Description: Two and half (give or take) years after "Sullen" : Isabelle Long is once again found upon the old park bench with nothing to do but feel lost and alone. Both caught in the pouring rain, "Michael" comes to her aid with his umbrella and problems of his own that he isn't sharing. They offer comfort towards each other as best they can...for socially inept teenagers. (Pre- MycroftxOC)

Isabelle Long ran past suburban houses at a startling speed, her long legs carrying her across concrete walkways as well as patches of crunchy brown grass.

Her lungs ached, but she daren't stop until she arrived at her destination: the old park.
Isabelle hadn't been there in nearly a year, her sisters had outgrown it and thus she had to as well. While she hadn't done much actual playing on the monkey bars or the swing sets, she'd done a lot of sitting and thinking on the wooden benches. Swinging her legs and enjoying the cool day, a breeze gently blowing her hair away from her shoulders.
Now it was an escape. Likely a short lived one, but it would serve.

She made her way across the barren stretch of dying grass and passed leafless trees until she found the wide mass of slightly damp woodchips, as well as the wooden bench she often occupied not far from it.
Slumping down onto the damp wood, she pressed her face against her hands. How much longer could this go on? She wondered despairingly to herself. How much could she take before she snapped?

Of course, as soon as this crossed her mind, a big, cold, drop of water fell from the sky.

Isabelle curled her fingers beneath her palm, trying not to shudder as the raindrop rolled down her forehead and dripped off her small nose.
Several more followed until it was practically pouring. Isabelle felt cold down to her very bones, but didn't move. Instead she did something more important: She cried.
Hot tears combated the rain, stinging Isabelle's eyes. She allowed herself to sob loudly with big gasping breaths; no one could possibly hear her. Every so often she was forced to wipe her nose with her wet sleeve, both the cold air and her upset working together against her.
"'ts not fair," she sniffled pathetically, "not fair!"

This went on for a long time, until she eventually realized that the rain had suddenly stopped touching her. Her heart caught in her throat, and she turned her gaze slowly upon whatever was keeping her semi-dry. A large black umbrella was held open above her head. A pale, long fingered hand held the handle of the offending object with a certain delicacy. She followed the arm to see a very familiar teenager standing just behind her.
Sullen tee-er- Michael hadn't changed in the three years since she'd seen him, tall and pale with well combed dark brown hair and a long (rather impressive) nose. Isabelle noted that he'd lost a little some weight around the edges, as well as gained some height (she hadn't believed it possible). His nose, cheeks, and ears were slightly pink, and he was-at this point-entirely soaked having offered his cover to her.
Michael turned his grey eyes on her, a smile barely formed at the corners of his usually grimly set mouth.
Isabelle brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, embarrassedly staring at the ground in front of her for an extended stretch of time, "Thank you," she muttered.
"You're welcome," he replied, just as quiet.

A moment of silence followed this, broken only by the ceaseless pattering of rain against the black canopy of Michael's umbrella.
Isabelle bit her bottom lip; sliding across the slippery bench to give enough space for the young man to seat himself. Michael raised an eyebrow briefly in disbelief before he accepted her silent offer and he moved in beside her.
The two took up each half of the umbrella, which meant sitting closer than either of them really felt comfortable. Isabelle could feel the heat of his arm working with hers, which was pleasant up until one of them moved and the warm water collected in their sleeves met cold air again.

Isabelle wasn't sure how to progress now that they were sitting with each other. On the one hand, she did feel better having gotten out a good cry. On the other, Michael had seen her do it. Why was he there? How long had he been protecting her from the foul weather?
"Is there any point in asking just what has gotten you so upset?" he spoke, interrupting her thoughts.
"No," Isabelle shot back quickly, fiddling with a sopping lock of chestnut hair.
Michael's long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, giving her full view of his well shined shoes and black pants-speckled by rain.
"Very well," he replied, clearly pleased with the prospect of neither fully broaching the subject- rather he had asked just to be polite.
Isabelle couldn't help but huff petulantly, having secretly hoped that he would have tried a little harder.

"And uh, w-why are you here?" she finally settled on asking, tilting her head to look at him properly. She'd gone through a growths spurt recently which had already exceeded the height of her sisters (who were five years older than she was). Last she'd seen Michael she had to look up at him just to talk properly.
"I didn't come here to cry, if that's what you're thinking," he answered patronizingly.
Isabelle felt slightly affronted by this, "I didn't come here to cry either, it just sorta turned out that way!" she snapped, bobbing her knee up and down in agitation.
The teenager raised a placating hand, though he offered no verbal apology.
"I came here to think," he began, "I should have realized that it was going to rain, besides the obvious cloud cover it is just my luck," his expression soured.
Isabelle was gratified to find his feelings on the stupid storm to be just about the same, "Mine too," she said, "But I guess I don't mind too much. It was cold anyways."
"Ah yes, dressing warm, an accidental precautionary measure towards incoming rain," he commented blandly.
The response felt a little pretentious, but the young girl let it slide past her consciousness for the sake of her sanity if nothing else. She let her hair fall between her fingers, watching the little droplets form and fall off the split ends.

