Hi! :) was wondering I'd you could have someone get flirty...inappropriatly so with Mycroft then shows up to find him
@theweepingvulcan91 Thank you so much for this gift of a gif. It might have got away from me a little - Em.
The soft glow of the reading lamps illuminated the high ceilings and grand bookshelves of the Diogenes Club, casting long shadows that danced upon the richly decorated walls. Mycroft Holmes, his posture upright yet relaxed, was nestled in a plush armchair near the fireplace. The subtle crackling of the fire added a comforting backdrop to the scene, a stark contrast to the day's relentless demands.
The other members of the club, equally committed to the sanctity of silence, moved about with deliberate quietness, their footfalls muffled by thick carpets. Some were engrossed in their newspapers, others in their books, all sharing an unspoken agreement to preserve the tranquillity of the space.
Mycroft's evening reading was a well-worn ritual, a necessary retreat from the cacophony of his responsibilities. His sharp eyes scanned the pages methodically, each piece of information absorbed and catalogued with precision. The club's unique environment allowed him to process the day's events, each new fact or observation finding its rightful place in the intricate tapestry of his mind.
The atmosphere was one of serene detachment, a haven where even the most burdened of minds could find respite. As the fire continued its gentle murmur, Mycroft turned another page, the rhythm of his routine restoring the equilibrium that had been disturbed by the day's incessant challenges. Here, within the hallowed halls of the Diogenes Club, he found peace. That was until his phone vibrated, drawing his hawkish attention.
Mycroft's eyebrow arched as he glanced at the screen, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noted the sender. Shuffling through his mental rolodex, he realised this was that strange woman from acquisitions who always smiled at him. He barely said a word to her, and yet she always seemed to go out of her way to say hello to him.
He wondered how she had managed to acquire his private number. Mycroft prided himself on his meticulous control over his personal information, a necessity in his line of work. That she had pierced this veil of privacy irked him greatly. This imposition was an irritation, a security breach.
With a silent sigh, he leaned back in his chair, allowing the shadows of the flickering fire to play across his face. The club’s atmosphere, usually a fortress of calm, now seemed to buzz with a faint undercurrent of urgency. Perhaps this message was a necessity, something which required his immediate attention.
He opened the message, his expression becoming one of confusion.
"Did you miss me today, Mycroft?" read the message, followed by a winking emoji.
Mycroft's fingers tightened around his phone as he read the message again, disbelief warring with irritation. His mind raced, analyzing every interaction he had ever had with the woman from acquisitions. Each encounter had been brief, polite, and decidedly unremarkable—at least from his perspective. What had he missed? How had he overlooked someone slipping through his carefully constructed barriers?
He set the phone down on the mahogany table beside his chair, the flickering firelight reflecting off its screen. The message stared back at him, its casual tone completely at odds with the seriousness of his current predicament. Mycroft was not accustomed to being caught off guard, and the sensation was deeply unsettling.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. It would not do to let this minor breach unsettle him. He needed to address the situation methodically. His first step would be to ascertain exactly how she had obtained his private number. That would require some discreet inquiries—he had no doubt that the answer would reveal a lapse in his own protocols, and that was unacceptable.
For now, he had to respond. Ignoring the message was not an option; it would only embolden her to further intrusions. Mycroft picked up his phone again, considering his reply carefully. He needed to convey his displeasure without revealing too much, to reassert his boundaries firmly but without provocation.
After a moment of contemplation, he typed out a response:
"I believe you may have mistaken this number for a more public line. Please refrain from using it in the future. – M.H."
He sent the message and set the phone down once more, feeling a measure of control return. The fire crackled quietly beside him, and he let the warmth and the familiar surroundings of the club soothe his irritation. This would be dealt with swiftly, just like any other anomaly in his meticulously ordered world.
Unfortunately for Mycroft, the matter was far from settled. It appeared that once she knew this was indeed his number, it only encouraged her to send further messages. Each one was more flirty and suggestive than the last, making him feel increasingly uncomfortable. Despite his best efforts to ignore the texts and hope they would stop, they persisted, leaving him in a state of constant unease. Mycroft realized that he would need to take more definitive action to address the situation, but he wasn't quite sure what steps to take next.
Sherlock had asked you to stop by the Diogenes Club on your way home to drop off a file for his brother. As you entered the room, ignoring the glares that quite obviously not being a member earned you, your attention fell on the look of total frustration on Mycroft's face. His entire being practically vibrated with it. It was clear that something was deeply troubling him, and it wasn't just the breach of the club's strict non-communication policy by your presence. Mycroft, usually the epitome of calm and control, seemed to be battling an internal storm. His fingers drummed impatiently on the armrest of his chair, and his eyes, though focused on his phone, were filled with a mix of anger and discomfort. It was a rare sight to see the elder Holmes so unsettled, and you couldn't help but wonder what had pushed him to this edge.
As you approached, his phone vibrated. He looked at the screen and rolled his eyes, frustration rolling off him in waves.
"Trouble at work?" you queried, taking a seat opposite him. Your voice pierced through the silence, earning you more than a couple of black looks from other club members.
"Nothing I cannot handle," Mycroft huffed, his jaw clenching as his phone vibrated once again. The urge to throw the damned thing into the fire grew stronger with each low hum emanating from the blasted machine.
You glanced at his phone, then back at him. "It doesn't look like nothing," you remarked, your tone gentle but probing.
Mycroft's eyes flicked to yours, a mixture of annoyance and resignation in them. "Persistent... nuisance," he admitted, the words forced through gritted teeth.
You raised an eyebrow. "Anything I can help with?"
For a moment, he seemed to consider the offer, then shook his head. "No, but I appreciate the gesture. It's a personal matter that requires a delicate approach."
"I doubt a 'delicate approach' from a Holmes is possible," you said, raising an eyebrow and trying to suppress a grin.
The phone buzzed once more, breaking the moment. He reached out and grabbed it with such force that his knuckles turned white.
Without a word, you extended your hand, eyes locked on his. He hesitated but eventually handed over the phone, his gaze never leaving your face. As you scrolled through the messages, your eyebrows shot up and a smile tugged at your lips; the messages were becoming increasingly bold.
He watched, his curiosity piqued, as you typed a reply and hit send. Then, with a smirk, you handed the phone back to him.
He held it in his palm, expecting another buzz, another daring message in response to whatever you had sent. But the phone remained silent. Intrigued, he opened the message thread. A look of amusement spread across his features as he read what you had sent to his rather persistent admirer:
"Consider your approach noted. Best of luck, but persistence doesn't always equate to success. - someone with a much better approach to courting Mycroft Holmes."
@savvy-devine666 always sends me the most brilliant gifs and this is no different. Right then, a little Mycroft seems in order.
This was not the way it was supposed to be. He was a man of logic, analytical to a fault, not swayed by emotions... so why could he not push aside this ache inside him?
Things between the two of you had gotten too familiar, become too loud and he had said things he had instantly regretted, not that his pride would let him admit it. There hadn't been a goodbye, no opportunity for him to apologise when cooler heads prevailed, you had simply exited from his life. It had returned to what it was before you, before these feelings and chaos. Only now it felt... empty.
