assignment. There would be someone trying to take office the moment he was gone, before his chair had gone cold. 

Lestrade, perhaps. He was kind and always checked up on him a few days after a text he sent had not been replied to. He would assume that he was busy and couldn’t answer his phone, or he had forgotten to do so. People were busy after all. Mycroft more so than most people. 

The thought ought to have passed him by now. It usually did.  Mycroft was well acquainted with the dips he had- the periods of muted grey and absence of feeling. He boxed them up and moved on. It was part of being an adult.  He was not like Sherlock, who let everyone know how he was feeling. He did not shoot the walls when he was in a bad mood. 

He had thought about his disappearance, and the world would continue to move around without him since he was twelve.   Not seriously- he was not as dramatic as Sherlock was.  He wouldn’t do anything so silly or cause a bother to anyone or make a fuss. He used to write poems and worked out the practicalities of it.  He knew how easily it would be to slip away.  To just stop existing. 

He would lie in bed, not moving or talking. Listening to his family downstairs, and how they were laughing and talking. They always sounded happy when Mycroft was lying upstairs, not noticing that he was not there with them. He would lie there and think about how he shouldn’t exist.  

No one had noticed him. They sent him to boarding school at a young age to get rid of him. His parents said it was to help his education, but he knew it was so they could focus on the younger ones.  He was unwanted. No one noticed when he was absent from dinner when he was home.  No one would ask him how he was or how school was.  He had gone two days without speaking to anyone or coming out of his bedroom during the summer holidays when he was fifteen.  No one had said a thing or noticed. 

He did not even feel sad or upset that no one had noticed. It was a confirmation of a fact that he suspected; he was fundamentally unnecessary. Unwanted. 

It was the same now as it had been back then. He was completely alone.  He knew that he was foolish that he hoped that there was someone waiting on the other side of the door for him as he came out of the taxi. There was never anyone waiting for him. There was not  even any post on the floor or any voice messages on his landline as he stepped into the hallway. The only company he had was the sound of his footsteps echoing on the kitchen tiles.  

He had little idea why he had almost been hoping for something. He had been away for work for a few days, and no one had noticed he was gone.   He tried to remember that he had chosen this life for himself.  He had wanted this.

 He had tried to follow the advice that it was better to be in your own company than to be with people you did not like.  That is what a teacher at boarding school had told him when he was eight, when he had spoken about not having friends.

He opened up the fridge and sighed, realising that the housekeeper had thrown away any food that might have spoiled. He only had some butter in the fridge and soy sauce. He sighed and picked up the takeaway menu off the fridge, a habit more than anything.  The place that he ordered from would just ask him if he was having ‘the usual.’  They recognised his phone number.  The driver would leave his food by the security gate. He would eat his food in the same chair, in front of his laptop, as he worked until he got a headache and took himself to bed. 

Mycroft did not want company, not exactly.  People were loud. They made noises when they ate.  Scraped their cutlery across the plate and made noises when they chewed. They were unpredictable at times, messy.  Mycroft had never been good with them. They did not like him either, no matter how much he used to try and gain their approval when he was young and stupid. 

 It was better to be alone than to force a round peg to fit into a square peg, no matter how many times he tried to force himself to fit in.  He was different. He was in a world full of goldfish. Mycroft was not sure what he was in this world, perhaps someone who was looking into the tank from outside. 

He did sometimes wonder if he had gone too far in cultivating this life of his. He wondered if it was perhaps seasonal depression that made him feel this way, or perhaps he needed to take some annual leave. The ache of solitude bothered him from time to time. He had grown used to it and tried to drown it out with more time in the office. He thought that it was easier to deal with it when he was not home.  He knew that he was avoiding the feeling of absence. 

He had started to notice things. He had only one mug that he used. One plate and one fork on the draining board. His meals, on the rare occasion he cooked, were only meals for one. One pan or pot and one spoon meals. Usually, poached eggs on toast. Pasta.  

His house felt too big. He disliked being in it. It felt too empty at times. He stopped going home as often and had meals in his club. He slept in his office on occasion, and it was not because of work.  He occasionally wanted someone to acknowledge him in the office kitchen he was getting tea. 

They never did. The silence was almost deafening at times. 

It was a midlife crisis, this sudden desire for companionship.   

Perhaps he was getting jealous of Sherlock and his new family and his new life. He disliked it when Sherlock was doing better than him. Maybe Mummy said something about Sherlock to him, and how well he was doing, and he had become jealous. It had to be that.  This was just some silly rivalry. 

