An Overheard Conversation (Mycroft Holmes x f!Reader)
Synopsis: Sherlock brings you home for reasons Mycroft can't figure out. It becomes clear when he overhears a conversation not for his ears.
Words: 3.1k
Warnings: some jealousy
Mycroft couldn’t parse a reason for Sherlock bringing you on the trip to their parents. A nice weekend to celebrate their wedding anniversary (an unnecessary waste of time in his opinion), and his younger brother had brought the woman living above him at Baker Street. And infuriatingly, his parents seemed delighted at your presence.
It wasn’t that he disliked you. He chose to have no opinion on you. You were meaningless. Yes, okay, his stomach always seemed to swoop in a rather distracting way every time he saw you. And yes, alright, just the sound of your laugh seemed to set his heart beating dangerously fast. And yes, fine, he found himself watching you more than he should. But that was all meaningless and had no bearing on his life.
Still, sitting in the kitchen at the table watching his mother peel potatoes, he could see you in the garden with Sherlock. You kept smiling at him in the evening light, pointing out something in the tree, face turned up towards him. His brother was being pleasant. His brother was never pleasant.
What was different about you that he was trying?
Your head tipped back, laughing, bright and loud enough to penetrate through the glass of the windows. You brought your hand up, brushing the hair from your face, the sunlight catching in the strands in a way that lit you up. Sherlock brought your attention back to the tree, your laughter slow to quiet.
“It’s nice to have a full house,” his mother said and only then did he realise he’d been so focused on you he hadn’t noticed anything around him.
He purposefully turned away from the window, keeping his back towards you. His mother’s chatter was at least familiar, almost comforting in its familiarity. It let his mind wander towards the important things, such as the incident going on in Germany at that very moment.
It was only once it had grown dark outside that he heard the door open, depositing you in the kitchen with a bright laugh. He tensed, jaw clenching, the thought he’d been mulling on fleeing like a cloud caught in a breeze. You fell into the chair next to his, still laughing, the cool brush of your arm against his making him tip away from you.
“I bet when the clouds aren’t here you can see the entire universe out there,” you said.
“The stars are rather beautiful here,” his mother agreed.
“I love the city, but sometimes I think we’ve lost something by packing us all in together with all our light pollution and fumes,” you said, leaning back in your seat, “you probably find that thought uncivilised.”
That statement was directed at him. He glanced down at you before looking away.
“If you wish to live far from the filth of humanity, I can’t find fault with that,” he replied evenly.
Sherlock snorted. His eyes snapped to his baby brother, the glower automatic. Your small chuckle stole his attention again. Your eyes were twinkling as you looked up at him, lips pressed together as if trying not to smile. He had to admit, even to himself, that it was a rather endearing expression.
“Some human filth is alright though, isn’t it,” you said, still looking up at him like you were sharing a secret.
Your arm brushed his again as you lent closer. He held his breath until you lent away again, your perfume one he found lingering in his senses. Even now, he could smell it, clinging to your hair, wafting towards him when you turned your head to look at Sherlock. There was so much fondness in your voice as you spoke to him the words didn’t even matter. His chest was aching uncomfortably anyway.
Over dinner your elbow kept bumping his. Staying silent, he found himself brooding on how well you seemed to fit within his family, far better than he did. His parents were chatting with you comfortably, the kind of thing he’d never managed with anyone. His brother was being considerate and pleasant, offering you the mash without being prompted.
And then there was him, silent, uncomfortable, doing his best not to touch you. Something you clearly weren’t concerned about. You barely seemed to notice your elbow bumping his.
You were so full of life, the whole meal felt like a moment stolen from someone else’s life.
It was over dessert that you seemed to remember he existed. Turning to him over the slice of cake his mother had passed over to you, your knee brushed his thigh in a way that felt like an electric shot.
“So which do you prefer, this flavour of cake or that lemon one we had at that fancy place?” you asked.
“He took you for cake somewhere?” his mother asked you, sounding offensively surprised.
“I asked for the cake at our meeting, but he did pay so I suppose so,” you replied, “so which is it?”
“Look at him, he has never turned down chocolate in his life,” Sherlock said.
“The lemon,” he replied, finding himself not even lying in his attempt to be contrary to his brother.
“It was pretty good,” you said, your attention focused solely on him.
“I find myself returning to it at times,” he said.
“Do you?” You brightened to the point of being blinding, “I’ll see if I can learn to make it.”
He didn’t have the heart to tell you the moment he really went back to was your first bite of the cake and the way your eyes slipped closed in pleasure. It was such a beautiful image he’d found himself holding on to it, even if the subject of the meeting had been unsavoury.
“That seems like too much effort just for him,” Sherlock muttered.
“Don’t be mean, Sherlock,” you admonished, “it’s nice to do kind things for friends.”
“Oh, you’re friends, are you?” he asked.
Mycroft was not enjoying where this was going.
“Yeah,” you said, “we are. So, take note of that.”