Isabelle swallowed thickly, "D-do you think it'll stop soon?" she asked, cursing her inability to talk to another human being properly. Michael shrugged listlessly, "Unlikely."
The silence that followed seemed to drag on endlessly. Isabelle felt lost, if not a little bit comforted by Michael's presence. It was unusual to be relaxed around what was basically a stranger. She had a hard time with the people she knew in school. Most of them ignored her thankfully, or had no idea she even existed. Not even the teachers acknowledged her raised hand during class.
Decidedly she shifted so that she was better facing her companion, "We're moving." She said firmly, "To London. My Mum just gave us the news 'bout an hour ago."
Michael turned to look at her, meeting her hazel eyes with his grey ones, "I'm sorry."
She scoffed, "That's what she said, but she didn't mean it- I mean, why would she?" she gestured with both hands. He hummed a single note, turning to face the playground yet again. Isabelle was aware that tears had formed ready to roll down her pale face, it was frustrating.
"I might prefer London," Michael mused, which earned him a glare so he reiterated, "Of course, I do not represent the mass populace."
"No," she grumbled.
Michael reached into his heavy woolen coat and removed a blood red handkerchief which he offered to her. Isabelle accepted it without hesitation and blew her nose into it. She was aware that this probably hadn't been his first intention, but to his credit he retained a blank sort of smile in the face of it.
She used the remaining stretch of cloth to wipe at her wet face, before she offered it back to him. The teenagers face finally did change when his over-large nose wrinkled at the base. He accepted the kerchief with his pointer finger and thumb, lowering it onto his thigh so that he could properly fold it with his free hand.

"Is there a specific reason beyond change, for your family to move so far away?" he inquired in an overly polite tone, he didn't want to ask but he felt obligated to do so- just as he had earlier.
Isabelle chewed at her bottom lip, "It's um…it's my mum," she breathed, ready to burst into hideous weeping at any moment, "she's ill, and we have to move to London to get at a better Hospital. Cancer, she didn't say which kind. I don't think I want to know."
A crease formed between his eyebrows, "I see."
"It's ok though, I'm uh, I'm used to it I guess. I just wish… I wish it wasn't all happening all at once you know?" she kicked out one of her legs, her foot making a loud squelch when it connected with the ground. As soon as Maria and Gloria had found out, they quickly began their attack on Isabelle -shrieking in excitement in between the barrage. They loved the idea of moving to a heavily populated city, but oh dear poor Izzy was going to have such a hard time in a new school with no good-looks to give her a helping hand.
Michael fingered the edge of the handkerchief idly, not saying anything. Isabelle eyed him, wishing she hadn't said anything. If the rain hadn't been falling so harshly she might have considered getting up and leaving. Returning home before her mother realized she was gone.
The last time Isabelle and Michael had met, the three (that is, including Sherlock) had discussed how to properly poison chocolate-now their interaction was stilted and uncomfortable because it was serious.

It occurred to Isabelle rather suddenly that she'd brought chocolate with her! Or rather, she'd put it in her coat a week ago in case she got hungry whilst watching her crush (Todd Cooper) play football. It had been freezing that day too.
Without thought she extracted it from her pocket and split it in half still in the wrapper. The crunch of foil and paper as well as the snack splitting neatly at the middle garnered the attention of her bench companion.
She offered him slightly bigger half, which he regarded with some trepidation.
"I didn't poison it," she joked, managing a crooked grin. He returned it, "No...There's no caramel filling," this got a laugh out of her, "I just," he paused, "I'm trying to avoid sugar at present."
Isabelle blinked, "That's ridiculous, why would you do that?" being naturally thin (some might say too much so) she didn't have a good grasp on the concept.
At this he laughed a genuine (as in, genuinely odd) sort of breathy chuckle that Isabelle remembered from their first meeting.
"It is, and it isn't," he conceded with a tilt of his head, "I would prefer not to be quite as abundant as I am, grasso if you will. But if it will make you feel better-" Isabelle dropped his half of the chocolate into his then outstretched hand.
Michael fingered it for a moment before sighed resignedly and peeling off the wrapper biting into a corner.
Isabelle, appeased, began sucking on her piece letting it slowly melt on her tongue.

"How's your brother?" inquired the girl, her voice thick with chocolate. Michael raised an eyebrow, "Exasperating, aggravating, annoying, bothersome, and any other collection of synonyms."
Isabelle took this in, "So not changed since the last time I saw him…ok."
He did grin at this, "Not at all. And I do believe he's gotten worse."

