Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any character there in. Arthur Conan Doyle had that most glorious privilege. And apparently so does Warner Brothers and Village Road Show.

Author's note (I know, I usually put those at the bottom of the page): Building the Tower Bridge over the Thames began in 1886 and took eight years to complete. The date on the news paper at the beginning of the movie looked like it ended in a zero. Since the bridge's construction looked to be nearly complete but not entirely I am thus making the year 1891. This story is set after the events of the movie.

Mycroft's estate is just outside Chichester. To suit my story the town is a fair sized village with some farm land in the area.

Character drama. Not a case.

The character's name is Naoi. Not Naomi. Please do not assume I'm spelling it wrong. Her name is spelled correctly.

For updates on other stories and/or old ones please visit my Author's page to view my twitter account.

TruthnChaos

February 9, 1891

The carriage hit another bump or hole – I can never tell the two apart – in the ground bouncing me out of my seat once more. I grabbed at the seat with gloved fingers attempting to hold on for dear life. My fiancé, my husband-to-be, is barely moved by the jostling. Perhaps it is his weight that gives him the ability to remain stationary through the pock marked streets of London. Mycroft is a portly man, wide around the middle with a drawn face and dark brown eyes that while quick, remain bored unless they are stationed on me.

Which they are. He watched me with amusement, mouth quirked at one corner, "You were the one that wanted to meet him."

I glowered at him because he was right. This is my own fault.

I am the one that insisted that I meet his brother before we married. Said brother had not, or would not reply to the ten or so letters and telegrams that Mycroft sent over the two months that we had been engaged. Out of the blue my husband-to-be informed me that we would be sojourning to London to seek out his younger brother so that I might meet the man. While the train ride from Chichester had been pleasant enough, this carriage ride from the train station was nothing more than torture.

My bottom would be bruised and sore for days upon days at this rate. I wanted to ask the driver once again how far it would be but the last time I had asked the man had afforded me a baleful glance. Instead I settled for adjusting the burnished copper curls that had escaped from the wonderful hat Mycroft had insisted on giving me as a present. I wondered if it was a gift that would impress upon my fiancé's brother the true fondness he had for me. Or if it was to give Mycroft's brother the impression that I came from money.

Which I did not.

It had taken Mycroft a very long time to convince me that I was not an idle fancy of his before I agreed to marry him. I was the daughter of a farmer whose land bordered that of Mycroft's. As my future husband told me he had known my father and my mother for years but he had only known of me. I was the wild creature that rode horses near his land and fished in the stream that bordered his estate and my parent's farm. He had seen me from afar but never, until the day we were engaged, had he seen me up close.

I would not say that I loved Mycroft. He was a polite man (at least to me) but one that was easily lazy and grew bored quickly. I was the only person – save his younger brother – that seemed to amuse him for longer than a few moments. When he had proposed to marry me my parents had readily accepted on my behalf. What they saw was a government official who owned a large country estate. Who had enough money to take care of their child for the rest of my life. What I saw was a man more than twenty years my senior who could not ride a horse let alone be bothered to leave his home.

As I said it took Mycroft a number of months to bring me around to the knowledge that he did indeed have honorable intentions toward me. While we had been engaged to be married since the previous fall, I consented to marry him just after the New Year began. I could not hope to make a better match than this. He was agreeable enough and despite the fact that I did not love him, I had grown fond of Mycroft despite his lazy attitude and dreary demeanor.

The carriage bounced once more sending me up. Gravity pulled me back down violently. The skirts I was forced to wear as a proper lady did nothing to cushion the blow. My bottom smarted as a fresh bruise was compounded with a heavy thump. I winced and reminded myself not to rub anywhere inappropriate.

I glared at my smirking fiancé. "Oh yes mock my pain."

Mycroft removed his gloves to fold them and place them in his lap, "Do you remember what I told you on the train?"

There were a number of things that we had spoken of on the train. How was I to know which subject he meant? "Tell me again," I requested.

"My brother, Sherlock has an…" he pressed his lips together, "an abrasive personality. He is a detective. Professionally. He may question you."

Oh. Yes. I did remember being told that. "I should not let it upset me."

Nodding once, "He enjoys putting people on the spot."

So did my youngest brother. He enjoyed seeing people squirm like trapped bugs. How much worse could this detective be? The carriage bounced once more and this time when I came down it hurt. I gave a muffled cry of pain and gripped the seat tightly.