Your hand had landed on his arm, squeezing gently, a show of solidarity. He hadn’t noticed himself leaning towards you, but there he was, enjoying the feel of your warmth seeping through his shirtsleeve.
“Mycroft doesn’t do friends,” Sherlock said, turning his impassive gaze on his brother, “do you, brother mine?”
“Not the way you do,” he replied, as dry as dry could be.
You wrinkled your nose at Sherlock, a silent conversation going on that he was not a part of. He was used to this, being on the outside, but he wasn’t used to the urge to interrupt. He’d never wanted to be involved before. He found himself fighting the impulse to draw your attention back to himself, stealing it from his brother.
“Say what you want, but we’re friends. There’s no need to be mean about it,” you said, your voice firm, “this cake is lovely, Mrs Holmes.”
You turned back to the pudding, digging in with relish. Your elbow was still bumping into his, the argument done in your brain, uncaring that you were probably sitting a bit too close to him. Keeping up casual conversation with his parents, you were ignoring both of the brothers and Mycroft was finding that infuriating.
He couldn’t stand having your attention, and he seemed to not be able to stand not having it.
It was a relief to go to bed that night. To remove himself from your presence, to give himself a break from the strain of having you in his orbit, it allowed him to regroup. Of course, there was always the chaffing of staying in his teenage bedroom.
Lying in bed, he found himself staring up at the roof. You were only a few doors down. There was no doubt in his mind that you weren’t ruminating on his presence in the house. You weren’t uncomfortable having him so close. You probably didn’t spare him a second thought.
Sighing, he got up from the bed, thinking he’d sneak down to the kitchen for a glass of something that might help to send him off to sleep. Or maybe to have a secret cigarette. Anything to stop him thinking about you.
It took him an embarrassingly long time to hear the voices in the sitting room. He paused, recognising the timbre of your voice.
“I can’t help that I find him absolutely gorgeous,” you sighed.
He froze. That was definitely not what he wanted to be hearing. Just the thought of your romantic entanglements were making him feel queasy. He turned, still silent, aiming to make his escape.
“Oh, don’t pull that face, Sherlock. Just because he’s your brother doesn’t make it less true,” you said, sounding exasperated.
His heart did a funny thing, almost as if it was tripping over itself.
“My brother has no heart, and I promise it won’t beat for you,” Sherlock replied, disgruntled and doing no favours to Mycroft.
“Yes, thank you. I’m not stupid. I do know that,” you snapped, “as far as I can tell he doesn’t even want to tolerate me.”
“Better for you all round if you give up on it,” he said.
“I’m trying but did you see him tonight? That green was devastatingly sexy on him,” you said
“Please, I’m trying to keep my dinner down,” Sherlock said.
“Then be glad I’m not telling you the really racy thoughts I was having,” you said.
Mycroft was interested in hearing what those thoughts might be. Data gathering. That was all it was. Keeping abreast of how he was being perceived was important in order to keep his position of power. Or so he told himself.
“If you’re going to keep on like this you can leave now,” Sherlock said.
“Fine, I’ll go back to bed and fantasise about your brother,” you said.
Mycroft took a small step back, mind frantically trying to come up with a plan. Before he could cobble together something you were stepping through the door. Freezing, your eyes widened upon seeing him lurking in the shadows.
“Oh,” you said.
“I was getting a drink,” burst from his lips.
“Lying,” Sherlock called through the door without even having the decency to face him.
“I was also thinking about having a cigarette,” he said.
“Nope,” Sherlock called.
He considered you for a moment before turning on his heels and striding away. The kitchen was blessedly quiet, empty of any other people. He sunk down onto his usual chair at the kitchen table, wondering at what point his family would cease to be a never ending nuisance in his life.
“I’m sorry. You weren’t meant to hear any of that.”
His head jerked up, not having heard you follow him into the kitchen. On your bare feet you’d been silent, a useful skill he’d normally look to employ. This time, however, he was cursing it.
“I know it probably made you feel uncomfortable and if you never want to see me again you’re well within your right. I won’t even argue. All I can do is profusely apologise and hope you don’t kick me out in the middle of the night,” you were saying but he was having a hard time listening.
In your pajamas, a silky little thing showing off your cleavage quite fetchingly if you were into that sort of thing, and flannel trousers that looked a bit oversized on your frame, you were rather distracting. He hadn’t noticed it in his earlier embarrassment. But now he was finding it hard to notice anything else.
“And I really am sorry. I can’t say it enough. I really can’t. I am so sorry.” You were still talking.
There was no thought behind it as he stood, towering over you. All he knew was he wanted you to stop apologising. So he did the only thing he could think of.
You squeaked as his lips landed on yours. Your hands landed on his chest, burning through his shirt. It wasn’t exactly smooth, a clumsy attempt at kissing, but he was hardly in practice. Still, your fingers curling in his shirt, clutching at him as you tried to drag him closer. That was rather gratifying.
Only then he was reminded that you’d just been telling his brother how attractive you found him, and another flush of pride went through him. Which only seemed to make him kiss you deeper, as if any sense had left his head.