His routine went the same way as it always did.  He got his takeaway delivered. He ate it in front of his laptop while he worked on some emails. He put on some music to fill the silence of his house.

Life is very long when you are lonely. 

Life is very long when you are lonely. 

Life is very long when you are lonely. 

Mycroft lifted his head from his laptop when he heard the outro for The Queen is Dead. The chopsticks were suspended over his container of noodles. He quickly switched off the music, ignoring how hollow his chest felt.

He had chosen this life. He had wanted this. 

He closed the laptop with more force than necessary. He stood abruptly, suddenly feeling rather restless. The silence felt like punishment. A reminder that he was unwanted. He washed up his one mug and his glass, which he had his wine in, with more force than needed. He threw the takeaway containers in the bin. He cleaned the counter, though it was clean, as he never cooked in. He went to the freezer and slammed it closed when he realised that the emergency tub of ice cream had not been replenished after he had succumbed to stress eating after the country had nearly been dragged into war, and he had Mummy visiting.  

He disliked this feeling and was unsure how to cope with this idiotic and senseless…desire for companionship? 

It wasn’t that. He was happy being on his own. He wanted this. He was content in his life. He had silence.  He wasn’t going to be hurt by it. Silence wasn’t going to leave him for another man. Silence was not going to take another man to their bed.  It was not going to make him choose between his devotion to the country and a man.  Silence did not criticise him or accuse him of being cold. Too strange. Not human.  Unable to love or be loved. 

He went to the wine cabinet, surprisingly full, and he poured himself a glass to stop his head spinning. He was just tired from work. That was it. He downed his glass and poured himself another. He paced the rooms in his house as if he were trying to walk away from his thoughts. 

He had no idea why he had become so ruffled by it. It had to be a midlife crisis. It had to be that. He had been through so much worse daily. He had ended each day intact. Alone.   He was happy with his life. He had chosen this. He had wanted this. 

He downed the rest of his glass and topped it up without thinking. He was going to regret this in the morning.  He’d be fine. He would have a lie-in until seven, and he would work from home. He’d be fine and over this midlife crisis. 

He should be above this. He was not like other people. The ache felt like damp that had crept in under the wallpaper. He had proved time and time again, he did not need a man or anyone. He was better than this. He had given up on people years ago, and he had been fine.  He was not Sherlock, who needed people. 

The feeling would pass. It always did. He would go to bed now. He would wake up, put on a suit, and bury himself in a small crisis that demanded his attention. Hopefully, he would be asked to go abroad, and he would avoid the house for a few days until he got over this. 

An irrational idea took root as he brushed his teeth, as he got himself ready for bed, the headache starting to form behind his eyes from the wine. 

A  dog. 

Not a partner or a friend. Just a companion…something that would be alive in the house. Someone who would be happy when he came home. A creature who just needed food and safety. 

He could work from home. A dog would give him an excuse to stay local for work. He could use it to help him get some steps in for the day. 

He scoffed at the thought as he started to floss his teeth. He must be having a mid-life crisis. Dogs were messy and inconvenient. 

It wouldn’t do any harm to look. Research. 

He wasn’t going to get a dog, of course. He would go to a local shelter someday  and he was going to donate. They would need the money and perhaps some supplies to keep them going. It was not like he had anyone to spend his money on. He could easily help them out for a few years. 

 He might as well look at the dogs while he was there doing his good deed. He was going to be there. It would be rude not to.

He’d go tomorrow morning. 

Chapter Text

Mycroft hardly slept that evening. It was not a surprise; he could hardly remember the last time that he had a good night’s sleep, which was not aided by medication, both over-the-counter and prescribed. Years of neglect had taken their toll on him, and he wondered if he was slowing down due to middle age, although the workload had increased as the years passed.   His circadian rhythm was more like a war zone these days.

He blamed the evenings spent buried in paperwork or glued to a laptop screen before he went to bed. The phone calls that would wake him up in the middle of the night, just as he was drifting off to sleep, and he could not sleep once the call was over, his mind often too active to settle. He usually gave up on sleep and dealt with emails on his phone. Perhaps it was the small power naps he took at his desk that caused the lack of sleep, or the endless cups of coffee and tea he had used to fight off sleep.  

