𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄, sherlock holmes

𝐈𝐗 . . . WATSON, DEVIATOR EXTRAORDINAIRE!

          MYCROFT GRIMACED AT POPPY'S LESS THAN pleasant greeting and rolled his eyes, his grip on the umbrella above his head tightening. "Good evening, Agent Rockefeller." He said, turning this way and that, trying to find another place to sit that wasn't soaking wet or directly next to Poppy. Then, after concluding that no such bench or seat existed, Mycroft begrudgingly sat down next to Poppy and pulled up the tops of his trousers up an inch so the hems wouldn't trail.

          "What are you doing here? I think we would have both preferred it if Anthea had picked me up in one of your precious town cars and taken me to some sort of industrial wasteland so you can tell me all about the next little step in your big and grand scheme." Poppy said, sucking on the cigarette once more and blowing the smoke out slowly. She took it from her mouth with her fingers and rested her hand on her bouncing knee.

          Mycroft reached out instantly and took the cigarette for her grip, tossing it straight onto the wet ground before lowering the heel of his shoe onto it. "Smoking is a vile habit, Rockefeller."

          Poppy rose an eyebrow, "If it's so vile then why do you do it?" Mycroft's sneer deepened at that. "Oh, sorry. Have I touched a nerve?"

          Mycroft tilted the umbrella ( that was still above his head ) downwards so that the rainwater ran down the curve and landed on the wind-swept parting of Poppy's hair. She groaned, and reached up to touch it, trying to brush it away. "You're so childish, Mycroft."

          Poppy wiped her newly wet hand over the shoulder of Mycroft's expensive blazer forcefully, taking care to rub the water into the fibres. "Oh, and you're the picture-perfect twenty three year old, are you Rockefeller?" He tucked a hand into one of the pockets, producing a folded handkerchief which Mycroft instantly placed over his shoulder and pats down on it hesitantly to dry away the water.

          Poppy swore she saw Mycroft's initials embroidered onto a corner of the fabric, and she had to cover her mouth with her hand to stop the inevitably loud snort of laughter from bursting out of her.

          She thought that once his shoulder was dry, Mycroft would replace the monogrammed handkerchief back into his pocket, but no. Poppy had to watch with a closely knitted brow as he wiped the mud caked around the leather of his shoes too, only for Mycroft to realise the mud would get into his pocket. Poppy stuck out her hand and took the dirtied cloth from him, and chucked it into the bin by her end of the bench.

          "Well. That was by far and away, the strangest thing I have ever seen anyone do. And my nan used to kiss a poster of early nineties Hugh Grant every night before she went to bed . . . she was eighty nine! So, you know."

          Mycroft looked across to her, aghast. His nose scrunched and his shoulders rolled backwards, edging the umbrella so that it was hovering over the two of them comfortably.