Mycroft Holmes X Reader - Drunk Mycroft and Accidental Kiss
Pairing: Mycroft Holmes x Reader
Summary: Mycroft get drunk and accidentaly kiss you, how would he react?
The first thing Mycroft Holmes noticed was that the whisky tasted unusually mild. He examined the amber liquid in the glass. Nevertheless, he poured another.
Mycroft Holmes did not often drink, but the evening had been an exceptionally irritating one.
The fire crackled softly, throwing shifting light across the room, but it did nothing to quiet the persistent loop of thoughts circling through his mind with the stubbornness of a mathematical proof refusing to resolve.
You.
This was deeply inconvenient.
He sat in the armchair beside the low table, long fingers wrapped around the heavy crystal glass, staring at the fire while attempting, unsuccessfully, to redirect his thoughts toward something more productive. Instead, his mind returned, again, to you.
He knew several things with absolute certainty.
First, he was in love with you.
Second, this condition appeared permanent.
Third, he had absolutely no idea what to do about it.
Mycroft understood geopolitics, economic leverage, and the movement of intelligence networks across continents with near-perfect clarity.
But affection?
Affection behaved like an unsolved equation with missing variables.
He had attempted an analysis, extensive analysis, but none produced a reliable conclusion.
Did you like him?
Statistically unlikely. Emotionally… He had no framework to determine.
Mycroft took another drink.
The whisky was working now. He could feel the subtle dulling at the edges of his mind, the rigid precision of his thoughts softening slightly. His reactions were slower and less precise. He leaned back in the chair, loosening his collar a fraction. Unfortunately, that did nothing to prevent another memory from surfacing.
Baker Street.
You had been leaving the flat after visiting Sherlock. The stairwell was narrow, poorly lit, and Sherlock had, as usual, left several books on the steps in what could generously be described as a negligent hazard.
You had stepped on one.
The next moment had occurred very quickly.
Your foot slipped. Your balance vanished. Your body tilted forward down the stairs.
Mycroft had reacted before conscious thought engaged.
He caught you.
One arm around your waist. The other braced against the wall to stop both of you from falling. You had been pressed entirely against him. Your hands had clutched the front of his coat. Your face had been inches from his. At that moment, he was experiencing something dangerously close to a system failure.
He could still remember the exact warmth of you through the fabric. The startled widening of your eyes. The faint scent of your perfume.
You had laughed softly once the shock passed.
“Nice reflexes.”
Mycroft had been unable to respond. Even now, the memory produced an uncomfortable tightening in his chest.
Physical proximity was… destabilising.
He did not have sufficient experience to manage it effectively. Which made the entire situation deeply difficult, given that his thoughts appeared to return to you with relentless frequency.
Mycroft finished the glass and poured another. He had just lifted the glass when a knock sounded at the door.
Mycroft frowned. No one came here unannounced.
He set the glass down and stood carefully, noting with mild irritation that the floor felt subtly less stable than usual.
Curious.
Your coat was pulled tight against the night air, hair slightly disheveled by the wind, your eyes widening the moment you saw him.
“Mycroft.”
His name sounded… different when you said it. Softer. Familiar in a way that continued to unsettle every carefully arranged compartment in his mind.
He blinked once, recalibrating.
“Good evening,” he managed, voice just a fraction slower than usual. “This is… unexpected.”
You hesitated on the step before offering a slightly apologetic smile.
“Sherlock sent me.”
Of course he did. Mycroft closed his eyes briefly, the bridge of his nose tightening.
“Did he.”
“He said you had a document he needs. Something about a case.” You shrugged lightly. “And he told me to check that you weren’t… spiraling.”
Mycroft straightened instinctively, posture snapping into its usual rigid composure.
“I do not spiral.”
You stepped inside anyway.
The door closed behind you with a soft click, bringing with it the scent of cold air and the faint trace of your perfume. It reached him immediately, annoyingly noticeable. Mycroft Holmes was working extremely hard to remain functional. He focused on breathing evenly. On standing straight. On maintaining eye contact somewhere above the level of your mouth.
Your lips were—
No.
Irrelevant.
Entirely irrelevant.
You removed your coat and stepped a little further into the room.
“Rough day?”
“Yes.”
He kept the answer short, clipped, and controlled. He was standing next to his desk, picking up the document Sherlock had mentioned.
You tilted your head slightly, studying him. You stepped forward toward him, apparently intending to get the files.
Your heel caught the edge of the rug.
You slipped.
It wasn’t dramatic, just a small loss of balance, but Mycroft reacted instantly.
His hand shot out.
He caught your arm, steadying you. The movement pulled you both off balance. You stumbled forward.
Directly into him.
You were pressed close against his chest. One of his hands braced instinctively against the table behind him. The other still held your arm. Your face was suddenly inches from his.
Very close.
Much too close.
Mycroft froze.
You looked up at him, startled. Your breath brushed faintly against his mouth. His brain attempted any kind of reaction.
Maintain distance.
Release contact.
Resume composure.
Instead, a far less useful observation surfaced.
Your lips were very soft-looking.
Dangerously soft.
And very close.
The whisky had slowed several critical decision-making processes.
He knew, distantly, that this situation required immediate disengagement. Instead, the remaining distance vanished.
Mycroft Holmes leaned forward.
And kissed you.
Then reality reassembled itself.
You jerked back immediately, eyes wide with complete shock.