He blamed the cans of energy drinks that the interns brought to his desk, with the promise that they would help him ‘power through’ and ‘smash through’  his workload. Against his better judgment, he  had drunk them, though concerned about the artificial flavours and chemicals or that it was a bit common to drink something out of a can decorated with a skull that had the name ‘Blasting Berry Freeze,’   or ‘Strawberry-Watermelon Mayhem.’  He mostly drank them out of desperation in the early hours of the morning to perk himself up for meetings or when he had piles of paperwork to complete before he left the office, as tea was doing nothing to help him.  He justified getting them in the service station or when he was standing by the juice fridge in Tesco, as he bought a meal deal with the productivity burst that he would have after them, and that the fact that they were sugar-free and that there were certainly a lot worse things that he could drink.

Mycroft stared at the ceiling as if it might blink or at least give him the answer on how to get a night's sleep. Night was when his mind truly came alive. There were no distractions.  No meetings and few phone calls, just an endless hum of one's own thoughts. It was not peaceful, but it was familiar. 

 He turned over to his side, the sheets shifting over him, and turned over his pillow so the cool side pressed into his cheek. It had done little to ease the relentless churn of his head and allow him to surrender to sleep. He stretched over and opened up the nightstand and fished out the packet of sleeping tablets. He sighed and closed the drawer again, deciding that he would rather be sharp the next morning instead of drowsy from the medication.  

The memory of Peter came into his head uninvited. Not the man himself, but the odd simplicity of their arrangement. Peter had been his personal trainer when he had a brief health kick several years ago in an attempt to get his life together instead of spiralling when Sherlock was in rehab for the last time.   He had thought that exercise might impose an order in his life as obsessively cleaning and organising his home, stress baking, and yoga, or whatever activities on the websites he had scrolled through in the early hours of the morning had failed to help.  He believed that if he had lost that stubborn stone that refused to leave his body, his life would be together, and he would not be worrying about Sherlock in the early hours of the morning, and somehow, Sherlock would kick the addiction.  His world would feel less fragile. 

He and Peter had breached the client and trainer boundaries after three sessions together.  After a run in St. James Park and an intense cool-down session,  Peter asked if he wanted to take the tube and go to his flat for a drink of water, and within half an hour, Mycroft had found himself buried in Peter’s mattress.  It was not his proudest moment; it was undignified as he was seduced by a man who wore shorts, and while he was wearing running trousers and was sweating like a pig after attempting an ‘easy,’ two-mile run.  Mycroft could not say no to an attractive man who asked him to his flat; it would be rude to say no.   It would become a regular occurrence. Peter stopped charging him for sessions and asked him to the pub, and suddenly they were a couple of sorts. 

They never had much of a relationship discussion; they never had to have one.  It was an arrangement that revolved around sex. It was satisfying and practical.  Peter had someone to bring when he visited his mother and to take to the pub with his friends.  Mycroft’s sex life and his sleep had been the best it had been in years.  He had lost a stone and a half, and he was the fittest he had ever been in his life.    Their relationship or arrangement was good for several years until Peter decided to bring another client home when he thought Mycroft was out of the country.   Peter had moved out the same day.  Mycroft had gladly assisted in throwing his clothes into a big bag and ‘accidentally’  dropping the horrendous glass duck that  Peter’s mother had brought as a moving-in gift.

After Peter and a few other connections with men, Mycroft had given up on men and decided to remain a bachelor.  He missed the sex if he had to be honest with himself. He missed how his mind was able to switch off after a round, and he could sleep.  

Anthea had suggested that he try the apps when she had drunk too much at a work conference, a glamorised piss up if Mycroft had to be honest. She had spent the evening telling him the gossip about her friend’s latest dates on dating apps, slurring her words slightly and speaking too loudly after she had had several glasses of wine and now had started drinking vodka.  She had even offered to sign him up for ‘Elite Singles,’ or ‘The League.’  “You are bound to meet someone there,” Anthea jokes, loud and her words slurring. “I can even do the talking for you. You’ll just need to turn up. It won’t be that different from me doing your emails.”  He had refused, of course. 

On a lonely Thursday evening, after hearing from a pub acquaintance that Peter was getting married,  Mycroft had found himself with a burner phone, a fake profile, and, after several glasses of red wine and enough low self-esteem to drown in,  browsing apps and websites. He did not message any of the men, and instead, amused himself by making deductions about the men from just the headless shirtless images and brief profile descriptions and user names.  He knew that it was unlikely that he was going to find the love of his life from someone who was a shirtless torso and who identified on an app as ‘TheCrusher69, ’ but he had amused himself,  indulging in the comfort of analysis over connection. 