What was it about you that seemed to make him as useless as every other human on the planet?
You shoved at him until he crashed back against the table. Pinning him there, you were kissing him with the kind of enthusiasm he hadn’t thought anyone would feel towards him. His hands found your hips, holding you close, enjoying the way it felt to have you in his arms. You whimpered into his mouth, the sound going right through him. He groaned, low in his chest, wondering when it would stop feeling so good.
“Mycroft,” you mumbled into his mouth.
“Yes?” he asked, drawing away far enough that he could see your face peering up into his.
“I know I’m not as smart as you, so can you explain what’s going on?” you asked.
“Kissing,” he replied.
“Right. Yes. Of course.” Your tongue dragged over your lower lip and he found it impossible to look away, “sorry, it’s just…”
“Yes?” he asked, surprised how his voice came out in a low rasp.
“I didn’t think that would be something you would be interested in,” you replied, voice soft, “especially with me.”
“Why especially with you?” he asked, not able to see the leap in your logic.
“You’ve always been so… stiff with me,” you said before your teeth sunk into your lower lip. He found himself focusing on it.
“I’m stiff with everyone,” he replied.
“Not the way you are with me. You weren’t even acerbic or dismissive. It was like I didn’t even register as a person with you,” you said.
“You think I’m acerbic?” he asked.
“And dismissive,” you said with a small nod.
“But not to you,” he said.
“Well, no,” you said, “but you’ve never really been anything towards me.”
“You said we were friends,” he said.
“But I didn’t think you thought we were,” you said, “and also I was trying to annoy Sherlock.”
“But you are friends with him,” he said.
“Yes. That’s part of the fun. Just ask John.” Your arms tightened around his neck, pulling your body closer, legs slotting between his.
Ah. Yes. Right. There was that too. You were so warm, so soft, so lovely. His hands slid round your hips, curling around your waist.
“So this is something you want?” you asked.
“Is what something I want?” he asked, hands spanning the width of your waist, your skin so warm beneath the silk of your top.
“Snogging,” you said, “with me specifically.”
“Yes, I’d quite like to do that,” he said, keeping the unsaid obviously to himself. He thought it was rather obvious that he would like to continue kissing you.
“And will you still want to tomorrow?” you asked.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked.
“I don’t maybe. This might just be some midnight madness,” you said and for the first time he was able to see that despite how obvious he thought his feelings were, you were feeling rather unsure about yourself.
“I can promise you that I will want to continue doing this for as long as possible,” he said.
“Mycroft,” you murmured and he realised he’d never loved the sound of his own name as much as he did in your voice, “do you have a crush on me?”
He considered your question. He hadn’t thought about it before. Believing himself incapable of something so childish as a crush, it hadn’t even been worth contemplating. The fast beating of his heart said there might be some merit to your observation.
Because of course his whole attempt not to think about you was due to his interest in you and his absolute belief you had no interest in him.
“I suppose that word could be applied to my feelings,” he said, slow in his reluctance to have a word that brought to mind teenage girls giggling at sleepovers applied to his rather serious feelings.
“Oh good,” you said, smiling up at him like he was the best thing you’d ever seen, “because I have a pretty big crush on you.”
Maybe that word wasn’t so awful.
“I’m glad we’ve cleared that up,” he said, finding he still wasn’t sure how to be at ease when emotions were being discussed.
You hummed, pushing up onto your toes. Your lips brushed his, a teasing kiss, one that turned him breathless without any effort on your part. He wondered when you might stop having that effect on him. It seemed it would require some further investigation.
You nipped at his lower lip, tongue soothing over it before you drew away again.
“I think I should head to bed,” you said.
“Why?” he asked, arms tightening around you, unwilling to let you go.
“Because your mum might take issue with me getting you naked and riding you on her kitchen table,” you replied, eyes twinkling.
“Ah,” he said, “yes, she might be less than pleased with that.”
“So, bedtime for me. But you stay and have your drink and smoke,” you said, “and tomorrow we’ll go for a walk by the stream at the bottom of the garden and I might snog you against a tree.”
He hadn’t thought that would be something he wanted but now he was yearning for the time to pass so you could make good on your promise.
“Sweet dreams, Mycroft,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips, then slipping into the shadows.
He listened to you climb the stairs, knowing his dreams would be particularly sweet that night. He was anticipating for them to be full of you.
“You can thank me later,” Sherlock said, startling him.
“Thank you for what?” he asked.
“I brought her this weekend for you. It was clear you weren’t going to make a move without some prodding and despite it all, I don’t want you to be lonely,” he said.
“I wasn’t lonely,” he replied.
“Less lonely now,” he said with a shrug.
“Goodnight, brother mine,” he said, moving past him.
“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said.
Maybe he should be thankful everyone in his family already liked you so much. It made it easier when the next morning you pranced into the room, dropped a kiss to the top of his head, and no one said a thing. But the delighted look his mum gave him spoke enough for all of them.