Mycroft stared at you, his own mind catching up with what had just occurred.
Your hand lifted unconsciously to your mouth.
“What—”
Your voice stopped. Because now you were close enough to notice. The scent. The unmistakable warmth of alcohol on his breath. And the faint taste of whisky lingering where his lips had touched yours. Your eyes widened even more.
Oh.
Oh no.
Mycroft Holmes. Drunk.
“Mycroft,” you said quickly, your voice suddenly nervous. “You’ve been drinking.”
He said nothing. Still staring. Still processing. You stepped back another pace, your heart racing far faster than the situation warranted.
“It’s—it’s alright,” you added quickly. “You’re not… you’re not in your right mind.”
The words came out in a rush.
“I should probably just—go.”
You reached for your coat, avoiding his eyes. Behind you, Mycroft felt something cold settle heavily in his chest.
Of course.
Of course.
His mind assembled the conclusion instantly. Rejection. Predictable. Entirely deserved. He had crossed a boundary. Embarrassed you. Violated professional conduct.
And now you were leaving.
Internally, the carefully controlled systems of Mycroft Holmes began to fracture.
Meanwhile, your own thoughts were racing just as chaotically.
What just happened?
Mycroft Holmes had kissed you. Mycroft Holmes. The Iceman. The most controlled man you had ever met. And for one impossible moment, his lips had been on yours.
Your heart was pounding.
Your brain was refusing to cooperate.
Behind you, Mycroft had not moved.
He was still standing where you had left him.
Your words echoed unpleasantly in his mind.
You’re not in your right mind
I should probably just go.
The conclusion formed with brutal efficiency.
You believed the kiss had been meaningless. Alcohol-induced. A mistake.
You moved toward the door. Mycroft’s mind, however, was beginning to restart. Rapidly. Painfully. He reviewed the situation.
Step one: he had kissed you.
Step two: you were leaving.
Step three: You believed the kiss had no intentional foundation.
This would create a misunderstanding. A permanent one. The thought produced an alarming sensation in his chest. His mind shifted instinctively into crisis-management mode. Immediate corrective action is required.
“Leaving now,” he said suddenly, voice tight but controlled, “would produce a statistically irreversible misunderstanding.”
Your hand froze on the door handle. Slowly, you turned around. You stared at him.
“...What?”
Mycroft stood very straight, hands clasped behind his back in an attempt to appear composed.
Internally, he was dying.
“I would strongly advise,” he continued carefully, “against drawing conclusions based on the assumption that alcohol was the primary cause of that action.”
Your brain stalled.
“You’re—”
You blinked.
“Are you… giving a briefing right now?”
Mycroft closed his eyes briefly.
This was not going well.
“No.”
A pause.
“Although the structure may resemble one.”
You stared at him for another long second.
“Mycroft,” you said slowly, “you just kissed me.”
“Yes.”
“And your response is… a strategic clarification?”
“That is not the entirety of my response.”
His fingers tightened slightly behind his back.
“I did consume alcohol tonight,” he admitted. “However, attributing the kiss solely to intoxication would be… factually inaccurate.”
You blinked.
“What?”
Mycroft took a breath.
“The alcohol,” he said carefully, “lowered certain… inhibition thresholds.”
You stared at him.
“…Meaning?”
He held your gaze now, expression uncharacteristically uncertain.
“It was not the cause.”
Silence fell heavily between you. Your heart began beating faster.
“You mean,” you said slowly, “you wanted to kiss me.”
“Yes.”
The answer came immediately. No hesitation. Your stomach flipped.
“Since when?”
Mycroft hesitated.
Then, reluctantly:
“…For quite some time.”
You stared at him as he had just announced the sky was green.
“Then why,” you demanded, “didn’t you just do it?”
That question seemed to confuse him. His brow furrowed.
“Because,” he said with absolute seriousness, “I have no understanding whatsoever of how one successfully initiates… romance.”
The honesty of it hit you like a brick.
You blinked.
Twice.
“You’re serious.”
“Entirely.”
You felt your composure slipping.
“So your solution,” you said slowly, “was to get drunk and ambush me?”
Mycroft looked faintly horrified.
“That was not the intended strategy.”
You stepped a little closer without really meaning to. That seemed to destabilise him further.
“Mycroft,” you said softly, “I tried to leave because I thought you didn’t mean it.”
His shoulders stiffened slightly.
“I thought,” you continued, “that tomorrow you'd pretend it never happened. That it was just alcohol.”
Your voice dropped slightly.
“That I was just… another variable.”
Something in his expression changed immediately. For a moment the composure cracked completely.
“You are not a variable.”
The words came out sharp. Immediate. You blinked in surprise. Mycroft seemed to realise he had lost control of the sentence. But he didn't retract it. Instead, he said, quieter now,
“You are the constant.”
The room went very still. Your breath caught. That was the most Mycroft Holmes way anyone had ever confessed feelings in the history of humanity. You took another step toward him. Now you were close again. Close enough that he stopped breathing. You tilted your head slightly.
“So,” you said softly, “was the kiss part of the strategy?”
Mycroft looked offended.
“No.”
You smiled.
“Good.”
Then you closed the distance and kissed him. This time, there was no hesitation. No surprise. For half a second, he froze again. Then his hands finally lifted, settling carefully at your waist as if you were something delicate and improbable. He kissed you back slowly, cautiously, like he had been thinking about it for months.