When it became evident that he was not going to get any sleep that evening, Mycroft started researching dogs.  Not that he was planning to get one, of course,  but he thought it was best to perhaps get a few speciality items for the dogs in the shelter.  He was going to make a generous donation as well, but he thought that the dogs would need special foods and toys. 

He had looked at the section for the website for the dogs looking for homes in a moment of curiosity, somewhere between midlife crisis and insomnia. He scrolled with detachment, scanning each profile as if it were paperwork. Labrador. Already reserved. Terriers. Too yappy and too small for his liking. French Bulldogs. Too common as they were popular.  

He tried to imagine each dog in his home, and none of them fit.  The majority of the dogs in the listings looked as if they were keen on chewing objects. The majority of the images of the dogs had at least one of them chewing a toy or a shoe, perhaps a warning to those interested in rehoming.  He stayed clear of the dogs, who were reported to prefer an active home and lifestyle or were noted to be ‘full of personality’, which Mycroft understood to be a polite way of referring to them as disobedient and stupid. 

None of the dogs caught his interest until he came across an image of a red Cocker Spaniel called ‘Sheila.’  It was a strange name for a dog, but Mycroft found himself approving as he was fond of the song ‘Sheila  Take  A Bow,’ and he had recorded that Smiths performance on VHS when it was on the Tube in 1987. The person who named her must have had at least good taste in naming dogs, or at least was an eccentric and following the trend of naming dogs after people. He had come across three dogs called ‘Gary’  and there had been a  ‘Suzy’  and a ‘Judy.’ 

Shelia was two years old, and she was found as a stray on the street. She had been rehomed several times before she ended up in the dog's home once again, unable to settle with the families who rehomed her or she had disagreed with other dogs.  She was described as being ‘spirited but gentle,’  ‘stand offish but loving,’  and that she was ‘fond of routine and would prefer a quiet home. Prefers men. Does not like men with beards.’  She was a dog that had standards; Mycroft could respect that. He did not like beards himself. 

 Though she had been found on the street, Sheila had the dignified air of a duchess who had been forced to live above a betting shop after a period of bad financial decisions.   There was a quiet dignity to her and a weary contempt for the world around her, and perhaps, the person who was photographing her.  He found her rather relatable.  

 Her ears were too long, her coat unkempt,  but her eyes were sharp and judging. She looked as if she would not tolerate nonsense and seemed happy to be left alone to sleep.  Mycroft respected that. She seemed to be the type of dog which would be content to lie by his desk while he worked in his study.  He could easily imagine taking her to the country estate during the weekend and going for long walks.

The Spaniels that he had known were dignified creatures; they liked proper walks, and they were mostly well-behaved and obedient, though with a tendency to roll around in the mud.  If he had a dog, it would be one that was dignified and well-behaved, obedient. It would not be doing anything as co mmon as rolling around in questionable substances. Naturally, being under his care, any dog would be dignified.   

Sheila, he thought, would look very fine in a tweed collar- one that coordinated with his country attire. 

The dog would probably just want a warm place to sleep and good food, and she would probably want to be left alone to sleep.  Mycroft would have a companion waiting for him when he came in from work.  A companion who would probably greet him at the door and walk off to go back to sleep, and only move when she wanted to go out for a walk. It would be a well-suited arrangement. 

He registered his details and his interest in Shelia without thinking about it and put down his phone, and at last finally drifted off to sleep. 

Chapter Text

Mycroft woke up after a few restorative hours of sleep before his alarm for six o’clock, the faint hum of the London traffic already drifting through his slightly open bedroom window. Immediately, his mind started to tick through the tasks that he had for the day. He refreshed his inbox several times in the hopes that someone from the dog’s home had responded to his request to meet  Sheila in the early hours of the morning. 

He quickly dressed in his best suit, deciding that if he was going to meet a potential future companion, first impressions were crucial, particularly when it came to making a good one. It was important that the staff in the dog home saw him as a suitable owner for a dog like Sheila - someone who was capable of providing order, care,  and had enough money to provide a spaniel a luxurious London lifestyle, with all of its comforts and privileges. For a brief moment, he imagined her soft eyes gazing upon him or the thought of her curled up on an armchair while he worked in his home office. He allowed himself to entertain the thought for a few moments as he selected his best tie and cufflinks from the dresser. 

Over a disappointing breakfast consisting of a cup of tea, black as he had forgotten to buy himself milk once again, Mycroft started to contemplate the logistics of dog ownership.  He would have to make the effort to go to the supermarket or at least be better at arranging food deliveries compared to now, where he did not bother keeping much food in the kitchen to prevent it from expiring before he had gotten time to eat it. He would not have just himself to consider these days. A dog would not appreciate being given a cup of tea for a meal if he were too tired to cook himself a meal after being out of work until the early hours of the morning. 

