AN: Introducing a very slow start of the pandemic, I didn't give it a name, obviously it's inspired by the Corona-pandemic, but please, best imagine everything related to it as an AU-pandemic, and don't expect me to follow the exact timeline or policies during this real pandemic, as I'm trying to keep real-life politics out of this.

There will be a lockdown at some point, but merely as a background for the story in order to explore what a person like Mycroft - who is used to being alone - would behave like, how or if at all it would affect him and such

Chapter 5

Bahia Blanca

Mycroft

The fifth week of his punishment had flown by really fast, Mycroft thought as he was sitting in the back of his car, staring thoughtfully out of the window, with Anthea next to him, yet again typing wildly some mysterious notes or messages into her phone. He made a mental note to speak to her about it, or rather – to make his own deductions first and then to take action if necessary (which was always preferable to an awkward conversation with a staff – that would only be his last resort). Yet not tonight, he wasn't going to let this taint his evening even more, as he had the distinct feeling he wasn't going to like it.

It has been a peculiar and busy week, workwise at least, like it hasn't been in a while for him.

Things had been different after Eurus. He was, of course, still working on a full salary and had kept his – as he used to put it - minor position in the government. But when pre-Eurus he would have been begged on a daily basis to take care of a minor domestic issue here or solve an international crisis there, post-Eurus he has been under the impression that they were now rather paying him to stay away, that it was now more of a pension of sorts.

And he stopped counting the times when he would now hear the phrase that he deserved to be appreciated because it was always followed by the suggestion that he now enjoy a well-earned leave. Also, he had been getting prizes, accolades while attending benefits, yet he was certain it wasn't because of his achievements, no. He felt that they were rather send-offs to an early retirement, almost like an encouragement for him to leave the stage. Has he become unreliable? Did they no longer trust his judgment?

There were many signs that they didn't.

Sure, there still were instances where he would be consulted and asked for assistance, but to be honest, assistance and consulting weren't really his M.O., he found those terms rather insulting. It made him feel so… optional. He wasn't a consultant, not really. And though he never was one seeking public acknowledgment or praise, he still rather saw himself as a solver, the one pulling the strings, not one of the strings.

There was talk about a new virus spreading from Asia, it was too early yet to tell where it was headed and how much it was going to affect Europe and Britain in particular. Still, in the earlier days he would have been involved, even if only consulted, even if epidemic and healthcare issues weren't necessarily his area of expertise. This was different though as it also touched on international relations, specifically with a major foreign player being the assumed source of the epidemic, with whom Britain already had a strained and delicate relationship. But he had been mostly kept at bay. However, that didn't deter him from doing his own research and trying to gather as much intelligence as he could and prepare for the eventuality when they would (and they eventually would, of that he was certain) decide to include him.

The car stopping in front of the dancing school and his chauffeur opening the door for him brought him out of his thoughts. He got out of the car, but before closing the door he leant inside and said to his assistant:

"This time, don't be late."

My, my, the world IS all upside down tonight, he thought when he spotted his dancing partner Louise, who contrary to all her previous late appearances was now clad in her dancing shoes already and talking to one of the other attendees despite the fact that the class wouldn't start for another five minutes.

Without realizing it slightly improved his mood. He gave a short nod and one of his signature forceful smiles when she noticed him enter the class.

The class was emptier than usual, Mycroft wondered if this was already due to the slowly spreading news about the new virus. Possibly, on the other hand, there had only been few cases in Britain so far, no. It was much more likely that it had to do with the bank holiday on Monday following the weekend, so that a lot of people who had family or friends scattered across the island would have already left London either for the country or even – depending on their finances and their environmental attitude – taken a flight abroad to spend the prolonged weekend somewhere far away from the cold, rainy and inhospitable sky of late winter Britain. Why Louise, a music teacher on a pitiful college salary couldn't undertake the latter was obvious. That she didn't leave even for the countryside (as Mycroft referred to the rest of the country outside London) strongly suggested that she had no relations she could visit, or at least none that she would care for. The lawyer, Friederike, however, wasn't so simple. Yet, Mycroft spent three seconds sizing up her attire and her leather briefcase along with a small trolley in which he assumed she was carrying all her case files. Attached to it was a black garment bag which no doubt carried her barrister gown. So her staying in London was owing to a case and not necessarily to a lack of means or want.