His days were punctuated by your silence, his gut twisting as his mind chose to play his mistakes over and over in HD at the most inopportune moment. Mycroft found himself holding conversations with you in his head, anticipating your replies, although he knew you would always surprise him. Apologies, explanations, trapped forever in his head, clamouring for his attention, fighting against his pride.
Just over a week later, his heart had directed him to precisely where he needed to be. Standing by his car, he fidgeted nervously with his umbrella as he waited outside you place of employment. The words he had never meant to leave unsaid ran in a loop around his head, making his anxiety spike.
He was just contemplating how foolish this was, how you would react badly to this gesture, when he heard your voice calling his name. He looked up at you, his heart racing and a warmth building in his chest. Pulling on his usual mask of pomposity, he greeted you, opening the car door for you to climb inside. The words remained unsaid for now, but Mycroft was certainly aware that your absence from his life was intolerable.
Sherlock Valentine’s Day Challenge Day #03 [Mycroft x Reader]
Day 3: “I guess this makes you my Valentine.”
Valentine’s Challenge by: @prettyxlittlexwriter and @cfordwrites
Pairing: Mycroft Holmes x Reader
Warnings: slight angst, also so much fluff
Words: 1820
Writer: Anna
Written while listening to: Johannes Brahms - Waltz in A Flat Op. 39 No. 15 (Piano Solo) (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vDwKLNREaxc) It’s one of my favourite pieces! :) ♥ - Anna
“You look beautiful, darling!”, complimented your father while sitting on the opposite side of the limousine. Today was the yearly Valentine’s dance, held by the British Government. Every single person that had made her- or himself a name in British politics was invited to participate in this special event.
Your stomach had convulsed every time you thought about this celebration for the past few weeks. Even though it wasn’t your first time visiting a party of that sort, you still got nervous. Attending massive social events where every single person invited tried to show off their social status had never been your thing. In the end, all those parties were just frightening.
The whole evening you lived in fear to make a mistake or to offend anyone talking with. Being the daughter of one of the most powerful men in Britain had never been easy. There were a lot of false persons trying to use you to get into the political upper class. It happened in your childhood as well as in the early years of adolescence before you started to know better and learned of mistakes.
As a consequence, you gained a general mistrust of people, which was the reason why you practically had never dated seriously. Every time when a relationship was close to getting serious, doubts about the guy’s true intentions started coming up. And after the suspicions were seated in your mind, there was no chance of trusting him.
Silently you stared out of the window, watching the inner city of London flying by. After some time it all blurred into a mixture of lights and buildings. Being completely in thought, you haven’t even noticed, that the limousine started to drive up the gateway of an impressive manor where this year’s Valentine’s dance was held.
As soon as the driver stopped the car he hurried around to help your mother out of the vehicle, but father, being the gentleman he is, was faster. Being alone in the car for a short moment, you took a second to check if the beautifully done make up on your face was still flawless.
“(Y/N), dear. It’s time”, your father’s voice summoned while holding out his hand towards you, to get out of the car. Thankfully you took it because walking without tripping over the evening gown was quite a challenge. Even though the dress was beautiful, you rather would have worn something more comfortable. And the almost to the waist reaching neckline did nothing to diminish the nervousness.
Based on this request: Oh! Could we get a Mycroft Soulmate AU (fem!reader) but like Enemies-to-Lovers style? Soulmate Trope of first touch, world burst into color kind of thing?
Here you are! I apologize for the wait! *Familiar characters are NEVER mine!*
Pairings/Characters: Mycroft Holmes x fem!reader, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson.
Mycroft Holmes was cynical about quite a bit in life, but none so much as the idea of soulmates. The fact that one solitary touch could bind you to someone forever was utterly ridiculous. The idea of being so…enamored with someone simply because fate decided to put two people together was merely another waste of time by Mycroft's thinking. And what if that one person happens to be someone you cannot stand? Such as Mycroft and you.
It wasn't that Mycroft hated you, exactly. He wouldn't waste time on such a thing. But the two of you often got on like oil and water. Two clashing personalities. You were merely another goldfish in a large school of them and Mycroft knew for a fact that you found him quite a "pompous arse". Those had been your exact words to him. If debating with you didn't thrill him so much, Mycroft would never interact with you at all. At least that's what he told himself until the day Sherlock requested his help with a case. And yours.
"Why did I agree to this again?" you asked when Sherlock escorted both you and Mycroft to the crime scene. Or what he told you was a crime scene. "You agreed due to your insatiable curiosity, Y/N," Sherlock replied to your grumbled question. You rolled your eyes as Mycroft let you enter the room after Sherlock. "And because you didn't tell me your brother would be here," you muttered to Sherlock when you caught up to him. Sherlock didn't reply, instead choosing to head into another small room.
Just outside the door, Sherlock stopped and gestured for you and Mycroft to enter first. "Sherlock, what is this?" Mycroft asked, testily. The older Holmes' answer came in the form of the door closing and locking behind you. You raced forward and tried the door. "Sherlock? Open the door!" you growled out. "I don't believe I will," came Sherlock's annoyingly smooth voice from the other side. You turned and gestured to Mycroft as if to say, "Will you do something about this?"
"I'm afraid there is no reasoning with Sherlock once he's set his mind to something." You groaned a bit and mumbled something under your breath. Mycroft took notice of your body language. Contrary to how you were speaking, you weren't angry. Mycroft could tell. In fact, you seemed almost…nervous.
"Any idea as to why your brother locked us in here?" you asked after a moment. Mycroft paused to think, only for another voice to float through the door. "We're tired of the two of you whingeing about one another! So you'll be locked until you can speak to each other without fighting or complaining."
"Quite a brilliant idea from Watson, truly," Sherlock added to Watson's order. You took a deep breath and looked ready to ram the door down if necessary. "No need to be dramatic, Y/N," Mycroft said smoothly as he adjusted this tie. You glared at him but opted to stay quiet this time. Instead, you took to pacing the room as your mind tried to work out a way to escape your current prison with the elder Holmes brother. Mycroft watched your grey form walk back and forth across the floor, your brows furrowed in concentration. It was actually quite adorable.
"Do believe your incessant pacing will free us?" he asked, earning another glare from you. You stopped in front of him with your hands on your hips. "I don't see you doing anything to help," you retorted. Mycroft merely scoffed. "Sherlock and Doctor Watson will eventually grow tired of their game and will open the door. All we need to do is bide our time."
For some reason, Mycroft's words seemed to anger you further. "Can you stop being so damn calm and calculated for once?! Show a little emotion, Mycroft. Your own brother is playing games with you. You can't tell me that doesn't annoy you at least a little." Mycroft let out a little laugh.
"My dear, I am always annoyed with Sherlock in one way or another. You simply grow used to his antics and learn that it is best to let some things lie." You shook your head and turned to begin pacing yet again. "I just don't understand you Holmes men. I mean, really how-" Your sentence was cut short by you tripping over your own two feet. As if on instinct, Mycroft's arm shot out so he could grab you before your face could hit the floor. The moment his hand made contact, however, he nearly let you fall anyway.
Where the world had been varying shades of grey before, it was now filled with colors so brilliant and vibrant, Mycroft almost needed to close his eyes against them. After a split second, he glanced down at you to find your eyes screwed shut like you were still anticipating your body landing on the floor.