He had contacted Anthea and his various assistants to start reorganising his schedule for Sheila. He did not know for certain if she would be going home with him in the first place, but he had decided that it was best to make preparations for her now.  

He wrote a brisk email instructing Anthea that he would be finishing work or at least returning home at five o’clock every day from the office. He would not be going abroad for work unless it was completely unnecessary, or at least, the dog would be coming with him, or he had someone suitable to cover her care, including a full background check to the same standard as any government staff in his department had. He considered the possibility of evening bringing Sheila to the office. She would be well behaved, and he was certain that she would be on her best behaviour and would not do something as dignified as chase Larry the cat when they went to Downing Street.  He even considered the radical adjustments of working from home or having half days in the office, so he could easily meet Sheila’s fondness for routine. 

Before he sent off the list of adjustments, Mycroft announced that he would be out of the office for several weeks as he was taking annual leave. 

Ten minutes after the email had been sent, his phone rang. It was Anthea.  “Mycroft…is everything alright?” she asked, her voice a mixture of concern and disbelief. “Has something happened to your brother?”

“Good morning, Anthea,” Mycroft says, arching an eyebrow in confusion. “Whatever makes you think such a thing? I think that I would be overdue for some annual leave by now. You have been insisting that I have a work-life balance for several years, my dear.” 

“I have,” Antha says, concerned, still lacing her words. “It’s just that the last time that you asked to take some annual leave or adjust your work arrangements was when your brother…was not..good.”

“I can assure you that I’m fine, my dear,” Mycroft says, allowing the corner of his mouth to twitch up. He ought to arrange a pay rise for Anthea; he never had an assistant who seemed to attune to his habits. She was a friend, the closest one that Mycroft had to one. Her apparent concern for him reassured him that if something were to happen to him, she would perhaps find his body before Sheila decided to eat it.  

There was a pause on the line, and he could hear her frown through the words. “It’s just… You never do this. I was concerned that things were not… alright.”

Mycroft hesitates for a moment, and he sighs. If anyone ought to know his plans before they had come to fruition, it would be Anthea. She would be the one who would have to help him interview possible candidates for dog sitters and run the background checks on them. She would also be the one who would be rearranging his schedule when it came to Sheila. 

“I’m planning to get a dog,” Mycroft said. The corner of his mouth was twitched upwards at his announcement. It felt like he had committed to getting Sheila now that he had said it out loud. “She should hopefully be joining my household in the next few days,s and I wanted to start getting things in motion. I thought that it was best to take some annual leave for the occasion.”

“You’re getting a dog?” Anthea asks him, her tone changing completely from concern to amusement. “You know that dogs make a mess. They are loud. You once told me that you disliked animals, dogs included. Is this a crisis?”

“Sheila is different,” Mycroft said briskly. “She is going to be my dog and  I will obviously like my dog.”

“What type of name is ‘Sheila’?” Anthea asks. “You sound like you are going to adopt a middle-aged woman rather than a dog.”

“I will need you to help clear my schedule for when I take annual leave,” Mycroft says, refusing to dignify Anthea with an answer. “I will be working if possible. I will also be taking Sheila to the office with me to keep an eye on her. “

Mycroft knew that bringing a dog to the office would raise a few eyebrows, but he found himself not caring. He was Mycroft Holmes;  no one could tell him what to do, and he could do what he liked at work.  No one was stupid enough to challenge him or say anything to him.  He felt that having a spaniel in the office would at least make the environment feel more pleasant.  He would have the excuse to leave his desk to take Sheila outside.  

The Prime Minister also had a phobia of dogs, and it would certainly deter him from dropping into his office unannounced.  Mycroft could even train Sheila to growl at him on command if required to deter him even further. It would at least make his day at work more amusing and would prevent any ‘chats’  that the Prime  Minister liked to spring up on him. 

“I’ll arrange the dog maternity leave for you then, Mycroft,” Anthea says, a hint of amusement in her voice. “I suppose that I’ll need to come down for a visit. I’m assuming that I’m going to be godmother to Sheila.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the notion of dog maternity leave or that Anthea was going to be a godmother to his dog, but decided not to acknowledge it. “By all means,” he eventually said with a sigh. “Thank you, Anthea.”