The elderly Italian couple was missing, probably visiting their grandchildren. Olaf hasn't come either, and neither has Paolo. The teaching was up to the female instructor tonight.

It was hard to determine the exact reason, but Mycroft felt slightly more relaxed tonight. Or rather – less morose than usually. It was out of the question that his resentment could have turned into anticipation. But at least, he was at peace with this current fate, he has come to terms with it and has somewhat reconciled with the idea that this was where he would be spending his coming Friday nights, for a few more weeks that is. And he smiled to himself noticing Louise yet again confusing left and right as Isabella began the first warm-up exercise.

The element to learn today was the barida. Mycroft found himself mildly disappointed that they wouldn't continue with the milonga from last week, but rather returned back to dancing the more graceful, yet stiff tango. On the other hand, baridas at least – unlike the last figure they had been training – were an element for the leader to perform. It wasn't difficult, it basically meant that he would sweep the follower's foot by briefly dragging it along the floor. It had something rather cheeky to it when he thought about it. Far from being able to admit to it – he was actually enjoying himself. Quite unlike his counterpart, he noticed with some astonishment and irritation.

He observed her for a few seconds. Her eyes were as usually fixed on his tie, but the look in them, on any other night so utterly focused and clear, was now blank and dazed. For some strange reason it was aggravating him more than it should. Her dancing too was not up to its usual high standard. She missed several clues on his part and her steps, usually so graceful and elegant, were now reluctant and almost erratic at times. But since he wasn't his brother, he would not consider dispraising her for it out loud. What would annoy him even more though was her constant apologizing. After every single misstep she would frantically shake her head and mutter "sorry". It was as if she had forgotten she had said it just seconds away, it felt like a recurring nightmare or Groundhog Day.

The whole thing was irksome for two reasons: First was the absence of the usual flow in their dancing, something he had always despised. At a ballroom dance he would often find himself dancing with politicians or their wives whose dancing skills were lacking, to say the least. It had always cost him greatest forbearance not to turn them down but instead to stoop down to their level and to adapt his dancing accordingly, because the stakes on such events were usually very high. Here on the other hand there was nothing to be gained and he had managed to suffer in silence throughout the course of this class only because his partner was tolerable enough a dancer.

And second, he was irritated that he couldn't determine the reason for her appalling moves tonight. He could collect all sorts of clues that something was wrong, but couldn't draw any conclusion as to the cause.

And, there was a third: it irritated him that it irritated him. Because it shouldn't. He didn't as a rule care about other people and their little insecurities. The profanity of their problems he always found nauseating. And yet now he really would have wanted to know.

Why? Why did it matter? But he didn't dwell on it any further. After a second he dismissed any idea other than that his concern was purely self-serving – he really only loathed how it was hindering their performance.

He briefly considered changing partners – the tall lawyer was without a counterpart and currently either dancing with the female teacher or practicing some steps on her own on the barre in front of the mirror.

But, in the end he decided to construe his onerous situation as something of a challenge, and so embarked on a little experiment in order to bring the music teacher up to speed and focus so he could finally get back to dancing the baridas. For the time being he abandoned the new element entirely and with the next tango song he began to lead simple steps forward and backward, then added sidestep, and a rebound here and an ocho there, but nothing more fancy for now. When in the next tango he noticed her steps becoming more firm, he would after an ocho slip his right arm further across her back and lead her to do a calesita. He did not care much for that particular figure, but he remembered well that she had very much enjoyed them three weeks ago, so he was confident that they would help install her back into a dancing level he wanted her at.

And he was right. He was really good. He mentally congratulated himself when during the fourth tango they managed to dance without a single disruption. He observed the look in her eyes getting softer and more relaxed while at the same time her grip in his left hand and her elbow finally achieved the level of tension so crucial for a stable frame. Also, he noted that the frown on her forehead had disappeared. During the fifth one he carefully again introduced her to the baridas they were supposed to practice: as if someone had turned on another switch on her – she was finally working the way he had expected her to. Towards the end of the class, he rightfully felt very smug for having repaired her and being able to enjoy a few more dances on top of it.