He cast his gaze out the window to his left, my right. "We are almost there. Don't worry."

I didn't. I kept the knowledge that we still had to go from his brother's home to a hotel later to myself. My mother had been quite instructive when it came to her advice on men. Never contradict. Bite your tongue if you must. Any and all comments should remain polite and respectful. Men had soft egos.

I cast a careful glance at Mycroft. I had no desire to put my mother's…other advice…to the test. I only held the knowledge that I should wait until after the marriage to exercise those specific instructions. I did not wish to engage in those actions with this man any sooner than I absolutely had to. The very idea made my stomach roil and my throat fill with bile. I breathed in through my nose and shoved those thoughts to the back of my mind.

There was only so much my mind and body would collectively be able to take today. I will not push myself further than need be.

The carriage came to a full stop and every fiber of my being cried out in absolute joy. Another mile and I might have gone absolutely, stark raving mad. A moment later the carriage's side door opened and Mycroft exited. He did not wait for me. Not that I had expected him to. He never had before. I held the door and the side of the carriage and climbed down the two steps to the pavement and dirt. Mycroft was already at the door.

I took in my surroundings. The dirty once white and red bricked building. Large windows. Wrought iron gating. Women in clothing my like my own with similar hats passed by. It was somewhat comforting in this foreign environment to find myself not sticking out like the single black sheep. The noise however bothered my ears. Everywhere there were people talking, horses and carriages moving, news boys hawking their papers, and the bustle of life.

I missed my parent's farm desperately. I enjoyed the quiet.

The woman that Mycroft had been speaking with ushered him in. I gathered my skirts quickly and followed before she could close the door.

"My fiancé," Mycroft said to the woman, "Naoi Edric."

I curtsied politely, "Pleased to meet you mum." The older woman gave me what I have recently labeled 'the look'. The one that judges me and assumes I am only marrying Mycroft for his money, status and nothing more. I have grown tired of that single look.

People that did not know my circumstances had no right to judge.

At six and twenty I was a burden on my parents. While I had received offers of marriage when I was much younger, I had not taken any of them seriously. After my twenty fifth year the offers dwindled to none at all. I was happy enough on the farm with books, my horses and several dogs to keep me company. I had no aversion to hard work. Having eight older brothers had given me a healthy taste for fishing and fighting. I could sing a little, dance a little, draw and paint well enough. My father had attempted to teach me to use a fiddle years ago although I could not consider myself completely well versed in the instrument. I learned to play a piano in school to be outwardly passable. All things considered I could have been considered a most desirable companion.

Perhaps that is why Mycroft wanted me instead of the numerous other girls that littered the small town a few miles from where the farm and his estate resided. I had known a few of the girls. My brothers had each in turn courted several of them.

Living alone in his country estate the man had always struck me as tragically secluded.

Several loud bangs came from somewhere upstairs. I ducked my head automatically. Gun shots. I would know them anywhere. My father had taught us all the worth of a gun at one time or another. They kept the wild foxes at bay.

The acrid curl of gun powder scented the air.

"I won't go up there," the older woman, a maid or the house keep I suspect, stated adamantly.

Mycroft's hand squeezed my upper arm in what I can only assume was an attempt at comfort. "I'll go. Wait here." My portly husband-to-be started up the steps. I could hear his heavy breathing from the base of the stairs before he ever reached the top of the first landing.

At least I knew that if I ever ran away from him, he could not catch me.

He knocked upon the door at the very top of the second set of stairs and there was a distinct answer though it was muffled. A few moments after the door opened a wall of the strongest tobacco smoke that I had ever encountered hit me head on. While normally the scent was as familiar as the day was long, there was the underlying acrid stench of gunpowder. Not quite as familiar but absolutely nothing I hadn't known before.

If I had been expecting a joyful brotherly reunion I would have been sorely disappointed. The two men exchanged pleasantries and so forth before Mycroft beckoned his brother down to meet me. I heard a near vehement and distinctive 'no' followed by low indistinct mutterings. The door closed with a solid slam.

I met the gaze of the housekeeper. She looked somewhat relieved.

"Do you know Mycroft's brother well?" I asked her.

Her back stiffened slightly and her shoulders straightened. Clearly she had gone back to remembering who and what she thought I was. "Mister Holmes has rented a room from me for a number of years."

So this was not his house? Strange. I gave her a polite nod and the briefest of smiles, "Might I impose on you for a cup of tea?"