Synopsis: When you're in trouble, there's only one man you call. And he always answers.
Words: 2.1k
Warnings: some mentions of violence, creepy men
You wish you could have said that you’d called Sherlock. He’d be awake, of course he would, and he most likely would be able to help you. If he picked up. But your impulse was never to call him when you needed something. Or, more importantly, when you were in trouble.
You always called the other Holmes brother when you needed help.
“This is hardly an ideal time,” Mycroft said into your ear.
“Mycroft,” you whimpered, “I um…”
“What is it?” he sighed.
“I know this isn’t exactly ideal but Carolyn went off with this guy she knows and now I’m here alone and some guys are… I just feel… They keep looking over at me and shouting and I’m not sure if I leave if they’ll stay here or follow me and I… sorry, I know this is a pain but…” you rambled, trying to get out the words you needed to say.
“Stay exactly where you are. I’m on my way,” he said.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
He hung up but you saw when the CCTV camera turned towards you. You hunched in your seat, fingers curling around the empty glass in front of you. Your eyes darted over to the group of men, drunk and loud. One leered over at you. You looked away as quickly as you could, going back to considering the ice melting in your glass.
The door opened, cold air sweeping into the pub. You pressed back in your seat, not risking looking up and inviting more attention on you.
Someone slid into the booth across from you.
“This is a rather depressing place,” Mycroft said.
You looked up, feeling yourself relax a fraction of an inch. He was gazing around at the pub, nose wrinkling in disgust. And despite the late hour, he was still dressed impeccably, the way he always was, not a hair out of place.
“Don’t bother, mate. She’s being a prick tease,” one of the men from the big group called over.
He didn’t bother responding, turning his eyes back to you. You released the glass, your knuckles aching from how tightly you’d been gripping it.
“It’s Carolyn’s local,” you said, keeping your voice soft, “she wanted to grab a drink so I met her here.”
“And she left you alone?” he asked.
“I told her it was fine,” you replied.
“It’s two in the morning,” he said, soundling less than impressed.
“I’m sorry,” you said, looking down at the fingers twisting together in your lap.
“I’m not-” He cut himself off in frustration before he softened his voice, “there is no need to apologise for calling me. I would rather you do that than have harm come to you. I’m angry at her for putting her selfish needs before your safety.”
“She really liked the guy,” you said, your only defence for your friend.
“Irrelevant,” he replied.
Your gaze darted up to him. He hardly looked happy, but if he was being honest, always a toss up with him, then it wasn’t you he was unhappy with. He reached across, moving the glass away from you, no barrier between the two of you.
“Come on,” he said, “I’m taking you home.”
His hand hovered over the small of your back as he led you out the door. You did your best to ignore the wolf whistling from the group of men who had been harassing you all evening. His hand landed on you, giving you the strength you didn’t know you needed.
You slid into his car, idling by the front door. He settled beside you, watching the door of the pub until you’d pulled away, leaving it behind. When he looked at you, you shivered, breath catching.
“You should reconsider your friendship with this Carolyn,” he said.
“She’s not so bad. She just really fancies that guy,” you said.
“You would never act so selfishly for someone you care about. Even for a man you may find yourself attracted to,” he said, dismissive, haughty, passing judgement without even knowing.
You stayed silent. Through your mind flashed all the plans you’d dropped when he’d called, all the events you’d left early when he’d asked, all the texts you’d left unanswered when so caught up in his presence. Not that you were going to tell him any of that. Unbearable embarrassment is all that would bring.
“You don’t agree,” he said.
“I’ve not always been the best friend,” you replied with a small shrug.
He considered you for a moment, eyebrows drawing together. You looked away, staring out the window as the night drenched streets rolled past. He shifted but didn’t say anything more.
“I’ll walk you up,” he said when the car had stopped in front of your building.
“You don’t have to,” you said, voice quiet.
“My duty is not done yet,” he said.
“Okay.”
He followed you up the stairs to your door, hand lingering on the small of your back. His touch was burning through your coat and shirt. Your hands were shaky as you tried to unlock your front door, not used to him touching you so much. His hand closed over yours, steadying it as he inserted the key into the lock.
“Thank you,” you said.
You stepped away from him, into your flat, turning to look at him on the other side of the door, still in the hall.
“Duty done,” you said, “sorry for calling you so late.”
“I’m glad you did,” he said.
“Why?” you asked, “I thought you didn’t do caring.”
He was staring at you like you’d asked an incomprehensible question. Sighing, you shook your head.
“Never mind. Thank you,” you said.
You closed the door on him before he could say anything. You stepped away from the door, wondering if you’d messed the whole thing up. It was possible he was going to go home and realise he had been acting out of character and was never going to help you again.
You flung the door open.
“Wait,” you called, only to find him only about a step back from the door, pretty much exactly where you left him.
“I’m waiting,” he said, raising an eyebrow at you.
“I do want you to explain why you’re glad I called you,” you said.
“Perhaps we should discuss this inside,” he said.