As far as his imposed tango evenings went, this was a good one, he thought when he walked out of the dancing school with an unusual bounce to his step.

His good spirits, however, weren't meant to last.

Once again – was it the third or the fourth time by now? It certainly was the second time this week – Anthea and his car were nowhere to be seen. He gave the pavement an angry tap with the point of his umbrella before pulling his mobile out of the inside pocket of his coat.

"Where. Is. The. Car?" He spoke into his phone, not loud, not in a whisper, but in a voice he knew would make his assistant worry. Or at least it used to. Now he wasn't so sure.

He heard her murmur some short apologies, but wouldn't let her finish and said: "Well, it better be here. Now."

Louise

Louise was riding through the streets of Bloomsbury on her old bicycle. It was winter, so it got dark very early, but she had always enjoyed riding in the dark. It made her more aware of her other senses. At this time of day the streets were getting quieter, so one could catch the sound of birds in the Malet Street Gardens or perceive the sweet smell of hollies when passing by Russell Square.

But tonight none of this had an effect on her. She was desperately lost in thoughts, or rather – despair. It was silly, really. She knew it was just stupid lack of self-esteem…

Half an hour ago, her and two of her co-players from their ensemble had left the meeting at the recording studio where they had discussed the contract and the conditions of their new, their first recording. It was something they had all been waiting for for a really long time. It had promised to be a huge career jump for a lot of them, a chance to get noticed by a far wider audience than they could ever expect by giving small chamber performances here and there.

After their concert at the Purcell Room few weeks ago they were all very hopeful, and it was understood that for the recording they would do those same pieces they had performed in that said concert, and yes, maybe add one small thing to spice it up a bit. Yet clearly the recording studio had a slightly different idea in mind.

They were asked to perform and record a newly discovered or – to be exact – a very recently reconstructed draft of a concerto for flute and basso continuo by Telemann. The score had been discovered only few weeks ago during the liquidation of an old house in the German town of Leipzig and quickly – and quite correctly as it seemed – attributed to the baroque composer. Several groups of academics and musicians had since taken it upon themselves to try and reconstruct and also adapt the score for an ensemble that would seem contemporary. And now the race began as to who would dare a first attempt to record it and/or perform it on a stage.

Louise and her colleagues were conflicted. They were aware of the vast opportunity they had been presented with. Their ensemble Favete linguis (it still made her feel a bit dorky when she saw the name on a poster) was still a neophyte on the scene of baroque ensembles. The fact that the studio had picked them for this challenge was a huge compliment. Still, she felt that challenge was the operational word here rather than anything else. And maybe responsibility. And maybe hubris. And definitely impossibleness – if that were a word. And horror. And panic…. Deep breaths! Listen to the birds, smell the hollies!

In this mental state she reached the dancing school, amazingly - on time. Absently she locked up her bicycle and walked up the few steps towards the swinging door, her mind kept returning to the recording contract.

They did not have time to discuss it among themselves afterwards, as both her co-players Emily and Lars were in a hurry to catch a train – it was a holiday weekend after all. Apparently she was the only one with no plans, she sighed with just a hint of bitterness. Yet, when she entered the classroom to her joy she found Fred sitting on the bench, slightly bent over and putting on her dancing shoes. That improved her mood a little. Fred managed to distract her, if only for a moment, by talking about her current case until Isabella arrived and the warm-up began.

She had troubles concentrating on any exercise. She tried to keep up and focus on Isabella's instructions, but she would only manage it for a minute when the thing at the back of her mind caught up with her.

"Shall we?" She heard the familiar question spoken in front of her and where she had been staring on the floor suddenly appeared a pair of black and white perfectly polished gentleman's dancing shoes. She raised her head, gave him a weak smile and hesitantly took his hand.

She hated this state of mind – an unresolved issue that, however, she could do nothing about for the time being, except worrying and panicking and painting up scenarios where they would practice and record and epically fail and it would all be because of her and everyone would discover after all that she was a flute-fraud and only managed to pretend she could play and deceive everyone for so long… Oops…

"Sorry," she muttered as she took the wrong turn on an ocho. She took a deep breath and tried again. What were they supposed to practice again?