That seemed to relax her a bit. The woman told me to follow her. I half expected her to lead me into the kitchens and not the parlor. That was the farmer's daughter in me. I had to recall every moment of my brief years in that ridiculous finishing school my great aunt had sent me to when the housekeeper sat me at the table. I opened my mouth to thank her only to realize Mycroft had never given me her name.

"Might I inquire your name ma'am? It is terribly impolite of me not to have asked before."

That seemed to take her off guard. For a moment the mild accusation in her gaze shifted, "Missus Hudson." Then she was gone. Without asking me what kind of tea.

Leaving me to my own devices has never been a very good idea. My parents learned that early on. Eventually my husband-to-be would learn that. The last time he left me alone I managed to reorder his library. To say that Mycroft had not been pleased was a complete and utter understatement. I'm sure that if Mycroft wasn't so lazy he might have changed everything back to his previous filing system. He was, however, lazy enough to simply learn the new one rather than actually work at putting things back.

If I had a list of things that irritated me about Mycroft I believe it would be a mile long.

At the same time as the door upstairs opened and two sets of footsteps started on the stairs, the housekeeper Missus Hudson came bustling through the door tea service in hand. I turned to her rather than face the oncoming men. I smiled at her thanking her and then asked:

"What kind of dog is it that you have here?"

There was a surprised kind of dead silence broken by the footsteps on the stairs.

I kept the smile polite as she blinked at me for a moment.

"An English bulldog." She cast a wary glance over me, "How did you know there was a dog here?"

I picked up a chocolate biscuit taking a delicate bite, "There are white dog hairs on the hem of your dress." The woman continued to look at me curiously. Didn't everyone that had ever owned a dog know that their clothes would forever carry dog hair? Or was that simply an assumption I made from having owned enough dogs to warrant sweeping the floors every day?

I felt an instant sharp pang of homesickness. I set the biscuit down without a second bite.

Missus Hudson poured the tea while I stood to greet both men. My fiancé, Mycroft was a tall but portly man of approximately nine and forty years. He had carefully cropped mouse brown hair that was always meticulously set into place. His flat non-descript brown eyes expressed boredom almost constantly. Mycroft's face was rounded but drawn and accented by a sharp aquiline nose that did not seem to fit him. His skin was pale, the kind that burned when it received too much exposure to the sun. He was always neatly dressed.

I had been expecting his brother too look much the same. I was sorely mistaken. Briefly I wondered if the two had separate fathers. Or separate mothers. It was not unheard of. It would at least explain how two men who claimed to be brothers were so very different.

No. Different was not the right word. Opposite would be me appropriate.

This man was nearly the opposite of Mycroft in every way.

He was notably shorter at by at least half of a foot and lean despite his shabby appearance. His hair was darker, nearly black with waves and a distinct curl at the ends. Not neatly combed or brushed. His dark hair stuck out at angles, errant and unruly. The shadow of grown stubble decorated his chin and cheeks as well as a small portion of his neck. Almost rugged in appearance. His face is drawn as well while his nose is less aquiline than his brother's. Warm skin that would no doubt brown once exposed to the summer sun. His clothes imply that he has never heard the word 'neat' let alone 'presentable'. The robe he wore is shabby to the point of fraying. The shirt underneath it is crumpled with enough wrinkles to warrant a good washing and pressing.

None of that seemed to matter when our gazes met.

Dark soulful, deep and stirring brown eyes, the likes of which I had never seen before stunned me beyond words. For that moment, that very instant when his dark eyes met my plain blue grey, the world fell away and there was nothing but he and I left. Then, as if that moment had never happened, the world came crashing back with a jolting solidity. Quickly I broke eye contact with him casting my gaze elsewhere. Anywhere but at him.

Mycroft extended his hand to motion to the dark haired man that had stolen my world for just a moment. "Naoi, this is my brother, Sherlock Holmes." His attention shifted to that of his brother, "Sherlock, my bride to be, Naoi Edric." There was just a little pride there when he said that.

I curtsied politely as I had been taught to nodding at the man that was soon to be my brother-in-law though I could not meet his gaze. Instead kept my eyes pointedly on his stubbled chin, "Pleased to meet you."

Sherlock Holmes inclined his head to me without a word and then dropped into a seat that allowed me to see him in profile. It was then that I realized I had seen him before. The man had pointedly told me not to fish on land that was not mine when I was a child. My response had been…rude. To say the very least.