"Open your eyes," Mycroft ordered softly. You did and gasped when, Mycroft assumed, you saw your world was now in color too. Mycroft helped you to you to stand up straight. You let your eyes wander the room for a moment before they landed on Mycroft yet again. The two of you stared at one another for what felt like hours, just taking everything in.
"This is…quite unexpected," Mycroft finally managed to say. You laughed softly. "That's a understatement. Of all the people, I never would have guessed you would be my soulmate. After all, I'm simply a goldfish, right?" Mycroft sighed, wishing he had cigarette right then and there. "My dear Y/N…" You shook your head and stepped further away from him. "No. You hate me. I hate you. That dynamic works for us. It always has. This-This," you cut off with a sigh as tears formed in your eyes. "It's wrong," you managed to say after a moment.
"And yet, it seems, it is true. You and I are soulmates," Mycroft finished your thought. You rolled your eyes. "You don't do attachment or sentiment, Mycroft. I crave it." You moved to try the door again. You needed to get out of there before you really did begin crying in front of Mycroft.
"Y/N, have you ever taken a moment to consider that, perhaps, I have hidden the depths of my own emotions to shield myself from those around me that may hurt me? Contrary to your beliefs, I do in fact feel very deeply and while we do not often get along, I do not hate you. Knowing what I now do, I imagine it might well be impossible for me to do so."
"But could you love me? Even platonically? I mean, really love me despite all my flaws?" you questioned intently. When Mycroft didn't answer, you nodded to yourself before approaching the door again. "Think about it, Mycroft. Take time and really think about what your heart is capable of when it comes to me. I'll do the same then we'll speak again."
Mycroft watched as you knocked on the door again. "Sherlock. Please," you pleaded just loudly enough for the younger Holmes to hear. "I can." You froze at Mycroft's soft words, "I can love you. I am not an easy man to get along with, let alone to love, but you make me feel things I did not think possible. I fooled myself into believing that I didn’t want or need a soulmate. But I confess my life would be rather dull and lifeless without you in it."
For a moment, you stayed silent. Then, a ghost of a smile appeared on your lips. "Thank you, Mycroft. I-I suppose there are worse people I could have as my soulmate. Sherlock comes to mind." Mycroft tried not to smile. Really he did, but he couldn't stop the soft chuckle that escaped his lips.
(a/n: I hope you like it! I'm a sucker for a Soulmate AU with as many tropes shoved in that makes sense as possible.)
Summary: A chance encounter in an airport at a magical time of year might make a believer out of even the most logical of men.
Word Count: 2076 words
Prompt: Airport. Mutual Pining. Eyes meeting across the room. “You feel like home.”
A/N: This is the first of my Build-A-Festive-Fics so thank you to the wonderful @savvy-devine666 who put these prompts together for the enigmatic Mr Holmes. Hope you enjoy it, I may have got a little carried away.
In the departure lounge, the holiday spirit is palpable, creating a lively and enchanting atmosphere. The glittering decorations and twinkling lights transform the space into a festive haven, immersing travelers in the magic of the season. As passengers navigate through the terminals, the air is infused with a sense of excitement and anticipation, each step bringing them closer to the warmth of family and the joy of holiday celebrations.
Sparkling lights, glittering ornaments and garlands filled with holly and tinsel seem to adorn every surface, forcing the joviality of the season upon all who enter this artificial winter wonderland.
The sounds of classic Christmas carols fill the air, creating a harmonious backdrop to the lively conversations and laughter. The departure lounge becomes a stage for a symphony of joy, where people from all walks of life unite in the shared celebration of the season. The place somehow feels more than just a transit point, it feels almost held outside of time itself, where anything could be possible.
Mycroft Holmes, ever the embodiment of control and authority, sat in the plush surroundings of the first-class lounge, a haven for the elite travelers. The atmosphere exudes sophistication, but the irritation on Mycroft's face betrayed the inconvenience he felt. The hum of quiet conversations and the clinking of glasses momentarily ceased as an announcement crackled over the speakers, signaling yet another delay.
His brow furrowed in annoyance. The delay was unacceptable, a disruption to the carefully orchestrated schedule he had in place. He retrieved his phone from the pocket of his impeccably tailored suit and began to type furiously. His fingers danced across the screen in a rapid and precise ballet, as if Mycroft believed his typing could somehow command the weather outside. His gaze never wavered from the device, as though the intensity of his focus could single-handedly rectify the situation.
The snowfall outside the window continued unabated, indifferent to Mycroft's attempts to influence it. Despite the annoyance etched on his face, Mycroft remained the epitome of composure. The delay might persist, but Mycroft Holmes, with his phone as a weapon and his ice-cold demeanour as a shield, was determined to restore order to the chaos, even if only within the confines of the first-class lounge.
Mycroft's discerning gaze swept across the crowded first-class lounge, his mind momentarily shifting from the pressing matters of flight delays to the intriguing spectacle of human interaction unfolding before him.
His attention settled on a peculiar scene: a man, who seemed to have overindulged a little at the lounge bar, engaged in rapid-fire conversation with a young woman who appeared young enough to be his daughter. She seemed uncomfortable with the invasive nature of his questioning, but the man appeared unperturbed by her avoiding answering.
Further down the bar, an elderly gentleman called the barman by his first name. Mycroft's keen observation suggested a regular patron, a man who had traversed the halls of this exclusive lounge on numerous occasions. The over-familiarity hinted at a sense of entitlement, a privilege earned through repeated visits, and he couldn’t help but smile at the deference the bar staff paid the man. Clearly a big tipper, Mycroft surmised.
As Mycroft continued to survey of the room, he noted that everyone appeared to be bathed in the fake joviality of the festive season, papering over the cracks in their lives, and Mycroft wondered why people felt the need to cling so desperately to the promise of hope and possibility during the festive season.
Mycroft, usually the embodiment of control and emotional detachment, found himself in the throes of an unexpected internal turmoil as he observed the attractive figure across the bar absentmindedly stirring their drink. The subtle shift in his composed demeanour betrayed a rare vulnerability, and an uncharacteristic ache in his chest stirred his emotions. In his mind, he grappled with the unfamiliarity of this emotional response.
Blinking rapidly, he attempted to shake off the unusual sensations and refocus his thoughts. This wasn't the Mycroft Holmes he knew; the man who thrived on logic and control. It had to be the effects of sitting in what amounted to an oversized festive snow globe for far too long.
Despite the internal turmoil, Mycroft couldn't resist the urge to deduce. It was a coping mechanism, a way to regain a semblance of control. Not married, not romantically attached: these deductions flowed effortlessly. The presence of a book in your bag and your apparent nonchalance about the flight delays intrigued him further. As he continued to observe from a distance, Mycroft found himself at a crossroads, torn between the familiar comfort of his calculated control and the allure of exploring beneath the surface, the possibility of creating a connection with someone who had unexpectedly captured his attention.
In that unguarded moment, just as Mycroft was contemplating the probability of instigating a conversation with you which would make him somehow favourable, your eyes met his. Time seemed to stand still as a profound shift occurred within him. The man who thrived on logic and science, the master of cause and effect, found himself inexplicably lost in the depths of an unfamiliar emotional landscape.