You glanced to your neighbour’s front door then nodded your head. He didn’t bother looking around your cramped flat, as if he already knew what it looked like. It wouldn't surprise you if he did. He was known for his surveillance skills. Stalking, some might say. Still, it made you feel safer to know he was watching you.
“I believe you had a question,” he said, turning to look at you, both hands clasped on the head of his umbrella.
“Why were you glad I called you tonight?” you asked.
“Your safety matters to me,” he said.
“Why?” you asked.
“I find myself feeling rather protective over you,” he replied.
“Why?” you asked.
“You do seem to enjoy asking questions like a child,” he said.
“I want you to expound on your reasoning,” you said, “better?”
He raised an eyebrow at you. Rolling your eyes, you brushed past him towards the kitchen. You flicked the kettle on, craving your cup of bedtime tea. He watched you.
“Do you want one?” you asked.
“If you’re offering,” he said.
“I am,” you replied.
Pulling down the mugs from the cupboard, you turned your back on him. Under his scrutinising gaze you were finding yourself feeling jittery. It was hard to keep yourself together when you were around him. Especially when he was finally answering some questions.
Especially when the answers were making your heart flutter.
Placing the mugs down on the counter, you took a deep breath before turning to face him again. He’d drawn closer without you noticing. You froze, not sure what to do now. He took another step closer.
“The thought of those men hurting you made me consider the torture I would put them under in retribution,” he said, “I got very creative.”
“Oh,” you said, not sure what to say to that. But the thought did make you tremble. You couldn’t tell if it was from fear or from arousal. Maybe a bit of both.
“You should know your continued wellbeing is important to me,” he said.
“Are you going to tell me why?” you asked, voice soft, looking up into his face.
“Despite my better judgement, I’ve found myself caring for you,” he said, voice deepening in a way that made you feel breathless.
“I thought you didn’t allow yourself to care for others,” you said, “I thought caring was a weakness.”
“It is,” he replied, sounding frustrated about it.
“But you’re doing it anyway,” you said.
“I find myself enjoying it,” he said, fingertips brushing over your cheekbone.
You shivered from his touch.
“Even if it’s a weakness?” you asked.
“It’s difficult to remember it’s a weakness when it feels so lovely,” he said.
You tilted your head up towards him, lips parting, an offering you hoped he took. His eyes were taking a leisurely path over your face. The expression on his face had softened, the danger gone as he gazed down on you. He took his time, lingering in places that had you heating under his gaze.
“I’m truly hoping you feel similar to me,” he murmured, “otherwise this will be excruciating.”
“I suppose it depends on what type of caring you’re talking about,” you said, voice equally soft.
“The kind where it wouldn’t be a burden to share a life with you. The kind where I wonder what you’re doing at all points of the day. The kind where I’d quite like to kiss you now, if you’d allow it,” he replied, head dipping towards you.
The whistle of the kettle was loud as it broke into your little bubble of conversation. You jumped, breathless and wanting in ways you hadn't known were possible. Turning away, you pulled the kettle off the stove. Mycroft dodged out of the way as you brought the steaming kettle over to the counter with the mugs, pouring the water in.
His hands landed on your waist, turning you once the kettle was no longer in your hands. He pressed you back against the counter, pinning you there, so sure in his movements.
“Mycroft,” you whispered.
“Why did you call me to come look after you?” he asked.
“Because I knew you would,” you replied.
“I’m sure others would have,” he said.
“Maybe, but they’re not you,” you said.
“And that matters because?” he asked.
“I feel safest with you.”
He let out a soft breath, not smiling exactly, but looking calmer, like you’d settled things in his mind.
“No one will keep you as safe as I will,” he said.
“I know,” you said, certain of it. He’d proven it time and time again that he was always going to prioritise your safety. He always helped you when you asked. He always answered your phone calls.
“May I kiss you?” he asked.
“Please,” you said.
His lips were slow to descend onto yours, kissing you with an intensity that stole your breath. Whimpering, you curled your arms around his neck. His hands were still on your waist, pinning you to the counter, pressing forward. You’d never felt so alive, nor so safe, as you did in his arms.
He groaned, kissing you deeper, pressing you harder against the counter. He seemed unable to help himself, the loss of control the sexiest thing you’d ever experienced. His hands slid around your waist, pressing into your spine, arching you into his body. You moaned into his mouth, muffled, fingers curling in his hair. The sound he made, a low growl in his chest, was going to be burned into your brain forever more.
And you were sure every time you revisited it you’d be flooded with the heat of desire just as you were now.
“I will always take care of you,” he murmured against your lips.
“I know,” you said.
He kissed you again, as if unable to stop himself. You liked this version of him, the one that seemed to be less in control due to you. You felt powerful. Dragging him closer, fingers tightening in his hair, his groan was filthy. You wanted to keep hearing it.
You forgot about the tea until the next morning, finding it stone cold, still in the cups on the counter.
Mycroft was certain this wasn’t what Sherlock had meant when he’d asked him to keep an eye on you while he was away. Of course, he should have known better. Mycroft was hardly going to check in by popping round for tea. It was so much easier to remotely access your webcam and watch on from the comfort of his own home.