She was certain she would spoil it for everyone in the ensemble and then they would all go down, die in poverty, after having been degraded to pauper street musicians playing on the tube, or in dreary London parks, getting pooed on by pigeons, or fighting for a good spot with the raggedy grey-haired accordion player…

"Oh, sorry." She must have missed a clue, because she had no idea what he was doing, trying to gently sweep her foot with his along the floor… weird… Oh wait, was that the thing they should learn? A barrista, or something like that?

… and Lisa could never pay off the mortgage on her house, Lars and Emily would never get their dream-wedding, and László would surely lose his other job and would get deported back to his home country and it would all be her fault… Enter full panic-mode…

She suddenly felt his grip on her waist firm up a little, and at the same time the long fingers of his left hand wrapped around her right more tightly. He raised their hands a little, and she knew she must have again slumped her elbow – she often did when she wasn't entirely focused.

She tried again to push the – in big parts merely imagined – crisis out of her head and to admire the delicate flower print on his blue tie instead. He was as always immaculately dressed in a grey suit, with a waistcoat, only this time he had decided to take off the jacket. She wondered briefly if this was a sign that he was feeling a little more comfortable after five weeks.

She focused on the white blossoms on his tie, trying to figure out what flower or tree they were supposed to be, but she was rubbish when it came to botany. Still, it was soothing, and so was his calm, but firm lead, she had to admit once she finally gave herself into it and managed to leave the problems of the day behind. He really was a good dancer.

Once she finally paid attention, she knew exactly what he wanted, what steps he was leading and at which point he was giving her an opportunity for an embellishment of her own. And she even enjoyed the new element, the "sweep" of her foot forced by his, there was something slightly naughty to it, and it conveyed the impression of an increased level of intimacy, not unlike the calesitas they did a few weeks ago, but with a slightly cheekier note to it. It felt like one wouldn't dare to dance it with a complete stranger, and yet – it didn't feel strange at all with him.

The last few tangos were over too soon, she thought when they walked off to the bench to collect their things.

"Are we going tonight?" Fred asked her on the way out.

"Sure, I don't see why not," Louise replied without raising her eyes from her shoes. Once again the clasps were unyielding.

"Great, meet you there? Or are you on foot? Should I wait, give you a lift?"

"You go on, I'll collect my bike and see you there. Is anyone else coming?" She wondered as the class had been rarely empty tonight, apart from Fred there had only been Rebecca with her husband Ian and the young couple whose names she didn't know as they mostly kept to themselves.

"Don't know," Fred shrugged, gave her a short wave and hurried off to her car. To find a parking spot near Tango Garden was always a challenge.

As usual, Louise was the last person to leave the classroom. She collected her things, turned off the lights and walked out. Once outside she was rummaging in her backpack for the keys to her lock, when a quiet voice caught her attention. She didn't quite hear what it said – something about a car – but she recognized it all the same, the clarity and the softness that had again, just like the first time she heard it, reminded her of the felt in a grand piano ending each clear tone on a softer note than expected.

She briefly admired his sleek, dark silhouette standing on the pavement, the tip of his long umbrella glistening, the dark overcoat with half raised collar perfectly fitting his slender body…

Cling… clong…

The found keys of her bike lock fell to the ground with what sounded like a bang in the death silence of the street.

He turned around, not abruptly, nor scared, with merely raised eyebrows.

"Sorry," she murmured as she knelt down to pick up the keys.

Did she imagine it or did he gave a short exasperated sigh?

"Do you want to come?" She blurted out the second she got up again. Where did that come from?

"I'm sorry?" He looked at her with a frown.

"Ehm, the milonga, at Tango Garden? I thought perhaps you'd want to… dance… some more…" Behold the eloquent invite...

She wished herself far away and was certain he was going to refuse when she saw him open his mouth. Yet to her surprise and – so was her impression at least – his as well, instead of rejecting right away he threw a glance towards the far end of the street, then at the tip of his umbrella, then said with a short sigh: "Alright".

AN: So, I think it's obvious that Mycroft only agreed to come to annoy Anthea and let her wait, right? :D

Anyway, thank you for reading so far, please, leave a review, on anything you like, or don't like, or find weird. I spent a lot of time pondering how Mycroft's work would have changed after The Final Problem, haven't quite figured it out, so I appreciate any input, thoughts, comments, ideas.