The carefully calculated moves in the chess game of life, the strategic thinking that defined Mycroft Holmes, dissipated like mist in the face of an unexpected connection. It was as if the world had momentarily slipped from the moorings of reason, and he was caught in the uncharted territory of raw, unfiltered emotion. The air seemed to crackle with unspoken possibilities, and Mycroft Holmes, the orchestrator of order, found himself suspended in the magic of a moment that defied the logic he held so dear.
As Mycroft was caught in the whirlwind of his own thoughts and emotions, unbeknownst to him, you had not been quite as passive as he believed. Upon entering the lounge, your attention had been immediately drawn to the striking man in the finely tailored suit. The ambient glow of twinkling fairy lights seemed to play upon his features, creating an aura of both mystery and sophistication. Your observant eyes didn't just see the meticulously groomed exterior; they delved deeper into the subtle expressions that danced across his face; stern, frustrated, yet undeniably captivating.
In the backdrop of the festive ambiance, you began to weave your own internal narrative, a fictional backstory for the handsome stranger engrossed in the world within his phone. The tapping fingers and furrowed brow sparked your imagination, and you found yourself concocting scenarios that might explain his intense focus. Perhaps he was a high-powered executive handling a critical business deal, his mind navigating the complexities of global affairs. Or maybe, he was a brilliant doctor, eager to get back to the hospital where he worked in order to save the lives of several orphans who had been in a horrific accident, him being the only one who could perform the surgery. The finely tailored suit hinted at a life of privilege and authority, but the flicker of frustration painted a more human portrait beneath the veneer of sophistication.
Your eyes met Mycroft's, and both of you instinctively looked away, a fleeting moment of embarrassment shared in the silence of the lounge. Yet, as if drawn by an unseen force, your eyes found each other again and a soft smile graced your lips.
Caught off guard by the unexpected warmth of the encounter, Mycroft returned your smile nervously. His usual calm exterior seemed to falter in the face of these unfamiliar feelings bubbling inside him, threatening to breach the carefully constructed walls of his emotional reserve. It was a sensation he wasn't accustomed to, and the vulnerability it brought unsettled him.
Your hand rose in a small wave, and Mycroft hesitated for a moment before reciprocating. This was ridiculous. He had faced the most powerful people in the world, had even given some of them a dressing down, he could walk to the end of the bar and strike up a conversation with an attractive stranger. Surely it wasn’t that difficult. Yet, here he was, feeling like a teenager with their first crush.
With a mixture of anticipation and trepidation, he got to his feet and navigated his way towards you.
"Would you mind if I joined you?" Mycroft's voice betrayed a hint of vulnerability, a departure from the usual confidence that defined him. You, however, seemed not to notice his nerves.
"That would be lovely."
As the two of you engaged in slightly awkward small talk, there was a palpable tension in the air. Mycroft couldn't shake the feeling that he was not excelling in this arena, that the art of forging emotional connections eluded him. The potential for something wonderful lingered in the air, but he couldn't shake the sense that it was slipping through his fingers.
"So… are you headed home for Christmas?" Mycroft asked; a question he knew the answer to but felt compelled to inquire nonetheless. The conversation seemed to teeter perilously on the edge of uncertainty.
"Yes. I suppose so." You said thoughtfully.
"What do you mean?"
"Well… home is such a strange concept. Somewhere can feel like home despite it being the first time you are there. People can feel like home. Not just family, not just the familiar. Have you ever been somewhere and felt like you have been there before? Like you are remembering a place you have never visited. Or met someone who just feels like they are new but also so familiar? Sorry, that took rather a strange turn. When people talk about home, they mean the place they come from, not some abstract concept." You gave him a bashful smile, clearly embarrassed by your ramblings.
The conversation had indeed taken a turn into the realms of introspection and philosophy and Mycroft found that delightful. As you spoke about the abstract nature of home and the peculiar familiarity one can feel with places and people, Mycroft found himself drawn to the depth of your thoughts, drawn to you.
For a moment, the awkwardness seemed to dissipate, and Mycroft discovered that he did indeed understand point of view.
"You feel like home," he said softly, the words escaping him before he could stop them.
"What?"
"I said, Yule feels like home. The time of the year. There is something about it that just feels…" Mycroft trailed off, the weight of his words hanging in the air. In that vulnerable admission, he revealed a layer of himself that rarely saw the light of day.
"It does. There is something so cozy about the festivities. You can't help but feel something magical could happen."
Your response held a warmth that echoed Mycroft's sentiment and he couldn’t help but think what his brother would say if he heard this conversation. There would be severe mocking, but Mycroft found he didn’t much care.
The moment between the two of you was abruptly shattered by an announcement over the lounge’s speaker, signaling the boarding call for passengers.
"Well… that's me." You rose from your seat, casting a bittersweet smile in Mycroft's direction. "It was lovely to meet you, Mycroft."
“You too.”
As you walked away, Mycroft's gaze lingered, and he couldn't help but feel a tinge of regret. The encounter had been brief but had carried a weight of unexpected connection and shared sentiments. The lounge, once a stage for silent glances and meaningful conversation, now felt a bit emptier as you moved toward your departure gate.
The first-class lounge, adorned with holiday decorations and a twinkle of lights, returned to its bustling atmosphere as other passengers prepared for their journeys. Mycroft, still lost in thought, found himself contemplating the significance of the brief encounter and the unanswered questions that lingered in the air.
"What am I doing?" Mycroft muttered to himself, a sudden realisation propelling him to his feet. The urgency of his thoughts overrode any hesitation as he hurriedly headed after you. The encounter had left an impression, and he couldn't bear the idea of letting you simply walk out of his life.
The bustling atmosphere of the airport became a blur as Mycroft navigated through the crowd, his determined strides reflecting a sense of urgency that contrasted with his usual measured pace.
Mycroft reached your departure gate just in time to catch a glimpse of you preparing to board. With a breathless yet determined expression, he approached, the echoes of uncertainty and vulnerability replaced by a sense of purpose.
Mycroft only seeked you out to deduce you (aka, how Mycroft realised he liked you).
John and Sherlock were, without a doubt, the loudest neighbours that Y/N had ever had.
Gunshots at God only knows what hour, constant stabbing, banging, and so on. Despite this, she still considered them dear friends and the best neighbours that she had ever had. Sure, they were weird and loud, but they were also kind and genuine, at least for the most part. Alongside this, they also appreciated her baking, especially after long cases.
A gentle knock sounded on the door the 221B catching the attention of three people.
“You can come in, Y/N,” Sherlock called from behind the door, greeting the woman with a nod before turning his attention back to Mycroft whilst John smiled at her.
“Hi, Sherly. Hi, John.” She smiled at the two friends before turning to the older Holmes brother. “Hi, Mr Holmes.” Y/N greeted him with a smile. Although she hadn’t met him before, it wasn’t difficult to deduce who he was; the expensive suit and the fact Sherlock was glaring at him gave it away.
“Sherly?” Mycroft spat, grimacing at the nickname given to his brother. “Who on Earth would you let call you that?” He asked.
“This is Y/N, our neighbour. What have you brought for us today? I’ve been looking forward to this all week.” The sweet smile Sherlock gave to the woman made Mycroft feel ill. He had no clue who this woman was and absolutely no idea why they seemed to be this close.
“Chocolate cake, sugar cookies, and love.” She joked, beginning to laugh at the way Mycroft audibly gagged. “I’m only kidding. No love.”