He knew he should have stopped watching when you wandered into your bedroom wearing nothing but a towel. You were humming to yourself, searching through your drawers. Instead, he sat back in his seat, watching with interest.
He might not have admitted it, but he’d found you intriguing for some time now, ever since Sherlock had thrown you into his world. Watching you, he found he couldn’t look away, entranced.
Your towel dropped, leaving you bare to his gaze. He watched you step into a pair of knickers, black and lacy, and he wondered if you planned on someone seeing you in them. He wasn’t sure he would be able to continue if you brought a man into your room. He knew enough to know his jealousy would burn him.
You tugged on a jumper, leaving your legs bare. Climbing onto your bed, you picked up the book sitting on your bedside table. Recognising the title, he felt a thrill go through him. Even when he wasn’t around, you were thinking about him. You remembered what he said. You took his recommendations to heart and trusted his opinion.
He settled in to watch you, assuming you’d be lost in the world of words for a few hours. He’d seen it in person, the way you disappeared into books. Even around Sherlock’s chaos. It was admirable.
Watching you was easy. You might not be doing anything particularly interesting, but you were fascinating. Having the opportunity to study you unobserved was a gift. And not one he planned to give up.
He lost himself in studying you, memorising every inch of your body. Burning it into his mind, he knew he would return to this memory time and time again, finding comfort in your continued existence. Watching you breathe was a particular delight, chest rising and falling.
The intensity of his focus was why he noticed your hand pushing up under the jumper. Your eyes were still focused on the book, moving over the words, but your hand had found your breast, gently kneading it. He lent forward, trying to see what you were doing, knowing he wouldn’t be able to unless you took the jumper off. Still, he couldn’t take his eyes off the movement under your jumper.
He watched the way your back arched, almost unconsciously, offering yourself to your own exploring hand. Your lips parted on a soft sigh, and he wanted to feel it puff against his skin. He wanted to be the one with his hand on your beautiful body, feeling you arch into his touch, the warmth of your skin in his palm.
You squirmed on the bed, head tipping back and whatever you were doing seemed to have garnered your full attention. Placing the book aside, your eyes fluttered closed, teeth sinking into your lower lip.
He found himself leaning closer to his screen, almost breathless. You were a picture of beauty. He wanted more.
It was as if you could hear his thoughts. Your hands reached down, pulling the jumper over your head, leaving you in nothing but your knickers for his heated gaze. Both hands returned to your breasts, pinching and rolling hardened nipples.
This was definitely not what his brother had meant about keeping an eye on you.
Nothing in the world could make him stop watching. The rest of the world could wait. This was the most important thing occurring in the world at this point in time.
You were a thing of beauty, neck arching, lips parted, breath growing heavy. His fingers clenched, the itch to touch you growing unbearable. He couldn't tear his eyes from you, surprised anyone would ever give up the opportunity to see you in such a position. You were a goddess, splayed over your mattress, begging to be worshipped.
He would worship every inch of you.
He wanted to know what was going on in your mind, what you were thinking about, what you were picturing as you touched yourself. What had brought this on? What had prompted you to begin this action?
Your hand pushed past the waistband of your knickers. He groaned, wanting to see exactly what you were doing, his imagination not enough. He wanted to see all the details, exactly how you touched yourself, exactly what brought you pleasure. He couldn’t tear his eyes away.
You huffed, pulling your knickers off, tossing them aside. Spreading your legs, he could see you glistening in the light. You sighed as your hand returned to the spot between your legs. Your index finger was drawing a slow circle over your clit, such a pretty pearl just begging for him to kiss. Your hips pressed up into your own touch, head tipping back, teeth sinking into your lower lip.
He lent closer to the screen, trousers feeling too tight. He’d never seen anything like you splayed over the bed, giving yourself pleasure. This was the sight of his dreams. He hadn’t known how much he craved this sight, assuming it would not affect him as it was. He couldn’t catch his breath.
He groaned out loud when your fingers sunk into yourself, in tandem with your own moan. Your thumb had replaced your index finger, stroking the bundle of nerves between your legs. If he was in that room with you, he’d be knocking your hand away, replacing it with his own. He was certain there would be no greater feeling than that.
Your chest was heaving, your other hand still playing with one breast, so pretty to his eyes. He couldn’t look away. He thought you might be teasing yourself, your pace slow, even as your hips shifted, and he was certain you wanted more than you were giving yourself. Did you like being teased? Or were you trying to draw it out?
How he wished he could be in your brain and know what you were thinking.
Almost as if you could hear him, your pace increased. You made a small whining noise, music to his ears. Your legs spread wider, offering more to his gaze. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you might know he was watching. But you couldn't. There was no possible way you could know. But how he wished you did, and this was all for him.
Your breathing had grown heavy, fingers plunging within yourself. Your thumb was drawing tight circles over your clit. He could see your arousal dripping from you, coating your inner thighs.