Another man entered into the parlor behind Mycroft's brother. The man following them was introduced as Doctor John Watson. He had pleasant eyes, a limp which he made up for with a cane and a mustache. The corners of his mouth curled in a partial smile when we were introduced. He as well inclined his head, "Madam."

I smiled at the blue eyed man and curtsied once more, "A pleasure sir." Gentlemen did not sit until a lady was seated. It took me a second longer to remember that than it should have. Somewhat embarrassed for keeping my fiancé and the doctor standing, if only for a few seconds, heated my face. I settled myself back into my previous seat and cast my gaze downward.

Nothing of what I learned in school had been practical on the farm.

"Your name," Sherlock Holmes said. A statement, not a question. "Spelled N-a-o-i correct?"

So we were to begin the line of questioning immediately. I lifted my gaze from the tea tray and it's intricate gold and flower pattern. "Yes. That's right."

"Irish Gaelic is it not?"

I nodded once more, "It is."

"Meaning nine. You do not pronounce it correctly however. It should be 'nay', the oh remaining silent." A quick flash of something through his dark eyes, "Nor is it a name in the first place but a number. You are your parent's ninth child."

Alright. I will admit it. That was somewhat impressive. Somewhat. I placed the teacup down. "That I am."

"And yet you are British."

Clearly. As I had before, I nodded in reply. Where on earth was he going with this?

"It is not common for an Irish man to marry a British woman. The religious differences alone could destroy a marriage. I do not however see a cross on your neck."

The cross Aunt Ida had forced on me off the moment I boarded the ferry back to England met its fate when I cast it overboard. Currently it resided somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. "Perhaps I am simply adverse to jewelry."

"And yet you wear your engagement ring."

It was a near automatic response to rub my finger over the heavy gold band that adorned my finger. Only when I was conscious of it did I remember it. Otherwise it was simply there. A statement of a man's intentions toward me. I wore it because I had to, not because I liked it. Pompous ass. "It would be improper not to. I am engaged. To your brother." That sounded more like an excuse than an answer. No doubt he thought the same.

"Holmes," Doctor Watson began and for a moment I thought that might reign in his friend.

The smaller, darker man held up his hand, two fingers in the universal signal for 'just a moment'. "You confess to not enjoying jewelry. Which leads me to believe that-"

"Sherlock," Mycroft's voice boomed silencing his brother. "Do shut up."

Holding back my sigh of relief was a test of my self control. Mycroft's intervention on my behalf began a bout of brotherly bickering that turned into a conversation between the three men about inventions and so forth. I scraped the chocolate off the biscuit I had previously bitten. The chocolate was too sweet. Too much milk and sugar in the mix. I never enjoyed sweet things. They made my teeth ache.

Dogs on the other hand enjoy treats though chocolate is poisonous to them.

While my fiancé, his brother and the doctor spoke I scratched my nails lightly on the underside of the table. The rough wood accented the sound. It was soft but a dog would hear it. There was a distinct bark followed by a woof. A large English bulldog, white with brown spots barreled into the room nearly as soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

The doctor looked at me, "How did you get his attention?"

"I made him think there was a strange small animal in the house," I said while feeding the handsome creature a broken piece of biscuit. I repeated the soft scratching sound. The dog barked, his stubby tail and hind quarters moving in excitement. "Good boy." For that I gave him another treat.

"Recently I have been attempting to invent a device that suppresses the sound of a gunshot." Sherlock Holmes continued, dominating the conversation once more. He scrubbed one of his hands over his face. "Unfortunately I seem to be missing some key material."

I held the last bit scraped biscuit out to the dog under the table, "Did you try fine powder?"

Several sets of eyes turned on me. I blinked back at them. Had I said something inappropriate? Thinking back over my words I didn't think I had said anything wrong. "My father used fine power to muffle the sound of his rifle when the foxes set on the chickens." I elaborated in case I had been misunderstood. "The clicking of the chamber always gave him away. Fine powder, muffled the sound and still allowed the rifle to fire properly. Ashes from the fireplace work just as well provided there are no lumps of wood."

Without a word Mycroft's brother pushed out of his chair, exited the room, went up the stairs and presumably returned to his room. A door slammed upstairs. Approximately a minute after that there was a distinct pop followed by a hard thump but no sound of gunfire.

Under the table I scratched behind the dog's ears.