“I should certainly hope not,” came Mycroft’s response, one which simply made her laugh again.
“Are you jealous, Mycroft?”
“Because of the cake, he is.” Sherlock interrupted, waving Myrcoft off. “No, I won’t take the case. You can leave now.”
“This is an urgent matter, brother mine.”
“Don’t care.”
With a groan and a roll of his eyes, Mycroft lifted himself to his feet and prepared to leave.
“I’ll leave these with you, just in case you change your mind. Goodbye brother mine. John.” The hesitation was obvious on Mycroft’s face, despite how well he typically hid his emotions, as he faced Y/N.
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr Holmes.” Y/N smiled sweetly, earning a simple nod from him before he left.
Sherlock, who had leaned to grab the tub of baked goods from the woman’s hands, rolled his eyes as Mycroft left and immediately began to eat.
It wasn’t long until Y/N’s entire life had been researched.
There wasn’t much there. No criminal record, a few jobs, occasional moves, but no sign of her posing any danger to Sherlock and, by association, John. However, the way Mycroft felt upon seeing her was unusual, so he decided to do his own investigation.
“Morning, Mr Holmes,” he was greeted before he reached the empty counter. “Welcome to my bakery! Would you like anything?”
“Just a coffee, please. Black.” Mycroft nodded, not returning the smile she had given, despite the odd feeling it gave him. She was evil and he would prove it to Sherlock.
“Coming right up! Take a seat wherever you’d like, and I’ll bring it over.”
As Mycroft occupied a seat, he took a moment to properly assess the woman making his drink.
She didn’t seem threatening: a content smile on her lips as she prepared his coffee, humming a quiet tune that he barely picked up on. In fact, she didn’t seem out of the ordinary at all, but the feeling when he first saw her – a feeling Mycroft couldn’t explain – had him needing to investigate her further.
“Here you go, Mr Holmes.” Y/N said, placing a hot coffee and chocolate cake on the table in front of him. “Sherlock mentioned that you like cake, so I grabbed you some. It’s all on the house.”
“Why?”
With a small laugh, she responded without hesitation. “You’re Sherlock’s brother.”
How odd, Mycroft thought to himself. She doesn’t even know me and she’s giving me things for free…
Despite his thoughts, Mycroft simply nodded, watching as she took a seat opposite him. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s quiet today so I figured I’d try and keep you company the best I can. I’m sure you have better company than me, though.”
“I don’t mind,” he replied before even thinking. It was safe to say that he didn’t enjoy the way his chest felt whilst he watched her smile.
Maybe she’s a witch? No, don’t be stupid, Mycroft. They don’t exist.
“So,” Y/N’s voice broke the man from his thoughts. “It’s a funny story how me, Sherlock, and John met. I was actually working and Sherlock bursts in demanding to talk to me. My baking stuff had been found at a crime scene and he thought it was me!”
“How interesting.” Came Mycroft’s blunt reply, even if he was intrigued.
“You listened to it, so you must care, even just a little bit. I think that’s a win for me!”
Mycroft couldn’t help the tiniest smile that crawled onto his lips, but he internally prayed that nobody noticed it, especially her. She, however, seemed oblivious to the movement, simply staring over his shoulder and out of the window.
“Anyway, what was he like growing up? Was he like he is now? Blunt and rude?” Y/N asked with a giggle.
“He wasn’t, actually. He was rather sweet. He liked playing pretend with his friend; he always wanted a dog too.” Came Mycroft’s reply. “His favourite thing was pirates.” He said with a fond look in his eyes. Sherlock wasn’t going to be happy when he found out that he had told her, but he couldn’t resist answering her question.
Mycroft watched closely as the woman in front of him grinned, the bright and happy smile a nice contrast to what he was used to whilst working with the government. He couldn’t help but smile back, noting how her smile widened further as he did so.
“That’s sweet. I couldn’t imagine that, to be honest,”
It was time to ask the question that was on his mind. “Are you attracted to Sherlock?”
“Sherlock?” Y/N said, bursting into laughter. “No, absolutely not. He’s more like an annoying older brother. Same with John. We’re just friends, and, well, neighbours too.”
Confusion spread over Mycroft as she felt the weight on his shoulders lift at her words; she was telling the truth.
“How is she?” Sherlock asked the moment he answered the phone.
“How is who?” Mycroft’s voice sounded through the device.
“Y/N,”
“Why do you assume that I know?”
“It’s obvious you were there earlier.”
“…”
“Well, that and Mrs Hudson told us.”
“Of course she did.” Mycroft said with an involuntary roll of his eyes.
“So, how was it?”
“It was fine.”
“You like her then?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, you went to see her. It’s quite obvious, Mycroft. Come on, I thought you were smarter than that.”
Mycroft simply put the phone down.
He did not like her.
The next time that Mycroft came across Y/N was when it was raining.
He hadn’t wanted to seem ‘creepy’ by seeking her out again for more investigations and deductions, so he simply waited. She was friends with his brother, it wasn’t like their paths wouldn’t cross at some point. Besides, he didn’t want Sherlock to think that he liked her.
“Raining real bad tonight, isn’t it?” The driver spoke to Mycroft. He was new, so Mycroft couldn’t exactly blame him for attempting some type of conversation with him; it was still annoying, though.
Anthea, looking up from her phone was what caught Mycroft’s attention. “I feel bad for her.” She said, nodding towards a soaked woman. It only took Mycroft a moment to realise who it was.
“Pull over,” he stated bluntly, grabbing his umbrella. He simply ignored the look he was receiving from his assistant.
It had been a long day filled with rude customers, and to make it worse, it was raining, and she had forgotten her coat. Today couldn’t be going any worse for Y/N.
Shivering wildly and soaked to the core, Y/N huffed, watching the way her breath instantly evaporated; it was clearly below freezing, but she held out hope that the rain would stop and she would be home soon.
Her hope seemed to pay off, though, since she could no longer feel the rain. As she looked up at the sky, she spotted a familiar face.
“Mycroft?”
“Y/N.”
“What are you-“
“Get in.” He said, pointing towards the car before wordlessly leading her towards it, still holding the umbrella above her, even if he was getting wet.
“You don’t have to, Mycroft.” She said as he ushered her in and shut the door behind them both. “I mean, I’m soaking your car!”
Mycroft, who could feel the heat on his cheeks from their proximity, simply shook his head. He was too focused on the way her leg was pressed against his as she sat between him and Anthea who stared at her phone with a small smirk.
The ride was void of conversation, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, the only noise was that of Y/N shivering.
After a moment of hesitation, Mycroft shrugged off his jacket and handed her it. “Here.”
There was no chance of refusal, Mycroft wouldn’t allow it, so with a quiet ‘thanks’, Y/N popped the jacket over her shoulders. He just found the chattering of her teeth annoying, was what he told himself.
As they arrived at the flats, Mycroft followed her out of the car.
“Thank you, Mr Holmes.” She said as they stood on the door of her flat.
“Mycroft is fine, Y/N.”
“Thank you… Mycroft.” She said with a small smile before bidding him a goodnight.
“I see you gave her your jacket,” Was all Sherlock said as Mycroft entered 221B.