"You didn't really say why you were here. Without your brother so it's not to make friends. What were you uh, thinking about?" she continued her line of questioning, because there was little else. For a moment she considered asking about alien invasion or how to poison a birthday cake without killing everyone-only the person you wanted to kill. But none of those things fit her mood, and the truly sullen attitude of the man sitting next to her.
Michael snorted, letting the chocolate fall between his fingers, the cold air keeping it from immediately melting against his skin.
"Regular things. People, University, family, sugar," he shot her a smile, "Mostly what I plan on doing next. I've been rather…out of place, as of late," he cleared his throat, absently tugging at his ill-fitting waistcoat, the sweet tucked against his palm.
His grip shifted upon the handle of the umbrella- She'd nearly forgotten that he'd been holding it up the whole time.
"I don't think anyone feels in place until they're adults," the young teenager mused quietly. She had the benefit of not believing that she was anywhere near adulthood just yet-much unlike a lot of her classmates.
"I suppose not," he sighed, "that hardly makes it easy. Of course, nothing worth having or doing should ever be easy."
"Shouldn't it?" Isabelle shot back, balling one hand into a fist atop her thigh, "I guess not everything should be, but if it's important than maybe just once or twice you could be cut some slack."
"It's best to work for something rather than to have it handed to you on a silver platter," he countered.
Isabelle shook her head, "I'm not saying that, I just… W-why can't people get better without all this trouble you know?"
"Life would be worthless," he said, clearly uncomfortable with her emotional response, "People must suffer and die, it's the way of things."

Startled by his frank response, Isabelle shoved herself away from him-not far enough to be completely in the rain of course- crossing her arms across her flat chest, "I know it's the way of things, but you don't have to treat it like it's so inevitable," she mumbled.
Michael clicked his tongue disapprovingly, making no move to console her beyond what he said next, "I didn't say that inevitability meant any less pain. I'm sorry, I'm not very comforting am I?"
Isabelle shook her head, smiling despite herself, "Not really, but that's ok. If it was reversed I'd be terrible at it too. Maybe not as terrible as you," she broke off laughing, which he returned less enthusiastically.
Isabelle shoved a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear, deciding that that the best option was to redirect the conversation.

"So uh, why do you feel out of place?"

Isabelle nearly yelped when Michael stood up suddenly, rain pelting her yet again. He looked somewhat irate, either at himself or at her, his mouth a grim line. She was certainly mad at herself for causing such a reaction, but all she cared about at that moment was avoiding the rain! She quickly followed his hurried steps away from her. Michael only stopped when he realized this, he turned towards her and extended his hand so that she was covered yet again, "My apologies, I should have warned you," he actually blushed at her.
"I-I just wanted to say goodbye," she lied, clutching her arms and feeling the horrible tenseness of her shoulders, "…Bye."
"For the last time," he inclined his head in a mock bow, "Goodbye, and good luck with London."
The umbrella was shoved unceremoniously into her hand, and Isabelle watched Michael Holmes walked away through the dark haze of the storm. Her eyes stung again with unshed tears, her only real friend (was he even that?) leaving her-never to cross her path again.
But thinking on it, the last time she'd seen him, she'd felt the same thing. So maybe, just maybe, they'd meet once more.

Fat freaking chance!

"What the hell were you doing?!"

"Eloquent as always Dear Brother, if only mummy were here to hear you curse like that. As to what I was doing, I should think it obvious," Mycroft replied tersely, wanting dearly to have a hot shower followed by a bowl of steaming soup, a good book, and a few motionless hours spent in his favorite armchair-perfection.
Sherlock's brow furrowed, "Right," he rumbled, "You saw your girlfriend again," one side of his mouth opened into a half smile.
"She is thirteen years old Sherlock, calling her my girlfriend is an insult to both of us," the elder huffed, removing his coat and kicking off his shoes next to the kitchen door.
Sherlock didn't respond to this, merely rolled his eyes. Mycroft figured that his brother must have been incredibly bored to give even half a care towards this conversation. Frankly he was amazed that Sherlock remembered…what was her name? Izzy-something or other.
Either way, he wouldn't be seeing her again. She was moving to London and would probably move several more times before he ever reached it.
Sherlock shrugged carelessly, leaning against the doorjamb, "Whatever you talked about it was obviously tedious… Oh, and just so you know," the younger Holmes glanced down at poorly trimmed fingernails, "You have chocolate around your mouth."
Mycroft's hand flew up out of instinct rather than rational thought- Sherlock was lying of course, punctuated by his low toned laughter as he left the room.

Damn.

Cursing a few more times in his head, Mycroft started on his way to the shower- deftly avoiding the living room for fear his parents had returned early.
His hand fell into his pocket where he removed the disgusting (if not perfectly folded) handkerchief and he sighed morosely.
She was a minuscule, mindless, thirteen year old girl that didn't deserve a second thought (or rather, third or fourth at this point). So to the best of his ability… he didn't. Isabelle left his mind, replaced by a need to carry on.

*Edited.

Kinda short, but I hope you liked it. I also hope I'm not just repeating myself with these Isabelle related fics.
Chances are Mycroft would at least vaguely remember Isabelle if he met her twice…. Let's pretend Sherlock hit him over the head with a mallet giving him selective amnesia! XD

Of course, please, please, please, leave a review! (I said please three times, you obviously have to do it now. Lol) I'm totally open to constructive criticism (pointing out typos, OOC'nes, etc. etc.)

Thanks for reading!