You had to admit it was the nicest vehicle you had ever ridden in.  Leather seats, velvet accents.  Even the inside door handles looked like they were made of real silver.  The windows were tinted black, and you could barely see outside.

        You look at the redhead, and you saw how she was nicely dressed.  Red sweater.  Black pencil skirt.  A long peal necklace.  An eagle ring, the eyes shimmering as the redhead picks up a glass of champagne in her hands.  She swivels the liquid around before handing the crystal glass over to you.  You raise your eyebrows.

        "Drink."

        "I'd rather not."  You shake your head, and immediately, your phone vibrates.

        Do all Miss Scarlet asks of you.

        You look back up and Miss Scarlet, you assume, smirks.

        "Do you have another glass?"  Her eyes turn a bit colder.

        "I said, 'Drink.'"  WIth a sigh, you take the glass and let the sweet, bubbly liquid trickle down your throat.  Within a few moments, you collapse against the seat, knocked out cold.

        When you come to, you immediately look outside, views of the countryside greeting you.  The driver turns, the car speeding into a secret underground tunnel.  It's not long until the car slows to a stop.  A moment later, the bald man opens the door for you once more.

        The first thing that hits you is the cold humidity of the tunnel you were in, making your body confused as to take off or leave on your cardigan.  The second thing you notice is that it's completely abandoned.  The third thing you notice is that the only thing, besides the car and its passengers, that make it not totally empty is a chair and a man, leaning against an umbrella as his legs are crossed over.

        "Hello, Miss Watson," the man says, his voice low and more rugged than Tom's.  "I've been watching you."  Your eyebrows furrow a bit.

        "Care to explain why you felt compelled to not only take me hostage but to also drug me?"

        "If you knew how to get here, then I would have to kill you.  And that would be to neither of our benefits, now would it?"

        "What do you possibly want with me?  I have nothing of value."  The man smiles more.

        "Ah, but you have.  You see, you have Sherlock's trust."  You study the man's face more, trying to hint any deception.  But you come up empty.

        "He does not.  And who are you?"  The man uncrosses his legs, standing up perfectly straight.

        "Oh, where are my manners.  Please, have a seat."  You shake your head.

        "I'm perfectly fine, and after that champagne, I'd rather keep my ground.  And you're stalling."  He smiles, walking closer to you.  You step back a bit in order to get into a more rooted stance, you not knowing the man's intentions.

        "I go by Mycroft.  That is all I am allowed to tell you."  You fold your arms.

        "Well then, Mycroft, you explained the champagne, but you are missing the purpose of my presence."

        "I can see why my younger brother hasn't kicked you out yet."  Your eyes widen.  "Does this make this conversation any more interesting?"

        "Yes, quite a bit.  If you had to go through all this trouble, there must be something going on between you."

        "You catch on quicker than I thought."  Mycroft switches the umbrella from his left hand to his right.  "But that will be revealed later in time.  Right now, I have a job for you."

        "Which is?"

        "I need you to keep an eye out for him?"  You smirk, refolding your arms.

        "I'm listening.  What's the catch?"

        "No catch.  I worry about him.  And I need you to do this for me."

        "Paid?"

        "I think understanding my brother better is payment enough."  Mycroft titlts his head.  "That is what you want, yes?"

        "How would you know?"

        "Why else would anyone put up with him so long?  He doesn't have any friends."

        "He has me."

        "Hmm."  As Mycroft turns around and walks in a circle, you hear the car door open again.  Miss Scarlet comes next to you, handing you another glass of champagne.  You look at the blonde.

        "Really?! Is this necessary?!"

        "Just a precaution.  Careful, my dear, this one is stronger than the last."  With a sigh, you go back to the car, and, once inside, empty the gold liquor into your stomach.

        When you wake up, you look around, first listening for the noise that disturbed you, then realizing your surroundings.  The windows, the curtains, the wall decorations, the furniture.  All vintage, all familiar.  You ease yourself out of bed and walk into the living room, following the sound of the violin that woke you.  Tom is standing by the window, slowly turning around in the corner to the piece his fingers recreated.  You sit on the couch, swooping your legs to the sit as you soaked in both the music and the sight.

        "You're awake," he says, a little more of a question than a statement.

        "You woke me," you say smirking.  He smiles.

        "When she went back downstairs, Mrs. Hudson found you collapsed at the bottom of the steps."

        "I was knocked out," you say.  Tom looks at you, then back at his violin.

        "It was him, wasn't it?"  You tilt your head, acting your confusion.

        "Who?"

        "Mycroft."

        "Again, who?"  But you knew you weren't fooling him.

        "You can tell him that I'm perfectly fine and am not in need his constant worrying."

        "Tom, he's your older brother, he has every right."  He looks over at you again, randomly playing a gloomy minor arpeggio before going back to the payful part of the piece.  You quietly chuckle to yourself, getting his attempt of a pun, refering to his effortless apathety to his brother's concern and troublesome worry.  He grins, seeing that you understood.  Tom's finger continue to play an alluring melody, one that only reminded you of how beautifully intricate his mind was.

        "You have questions."

        "Hmm?"  You had been too lost in thought.  He smiles.

        "What's going on in that mind of yours?"  You shake your head.  Frowning, he stops and sets down his instrument in its case, open on his desk.  Tom comes and sits in his chair.  You look at him, and his eyes move from yours, to your chair.  You obey and sit across from him.

        "You shouldn't be afraid to talk to me."

        "And yet, you can't do the same with me."  He sighs, holding his head up with his finger.

        "(Y/N), just because I don't, doesn't mean I'm afraid."

        "Then tell me.  About that talk at New Scotland Yard.  What exactly was going on?"  He sighs.

        "Let's just assume that everyone there hates me because I think diffrently than them."

        "Lestrade doesn't hate you."  He tilts his head back.  "Maybe he doesn't say openly say he likes your company, but he doesn't not like you either."

        "Do you hate me?  Or to use your terms, do you "not like me?"  You shake your head.

        "I think there's more to you than most people are not seeing.  Maybe you're revealing the real you little by little because so many people have hurt you, but I'm not giving up on you, Tom."  He remains emotionless, getting up from his chair.  He strokes the strings of his violin, and when you see him doing so for a while, you go up to him.  Without thinking, you turn him to you and embrace him.  He doesn't hug you back, shocked at first, but after a moment, you find his arms wrapping back around you.

        "I'm not a hugger," Tom mumbles.

        "Well I am," you whisper.  And you could've sworn his hold got a bit tighter.

        "Time for bed.  You've had a long day."  You nod as  you both let go.  He picks up his violin and resumes his piece.  You start to head to your room, when you sharply turn around.

        "Tom?"

        "Hmm?" he asks, looking to you and not missing a beat.

        "If Mrs. Hudson found me on the steps, then who put me in bed?"  He turns back around as he plays.

        "Goodnight, (Y/N)," Tom replies more sternly.  You grin, turning back around as you enter into your bedroom, not noticing him return yours with a soft, small smile.

        It's hard for you to go to rest, you lost in his musical skill.  But in time, his playing ceases, and you hear his steps coming closer.  You pretend to slumber as he turns your doorknob and peeks inside.  You know that he knows you're not really asleep, and you know he knows.  But without a word, he closes the door, the acknowledgement left unspoken.