It was hard. Very hard. Harder than anything Y/N had ever experienced. Having a crush was not easy as it was, but having feelings for Mycroft Holmes was the hardest thing in the world: he rarely showed emotion, he was blunt, he was rude, but most importantly to her, deep down, he was nice.
A small sigh left Y/N’s lips as she worked on her latest batch of cookies for the morning. He was on her mind… again. It was a common occurrence by now.
“We’re not open yet, sorry!” She called over her shoulder at the sound of the door opening. As she turned around to see who it was and apologise again, a blush rushed to her cheeks. “Mycroft! What are you doing here?”
Mycroft stood there, umbrella in hand, and gave a simple shrug. “I was on my way to work so thought I would ‘pop in’ as people say.” He explained, earning a laugh from the baker.
“Modern phrases don’t suit you, Mycroft.” She teased.
With an amused shake of his head, Mycroft took a seat at the table nearest her.
“Want some cookies? They’re fresh out of the oven!”
Mycroft nodded with a grateful smile, always glad to have sweet treats. He would never turn down anyone’s desserts, least of all Y/N’s; not because he liked her and didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but because she was a good baker.
The pair sat in a comfortable silence, Mycroft gladly eating his cookies with an appreciative look whilst Y/N worked on her next batch. There was nothing awkward between them, and there, surprisingly, never had been.
“Are you not at work today?” Y/N broke the silence with a question that was bugging her. She could have sworn Mycroft had always worked this time over the months that she had known him.
Mycroft hesitated for a moment. He was supposed to be there right now but had decided to visit you before. It wasn’t like anyone could fire him for it, he was basically the British government, after all.
“Not yet,” he lied, and he was glad that he was a good liar.
“Oh, okay! I’m happy you came then. I don’t want to bother you.”
“You could never be a bother,” the words fell from his lips before he even registered what his thoughts, and he noticed the blush race up her cheeks, as did she with his.
“Thank you, Mycroft.”
As he stared at her and her rosy cheeks, a million thoughts went through his mind, but they were all related to one thing: her. It was in that moment that he realised the truth, he did like Y/N, and he had been attracted to her since the beginning; that was what he was feeling.
Summary: Could the festive spirit finally give Mycroft Holmes the little push he needs to step out of his comfort zone and approach the one person who has captured his attention and possibly his heart?
Word Count: 1365 words
Prompt: Crowded Party, Mutual Pining, Tugging You Closer By Your Waist.
A/N: This is the fourth of my Build-A-Festive-Fics so thank you to the brilliant @russian-soft-bitch who put these prompts together for the wonderful Mycroft Holmes.
The grand ballroom of the Diogenes Club sparkled with festive decorations, casting a myriad of colors across the polished marble floors. Once a silent sanctuary of solitude, tonight it buzzed with the jovial chaos of the season for the annual Christmas ball, a spectacle not to be missed, not even by the impeccably dressed Mycroft Holmes.
Mycroft lingered along the outskirts of the room, his sharp eyes surveying the revelers. Every detail, no matter how small, was noted and neatly filed away in the recesses of his mind for potential use at a later time. The half-filled champagne flute in his hand and his stern countenance deterred would-be conversationalists, and he couldn't help but appreciate the opulence of the ambiance. Despite the crowd, he remained acutely aware of the exclusivity of this gathering.
The grand ballroom emanated a symphony of sounds, from the melodies of music to the laughter that resonated through the air. The festive scents of evergreen and spiced delicacies wafted around, creating an enticing atmosphere. The stark contrast between the usual solitude of the Diogenes Club and the lively chaos of the Christmas ball was both palpable and intriguing.
Mycroft's thoughts remained inscrutable to others as he navigated the crowd. He was polite but remained rather solitary, his inner awkwardness prevailing. Social gatherings were one of the rare things he felt he did not excel at, no matter how much he may have tried in the past. He was not good at small talk and often missed social cues which left him with a burning sense of embarrassment and inadequacy.
Overhearing snippets of conversations, Mycroft gained insight into the lives and relationships of other guests. The dialogue painted a mosaic of characters, revealing both the mundane and the mysterious that he wished to understand and, occasionally, be part of.
The lavish decorations, a testament to excess and elegance, transformed the ballroom into a visual spectacle. Unique Christmas-themed elements punctuated the opulence, adding a touch of whimsy to the grand affair. Mycroft, despite his seemingly detached demeanor, couldn't help but be captivated by the extravagant surroundings, the festive spirit sneaking in to take root.
Sipping his champagne, Mycroft's gaze gravitated to the far side of the dance floor, and in that moment, time appeared to slow. There you stood, positioned at the periphery, resplendent in your festive attire. The twinkle of Christmas lights cast a soft radiance upon your features, accentuating your captivating presence and drawing him in.
For a man whose heart was said to mirror the stoicism of his demeanor, an unusual occurrence unfolded. Mycroft's heartbeat, once measured and deliberate, now seemed to accelerate at the mere sight of you. He blinked slowly, as if trying to comprehend the unexpected flutter within his chest, a phenomenon which only seemed to occur when he found himself in your presence.
The sounds of conversation faded away, leaving only the joyous melodies of the orchestra, and Mycroft found himself drawn to you like a moth to a flame. His feet on autopilot, took him through the crowd with one sole purpose. As he approached, he couldn’t help but admire the way your eyes sparkled with merriment. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, and he took a deep breath, allowing him to savor the rare moment of respite from the burdens of his responsibilities. In this moment, he was not the embodiment of the British Government, or the responsible older brother, he was simply a man approaching someone he admired deeply.
You observed Mycroft's approach almost as soon as he embarked on the journey toward you. Patiently, you waited until he drew closer, a small but knowing smile gracing your lips as you offered a polite nod.
"Mr. Holmes, I did not expect to see you at a party like this," your tone carried a teasing lilt, and your eyes sparkled as they met his gaze.
Mycroft arched an eyebrow, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. "One must occasionally venture into the chaos of society, if only to maintain appearances," he remarked with dry wit. The comment earned him a light chuckle from you, and in that moment, a flash of pride bloomed in his chest at the unexpected achievement.
"I see. So, for appearances' sake, did you arrive this evening with a companion?" Your gaze gracefully drifted over to the dance floor as you took a sip of your champagne, projecting a nonchalance that was in strict contrast to the curiosity stirring within your heart at such a question.
"I did not," he stated simply, his eyes studying you for any sign of a reaction to that information. "I assume you are someone's guest this evening."
A small, knowing smile played on your lips at his deduction. It was an easy leap to make; the Diogenes was, after all, a gentlemen's club, and with the greatest will in the world, 'gentleman' was not a title you could pull off.
"I am the plus one of Lord Barrington's plus one."
"A plus one of a plus one?"
"Yes. Lady Barrington was concerned her husband would be too busy discussing business to keep her entertained, and so I am here as her companion, although the two of them have yet to leave the dance floor. They look like a pair of honeymooners, very much in love, even after forty years together," you shared with a touch of warmth in your voice, your gaze following the couple as they twirled gracefully on the dance floor.
Mycroft's gaze lingered on the Barringtons, his keen observation capturing the nuances of their dance. "An impressive feat," he mused, the faintest hint of nostalgia crossing his features.
"One worth aspiring to," you responded, a subtle warmth in your tone that resonated with Mycroft's unspoken sentiments. His gaze shifted from the happy couple back to you, his usually stoic expression softening slightly as he found himself silently agreeing.