And then he froze.
“Mycroft,” you whimpered.
He lent closer, certain he’d misheard. There was no possibility you’d just uttered his name as you touched yourself. You’d never indicated that was something you wanted.
“Please,” you whined, such a pretty noise, “Mycroft, please.”
He was never going to survive with you saying his name in that voice burned into his brain. Hearing you say it like that was bringing him to his knees. It was ruining him. He was never going to recover from it.
“Oh god,” you groaned, fingers growing faster.
He wanted to know what you tasted like, what you felt like, how you sounded moaning into his ear. It was torture to not be there with you as you moaned his name. He couldn’t stop watching.
You cried out his name as you stiffened, muscles tensing, head thrown back giving him such a lovely view of your throat. He found himself slack jawed, the echoes of your voice in his mind. You were so beautiful, the most perfect picture of desire he’d ever seen. He would capture this image to return to if he could, a private view into your pleasure he would clutch at with his entire being.
Your breathing was slow to return to normal, your hands falling away from your body. His eyes swept over it, bare and on display to his view. Your smile was satisfied, eyes still closed, resting. He ached for you, in ways he hadn’t experienced before.
A short time later, your eyes opened, stretching on the bed in a way that had his heart racing. Standing from the bed, you disappeared out your bedroom door.
He lent back, fingers unclenching, trying to ease his breathing. Without you right in front of his eyes, he found himself desperate to understand his madness. No one had made him lose control quite like that, to yearn for something. He’d thought it a passing interest in you, but this felt so much deeper, so much more intense.
It was going to be torture seeing you in person, the echo of your voice crying out his name as you orgasmed lingering in his ears. Unbearable to be in your presence and not beg to hear it in person. Inconceivable to never experience it for himself.
You had wormed your way under his skin and he had no idea how to handle it.
He slumped back, hand passing over his face, surprised by how shaky he felt. With his eyes closed, he still saw you on the bed, hand working between your legs, labouring for breath, his name on your lips.
It was flattering to know someone thought of him like that. He hadn’t thought someone would. Certainly not you. He’d had no indication you desired him so carnally. The flush of pride that went through him was wonderful.
You returned, still deliciously naked. Climbing into the bed, you rolled over, turning off the light, sending the room into darkness.
He sighed, the black screen only reflecting back his own face. He was flushed, almost dishevelled, staring back with wide eyes and a dazed expression. You’d rocked him so easily, leaving him unmoored without the taste of you on his tongue, the sound of your moans in his ear, the feel of you in his hands.
The next time he got you alone, it was certainly going to be interesting.
Forget bad boys, I want a husband like Mycroft Holmes. Intelligent, powerful, impeccably dressed, and fluent in sarcasm. Bonus points if he calls me 'tiresome' with barely concealed affection. Where do I apply?
The Perfect Sunday Morning (Mycroft Holmes x f!Reader)
Synopsis: You have a lazy Sunday morning with Mycroft.
Words: 1.7k
Warnings: tooth rotting fluff, domestic!Mycroft
Padding down the stairs on bare feet, you pulled the sleeves of the jumper you were wearing over your hands. You’d awoken alone in the giant bed, pleasantly warm and comfortable. Finding the jumper, you hadn’t been able to resist pulling it onto your body before you went looking for your husband. Burying your nose in the wool, you breathed in the scent of his cologne.
You followed the sound of classical music, wandering through the halls of the house. Stopping in the kitchen, you took the cup of coffee waiting for you, still steaming. You were slow to make your way into the living room, enjoying the coffee, rich and deep. You hummed along with the distant music.
Mycroft looked up from the book splayed in his hand, blue eyes sweeping over you as you stepped into the room. You smiled down at him, fingertips trailing along his shoulders as you made your way to the window. Looking out on the sun splashed garden, you curled both hands around the warm ceramic of the mug. You breathed deeply, the contented feeling washing over you.
“Is that my jumper?” he asked.
“You really have to ask?” you replied, turning to look at him over your shoulder.
“No, but I’d like to hear you say it,” he said.
“Yes, it’s your jumper,” you said, “I think it looks better on me.”
“While I agree, it appears as if you’ve forgotten something,” he said.
You turned, facing him.
“Oh?” you asked.
“Trousers,” he replied.
“Don’t need them,” you said.
“You don’t?” he asked.
“Who’s going to see but you?”
You settled on the couch beside him, kneels curled underneath your body. His hand curled around the back of your neck, playing with your hair.
“I suppose I can’t entreat you to go fetch the paper then,” he said.
“Not unless you want the neighbours to get an eyeful,” you replied.
“Best not.”
You shuffled closer, resting your head on his shoulder. His lips pressed to your forehead, your soft sigh resulting in a small lift to the corner of his lips. He turned his eyes back to his book, softly reading out loud to you as you sipped your morning coffee. His fingers kept playing with your hair until you were melting against him.
He knew how much you loved when he did that.