Mycroft set the phone down and allowed himself to imagine Sheila, curled up somewhere nearby. She already seemed to have a small and undeniable presence in his life, though he had not even met her yet. 

Mycroft strode briskly through Battersea Park in an attempt to burn off any nerves. He had The Smiths’ Louder Than Bombs playing through his earbuds in an attempt to soothe his nerves. The song Sheila Take a Bow on replay.   He had found himself with a twisting of his stomach. The feeling was similar to what he supposed people felt as if they were waiting to meet up with someone on a first date. The feeling had settled in his stomach when he received a phone call from Battersea Dogs Home shortly after his phone call with Anthea to arrange a time to meet Sheila. The member of staff, Fiona,  had asked questions about his application.  She seemed thrilled when he had mentioned that he would be working from home and that he planned to take Sheila to work, as she could be like a shadow to the men that she liked. The mention of his large garden and the fact that he had a country estate that he would be visiting on the weekends appeared to be details that Fiona seemed to regard as indicators of an ideal home for Sheila. 

As he walked to the dog home, Mycroft found himself concerned that he had put his eggs in one basket when it came to Sheila. It was all good thinking about her and rearranging his schedule for her, but the dog may not even like him. He may not be suitable for her despite appearing so on the application form.   

Mycroft had found himself so absorbed in his concerns about Sheila that he almost did not notice a familiar figure jogging towards him on the path, waving at him. 

“Morning, Mycroft,” Greg called out, slowing to a stop. He was in running gear, including tight trousers that made Mycroft forcibly keep his eyes on Greg’s forehead to stop them drifting.  “I didn’t expect to see you this morning. Not in this part of London anyway. How are things going?”

“I thought that I would go for a walk,” Mycroft said rather lamely, unsure what he was saying.  “It is good practice for when I get a dog.”

“You’re getting a dog?” Greg asked, surprised. “When are you planning to do that? I wouldn’t put you down as a dog person. Wouldn’t it be a bit hard with your work schedule?” 

“I’ve rearranged my schedule for the occasion,” Mycroft said. “I am going to be staying more…local these days. I should be working at home more often. That is what I’m intending to do, so at least.”

“So what type of dog are you planning to get?” Greg asked. “I’m assuming that it will be something posh. A poodle or something exotic?”

“There is a cocker spaniel that I’m going to meet,” Mycroft said. “Sheila.”

“Sheila?” Greg asked. “What type of name for a dog is that? It’s very middle-aged. I’ve got an auntie called Sheila. “

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards despite his grimace. He had the feeling that this would be a common thing that people were going to say to him, and it was already getting tedious. 

“I love spaniels,” Greg said. “I had a spaniel when I was a kid, my grandparents did, but she was my dog. She was a cocker as well, Maggie. Absolutely bonkers, and her ears were just decorative. Spaniels tend to have the habit of rolling around in fox poo or anything smelly. Maggie did at least.”

“Sheila would not be doing anything of the sort,” Mycroff said briskly, nose wrinkling at the thought of having to deal with the unpleasantness of washing a dog that had rolled in muck. “She is going to be well-behaved. “

“Good luck with that, mate,” Greg said, barking out a laugh. “I think that even you would have a hard time getting a spaniel to behave for you. I wouldn’t have traded Maggie in for the world, but she was a nuisance. Smart when she wanted to be, but incredibly thick.”

“Any dog that I will have will be the opposite of that,” Mycroft said.  “My dog is going to be well-behaved.”

The phrase ‘My Dog’ slipped out of his lips with ease. He felt as if he had officially committed to Sheila now, regardless if she liked him or not. He had spoken about her to two people and it had surely cemented their expectations that he was to get a dog. There was no turning back now. Greg would surely be expecting to see him in the park walking her, perhaps even looking out for him when he went jogging. 

“I’ll need to see her once you’ve got her,” Greg says, checking his watch. “I’ll need to run as I need to get ready for work, but it was good seeing you, mate. Let me know how things go when it comes to your dog, and I should see you out with her soon. See you around!”

Greg leaves before Mycroft can say anything, giving him a friendly wave. Mycroft stands on the pavement, keeping his eyes on Greg’s back to stop his eyes from drifting down and looking at his behind in those tight running trousers.

For a moment, Mycroft stood on the path watching him run. The words  My dog hung in the air like an echo. It had sounded too real, even though he had not met Sheila yet. He felt something in his chest. Tight and unfamiliar.

Anticipation as if his life was to change, or perhaps it was due to the indecent fit of Greg’s running trousers.

Either way, he was in trouble.