"Would you like to dance?" The words had escaped him before he fully processed the thought, his eyes widening as he weighed the possibility of the potential humiliation—whether it be from you rejecting his offer or discovering him to be a less-than-agreeable dance partner.
“I would love to, thank you, Mycroft,” you replied, your acceptance lifting the weight of uncertainty from his shoulders. Taking your champagne flute, he placed it alongside his on the nearest table and offered his arm. If he was going to do this, he decided, then he would focus and, at the very least, prove himself a competent dance partner.
Concentrating turned out to be a far more challenging task than Mycroft had anticipated once he led you onto the dance floor and held you in his arms. Swallowing thickly, he found himself looking at his feet, attempting to recall how to lead without inadvertently stepping on your toes as the two of you swayed to the music.
You gazed up at him, finding this nervous and uncertain side of him endearing. A question lingered in your mind—was it the act of dancing itself or your presence that had this effect on him?
“Relax, Mycroft. It's just a dance. I've been led to believe you're rather good at such things,” you teased lightly.
“I have?” He raised his gaze to meet yours, genuine surprise evident in his eyes.
“Rumor has it you dance rings around most of the people you encounter.”
“Ah, well, there is a very large difference between verbal tapdancing and physically doing so.” He said dryly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.
“Luckily, this is more of a waltz.”
“Perhaps,” he chuckled, using the hand resting on your waist to pull you closer.
Mycroft could never accurately gauge how long the two of you remained lost in your dance. Time seemed to lose its grip as you stayed in his arms, the music guiding your movements until it came to an end for the evening. The once-crowded space had now thinned out, leaving the two of you as the sole occupants on the dance floor. Even then, he was reluctant to let you go, and the two of you continued to sway silently to the music only you could hear.
Summary: A bustling airport lounge had Mycroft contemplating the future and what his life could become with you.
Word Count: 1383 word
Prompt: Airport. Seeing them with kids/baby. Making you taste test. “You know you’re stuck with me, right?”
A/N: This is the penultimate part of my Build-A-Festive-Fics so thank you to the utterly brilliant @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek who put these prompts together for the lovely Mr Holmes. This can be seen as a second part to my first Build-A-Festive-Fic is you like.
Another year, another airport. There were times Mycroft wondered if it wouldn’t be more economical to invest in a private jet. The airport lounge at Christmas was a festive oasis amidst the hustle and bustle of holiday travel. As travellers awaited their flights, the lounge became a haven of seasonal cheer and comfort. Twinkling lights adorn every available surface, casting a warm and inviting glow throughout the space. Garlands of pine and red ribbon drape elegantly over counters and railings, infusing the air with the nostalgic scent of Christmas.
A towering Christmas tree, adorned with an eclectic mix of ornaments, took centre stage, its branches sparkling with lights and reflecting the colours of the season. Beneath the tree, carefully wrapped presents create a sense of anticipation, adding to the overall festive ambiance. Soft instrumental renditions of classic holiday tunes play in the background, creating a melodic backdrop that adds to the joyful atmosphere.
Mycroft lingered by the bar, a gentle smile gracing his lips as he observed you near the resplendent Christmas tree. You stood with a small girl in your arms, enthusiastically pointing out the various types of decorations that adorned its branches. There was a warmth in your interactions that tugged at his heart, an ache that had become all too familiar in recent times. The sight of you with the child painted a poignant picture of familial bliss, a scene that both touched and unsettled him in equal measure.
Sherlock's deep voice sliced through Mycroft's contemplative silence, injecting a note of teasing smugness. "Thinking about the future, brother mine?"
"I was simply observing," Mycroft replied, his tone steady, though a subtle softness lingered beneath his composed exterior.
Sherlock, ever perceptive, leaned into the banter. "Observing the love of your life holding a small child and absolutely not wondering about what that might look like if you had one of your own."
Mycroft's lips tightened imperceptibly, a flicker of irritation crossing his otherwise impassive features. "It had not even crossed my mind," he declared with a carefully measured hum, attempting to deflect the conversation away from the unspoken thoughts that lingered in the recesses of his mind. Yet, a keen observer might catch the hint of vulnerability in his eyes, betraying the depth of emotion stirred by the scene before him.
In the quiet recesses of his mind, Mycroft found himself entertaining the notion of what life might be like with a little one in tow. The prospect of sharing knowledge, moulding a young mind, and experiencing the unpredictable chaos that parenthood promised had begun to weave itself into the fabric of his contemplations. An unexpected warmth enveloped him at the mental image of guiding a curious mind through life's intricacies, embracing the potential chaos as a welcomed disruption to his meticulously ordered existence.
Despite these musings, Mycroft had yet to broach the subject with you. The various paths to parenthood lingered unspoken, a myriad of possibilities silently contemplated but carefully kept in the realm of his private reflections. Whether through traditional means, adoption, or other avenues, the desire for a family remained a quietly nurtured aspiration within Mycroft's heart.
Sherlock chuckled knowingly, taking a sip of his drink. "You may fool the entire everyone else, brother, but you can't fool me. You're a romantic at heart, even if you hide it beneath layers of bureaucracy. You are not the Iceman you once were."
Mycroft shot him a stern look, but Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow in response. The truth was, Mycroft Holmes, the enigmatic and powerful government official, had a softer side that few were privy to. The prospect of family, of a life beyond the intricacies of political manoeuvring and clandestine operations, was something he couldn't help but entertain since you had entered his life.
As you approached with Rosie and John, Mycroft smoothly shifted the conversation. "And what have you been conspiring about over there?" he asked, his tone impeccably composed.
You grinned, the little one in your arms giggling. "We were just discussing the best strategy for decorating the tree. It seems you have a budding interior designer on your hands, John. She has very definite ideas about what belongs on a tree."
Mycroft's gaze softened as he looked at the two of you, a twinge of warmth in his eyes. "Indeed, it appears so. Perhaps we should let our young prodigy take the lead in the decorations next year."
Sherlock smirked, detecting the subtle shift in Mycroft's demeanour. "I never thought I'd see the day when my brother willingly allowed his home to be decorated for the festive season. It seems we have a Christmas miracle."
Your laughter echoed through the air as you handed little Rosie over to John, a sense of warmth lingering in the atmosphere. Placing a gentle hand on Mycroft's arm, you remarked, "It's a season of surprises, after all."
Meanwhile, Rosie, in her father's arms, couldn't contain her curiosity, her tiny hands reaching for the enticing display of sugar cookies on the bar. Without hesitation, you purchased one, starting to unwrap it before a thoughtful pause crossed your face.
"Oh, do you think these might be a little too sweet for her? Mycroft, darling, can you try a bit?" You turned to him, holding out the cookie, expecting him to automatically acquiesce.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow, a mild protest forming on his lips. "Me?"
With a playful grin, you teased, "Well, you are the one with the sweet tooth."
The accusation, albeit light-hearted, was one Mycroft couldn't deny. With a small sigh of mock frustration, he broke off a corner of Rudolph's ear and placed it into his mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, he declared, "Not as sugary as one might think, given the season."