"He'll start a new project now," Doctor Watson said. "About time. Missus Hudson had already lost a maid because of that invention."

"He needs another case," Mycroft replied. "My brother has never been one for stagnation. Have you tried giving him puzzles? Our mother drew up word puzzles for him every few days. They would keep him occupied for a few hours. Riddles as well."

Riddles. I liked riddles. Not that I would tell anyone here that.

Another thump, followed by yet one more. It seems to me that men enjoy their brand new toys just as much as little boys. I sipped my cooling tea while the doctor and Mycroft discussed the mad man upstairs.

That would be my anger talking. Or would it be my annoyance? Albeit the problem was not entirely of his making. My temper has been stewing for quite some time now. Currently I stood at the edge of a significantly deep well of negative emotions. Anger and madness are quite a bit like gravity. All it takes is a little push.

"My fear is that he will return to morphine or cocaine without a project to work on," The Doctor told Mycroft in hushed tones. "The black mood that takes him when the euphoria ends makes him the most irritable man in the empire."

I almost told the good doctor that he had yet to meet my brother Simon but I thought better of it. The chances that Simon should meet anyone but Mycroft were nearly nonexistent. I held my tongue politely as my mother (and Aunt Ida come to think of it) had instructed me to do.

The door upstairs opened, footsteps on the stairs. A moment later Sherlock Holmes reentered the parlor and seated himself once more in his chair. Without thanking me. If looks could kill he might have withered on the spot.

"You do not remember me," I afforded my fiancé's brother half of a smile, "do you Mister Holmes?"

Dark inquisitive eyes narrowed on me, his head cocking slightly. Clearly he was searching for an idea of who I might be. Curious for a detective who was clearly supposed to be brilliant. Truth be told my hair had darkened significantly over the past twelve years. My skin is somewhat lighter after spending several years in a finishing school. I have grown at least four and a half if not five inches in height. There were artificial curls in my hair. And, at the time of his rebuke I had been dressed like a boy.

I held my hand a little above me where I sat. "I was approximately this high at fourteen. I think that I told you to take a flying leap when you caught me fishing on Mycroft's land."

"I believe the exact phrase you used was: Jump off a cliff and see if I could fly." He amended flatly though the spark of recognition was there. Dark eyes trailed over me in the briefest of movements.

I felt a warm blush stain my cheeks. "I am glad to see you did not take my advice." No. I was not. I think it might amuse me greatly if he flung himself off of a cliff.

I saw the corner of his mouth quirk for just a moment before his mouth straightened out, "As am I. It would have been detrimental to my health." He moved his hand airily, finger tips directing soundless music. "Mycroft, I suppose the fish in the stream on your estate are delectable enough to warrant a wedding just to obtain them."

The good humor that had begun to brew soured quickly. "You think yourself extremely witty Mister Holmes."

"Witty I find is far better than foolish madam."

Foolish! He called me foolish. I will not be cross. I will not be cross. I will…smug bastard. Sod it. "Better a witty fool than a foolish wit, sir." The fall of his smugness was satisfaction in itself.

Doctor Watson half coughed and half choked on his biscuit.

I really must remember to write a thank you letter to Aunt Ida one of these days. Truly. Her tutelage has actually served me well. I smiled as sweetly as possible at my husband-to-be. One of his hands covered his mouth though I had a distinct impression from the color and rise of his round cheeks that he was attempting to smother laughter. "Mycroft we should check into The Grand should we not?"

As heavy as Mycroft was I had not expected him to be swift or spry. And yet he sprung out of his seat quickly. "That we should. I had almost forgotten."

I'm sure. I politely told the good doctor that it was pleasant to meet him. Pointedly ignoring Mycroft's brother I asked Doctor Watson to thank Missus Hudson for the lovely tea and biscuits. I scratched the dog behind the ears and exited the house of a misanthropic mad man turned lunatic detective.

Later, in the carriage on the way to the hotel I told Mycroft through clenched teeth, "I dislike your brother immensely."

One corner of Mycroft's mouth curled upward in a smirk as he looked at me, "Funny that. He seemed to like you."

AN: I know! I'm supposed to be working on my Leverage fic! The muse bit me. Blame him. He looks like Robert Downey Jr. these days...

It's not my first fic, not even my second, third or fourth for that matter.

This is 8 pages long. Yea.

Edit May 14, 2010: Thank you to CanYouReachTheStars for the editing help! Much obliged.

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