John accepted the cookie gratefully, making his way to an empty table where Rosie eagerly indulged in the festive treat. As you and Sherlock observed the adorable scene, Mycroft slyly purchased a couple of cookies for himself, slipping them discreetly into his jacket pocket.
Sherlock sauntered over to join John and Rosie, his penchant for imparting unconventional knowledge evident as he began explaining to the small child the reasons why Rudolph might be a female reindeer rather than male. Mycroft, standing nearby, couldn't help but wear a bemused expression as he watched his eccentric brother engage with the little girl.
"Your brother is infuriating, but he is surprisingly good with children." You mused, leaning against Mycroft and letting your arm slip around his waist.
"Unnervingly so," Mycroft replied, his attention momentarily divided, a faint frown forming on his usually composed features.
Sensing a slight distraction in Mycroft's demeanour, you decided to break the quiet moment with a question, hoping to offer some reassurance. "You know you're stuck with me, right?"
The unexpected inquiry caught him off guard, and Mycroft looked down at you, raising an eyebrow. "I am not 'stuck' with you; that would imply I am unhappy with the arrangement. I rather fear it is you who is 'stuck'."
Your laughter filled the air, and Mycroft couldn't help but allow a small, fond smile to grace his lips. The banter, the shared moments, and the ease with which you complemented each other had become an integral part of his life—a fact he wouldn't trade for anything.
Your words carried a tender sincerity that caused a subtle shift in Mycroft's usually composed countenance. The glint in your eyes hinted at a depth of understanding that made him wonder if you had somehow glimpsed his recent musings.
"I think you would be a rather brilliant father, just so you know," you declared nonchalantly, your eyes twinkling with genuine affection.
Mycroft, momentarily caught off guard by the heartfelt compliment, allowed a softness to touch his features. "Perhaps that is a discussion for the New Year. Right now, we have to sit through an eight-hour plane journey with a toddler."
His attention returned to Rosie, who was thoroughly engrossed in creating a masterpiece on Sherlock's shirt with crumbled cookie and icing. The amusing chaos brought a small smile to Mycroft's face, a silent acknowledgment of the unpredictable joys that parenthood might bring.
"First things first," you agreed, acknowledging the immediate reality of the plane journey ahead and the shared journeys which might present themselves in the not too distant future.
Summary: Mycroft shares a cigarette with you outside 221B, and feelings are felt if not expressed.
Word Count: 1013 words
Prompt: Sharing a cigarette with him under his umbrella just outside 221B; romantic but not official yet.
A/N: @russian-soft-bitch thank you for this request. I know it has taken me a while but I really like what I’ve written, and I hope you do too.
The landscape was grey, from the rolling clouds right down to the dirty slab laden pavements, the buildings merging into the murky mistiness of the day to create a swirling vortex of drab and dreariness which was the city of London. There was a chill in the air, despite the lack of wind; the heavy drops of rain hurtling down towards the ground on a straight trajectory, bouncing up from whichever surface they reached first. The ground shimmered lightly as the streetlights began to glow, reflected in the growing pools of water, the gloom creating the illusion that the hour was much later than the 4pm it truly was.
You pulled your coat tighter in a vain attempt to stave off the chill, a light shiver rippling through your body. Mycroft noticed your actions, frowning slightly, causing his brow to furrow in a rather endearing manner. A sudden warmth around your neck had you looking up as he nonchalantly draped his scarf around you with one hand, his other holding his umbrella. The soft cashmere smelled of his aftershave and you found your eyes fluttering closed as you inhaled deeply for a moment.
Upon opening your eyes, you saw him watching you with amusement, his face illuminated by the glowing embers of the cigarette between his lips. After taking a drag, he languidly removed the cigarette with his gloved fingers, the soft leather creaking slightly, bending and flexing around his digits as he offered the filter to you.
The sheets of rain cascaded around the pair of you, bouncing up from the ground to soak through the bottoms of your trousers and your socks. Neither of you registered the discomfort of your damp clothing clinging to your ankles. Instead, the rhythmical, soft thudding of raindrops pounding against the black umbrella he held aloft over the two of you had become your own personal soundtrack, covering the silence that blanketed your interaction, leaving only soft looks and a tantalizing tension which always seemed to indicate this was more than an acquaintance, more than two people simply in his brother’s orbit.
You took the cigarette from him, shuffling a little closer, but always careful never to make physical contact. There was always a buffer of a few inches between the two of you, something you both subconsciously maintained at all times.
He watched as your fingers raised the cigarette to your lips; unable to look away from the gentle pout, the softness of your lips, the intimacy of the gesture. Mycroft was aware of your chest rising as you inhaled, despite the many layers of clothing you were wearing, and he felt his stomach flip. Transfixed, he watched the way the thick white smoke curled from your mouth, almost taunting him. That smoke which had tenderly caressed your lips in a way he often wished he had the right to do, met with the chilly air, rising through the damp until it encountered the rain. His gaze was still on your mouth, his own lips parting slightly as his imagination began to run away with him.
How easy it would be to take you in his arms, to hold you close, to finally give in and taste your kiss instead of just fantasising about it. This moment, right here, where the two of you existed only beneath the shelter of his umbrella, would be perfect, if he could only find the courage to step off the emotional ledge. Yet, his fear of falling was too great. The humiliation of potential rejection stung as if it were real, and he simply took the cigarette from you and closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply, trying to calm his nerves.
Neither of you pointed out that you had your own cigarettes, or that he had a packet in his inside jacket pocket which would allow you to each smoke separately. This was not the first time the two of you had shared a moment like this, although the rain was a new touch. The easy silence between you where all the things unsaid existed was an addiction neither of you wished to give up. The strange thing was, this was now the only time either of you smoked. A cigarette was just an excuse, a reason for you to linger there with him, and he with you.
People hurried past as you both stood at the bottom of the steps up to 221, neither of you in any hurry to leave. Sadly, the cigarette was burning down, now dangerously close to the filter, the excuse to remain was disappearing as the ash fell, seemingly disintegrating in the air as your time together came to an end.
Mycroft’s brow furrowed, and, for a brief moment, you both thought he might say something, but the words never came. Instead, you removed his scarf, offering it back to him with a soft, grateful smile.
“Keep it.” His voice was low, a little gravel making its way into his tone before he coughed to clear his throat. “Your need is greater.”
You simply nodded, wrapping the scarf around you once more, and then the two of you parted company.
Mycroft fought the urge to turn and watch you leave; he preferred to imagine you there one moment and then gone the next as if by magic. That made all the times he imagined you being by his side easier somehow. He held onto the spent cigarette, the stain of your chap-stick the only evidence that you had really been there with him this time. Pulling his cigarette packet from his jacket, he carefully slipped the butt into it, wanting to carry around a tiny part of you just for a little longer.
Perhaps, one day, these encounters may end differently. Perhaps there would come a time when nicotine would not be the thing that joined the two of you. For now, though, Mycroft made sure he always carried a packet of cigarettes and a lighter, just on the off chance your paths crossed and he could steal some time with you.
Mark Gatiss and Bob from the June 2020 MCM Q&A. (The hearts are not mine. The panel organizers put those on.)
Mark also said, in answer to the question “What’s got you through lockdown?”
“My husband, my dog, the weather (chuckle), painting…
The simple things, planning food, watching junk telly, having a laugh…
Life, love, and art, the usual.”