You let yourself sit there for a while, listening to him, enjoying the peace and the calm of your morning. The music was lovely, softly humming along under your breath, the low cadence of his voice making you shuffle closer. It was the kind of morning you’d dreamt of having one day, the kind you hadn’t thought could really happen, but here you were, living out your dream with your dream man. Sometimes you couldn’t believe how lucky you’d gotten.
Once you heard his stomach grumble, you sat up properly, laughing. His sheepish expression was one of the most adorable things you’d ever seen. Leaning back into his space, you pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of his lips.
“I’ll go make breakfast if you fetch the paper,” you said, “I want to do the sudoku.”
“Deal,” he said.
He lent back, watching you get up. His hand caught yours, drawing you back until you fell into his lap. His other hand, large and so very dexterous, cupped your cheek, bringing you back in for another kiss, this one longer. His hand slid up your leg, pushing up under the hem of the jumper you’d stolen. With such a featherlight touch, he could turn you breathless with ease.
You loved him so much.
“Go,” he said once he’d released you, acting as if he hadn’t turned you into a mess in his lap, “breakfast.”
“Yup. Breakfast.”
You stood on unsteady legs, finding his rather smug face looking up at you. You tapped the end of his nose, smiling when he caught your hand, pressing a kiss to the middle of your palm.
The sizzle of the bacon was loud. You had turned the radio on in the kitchen, hips swaying in time with the music as you made breakfast for the two of you. Before you’d moved in, the kitchen had been lifeless, empty, an unused room in the house. Now, you’d tried to bring life back to it, to turn it into the beating heart of the house. Mycroft had let you, giving in so easily when you’d first made the attempt. Now, it was one of your favourite rooms in the house, one of the rooms that held some of your favourite memories. The warm ones, the soft ones, the ones that made you melt with love.
Strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you against a body you knew so well. You hummed, flipping the bacon, feeling him sway with you. He dropped a kiss to the top of your head.
“Paper retrieved,” he murmured.
“Good boy,” you hummed.
His arms tightened around you.
“Bacon and eggs okay?” you asked.
He paused, long enough for you to wonder.
“What?” you asked.
“My diet,” he said.
“Cheat day,” you replied, “you’ve been doing so well, sweetheart. You deserve a treat.”
“Aren’t you my treat?” he asked.
“You have me everyday,” you replied.
“And I have been enjoying you thoroughly,” he hummed, face burying itself in your neck.
“Your bacon will burn,” you warned as his lips made contact with your skin.
It didn’t stop him, his soft kisses making you tremble. You could always make more if the current batch burnt. Turning in his arms, you curled your arms around his neck, kissing him properly. He hummed into your kiss, holding you close. It was soft, lingering, taking your time given you had all the time in the world.
“The bacon is burning,” he whispered into your mouth.
“And whose fault is that?” you said, spinning back around, flicking the bacon out of the pan.
“Yours for being so completely irresistible,” he replied, still holding you, “you’re perfectly indecent, darling.”
“You can’t blame me for your inability to keep your hands to yourself,” you said, even as you lent back against him, offering yourself to his wandering hands.
“I can and I do,” he said, hands slipping underneath the jumper, only finding bare skin on offer.
His lips continued to make their home on your throat as you fried the eggs, making you incredibly distracted. He murmured compliments into your skin, his plans for the day, snatches of quotes from books that reminded him of you, his voice a low timbre that made you shiver. You loved the sound of your husband’s voice, almost as much as he did.
“Breakfast is ready,” you said, interrupting him.
He released you, taking his seat at the tiny table you’d dragged into the room. The huge imposing dining table was so unnecessary for just the two of you. This was far more intimate, which was what you always wanted with him.
You placed his plate down in front of him, dropping a kiss to the top of his head. Situating yourself across from him, he extracted the sudoku puzzle from the paper, passing it over to you. You slid your feet into his lap, extended over the length of the small table.
You sang along to the radio under your breath as you filled out the puzzle, listening to the rustle of paper from your husband. The clatter of cutlery on the plates was the undercurrent to the music, your quiet comfortable.
His fingers wrapped around your ankle once he was done eating, holding on, thumb brushing over your skin in a soothing pattern. You pushed the finished puzzle into the middle of the table, leaning back to watch him.
“You’re getting slow,” he said.
“You’re such a prick,” you laughed.
“Six minutes. You’re slipping,” he said, glancing up at you.
“I was a bit distracted by the handsome man sitting across from me,” you replied.
He tutted but his blue eyes were sparkling. You rested your chin in your palm, gazing over at him, smiling softly. His thumb ran along the length of your achilles tendon, such tenderness in his touch.
“Are you going to watch me read this entire newspaper?” he asked.
“I’m just enjoying the view,” you replied.
“Not much of a view,” he said.
“Best view in the world,” you replied, not skipping a beat.
“Not unless I’ve turned into a mirror,” he said.
“Read your paper,” you laughed.
He tossed you the crossword next. You twirled your pen in your hand before getting started on it. If there was one thing you knew about Mycroft, it was that he didn’t like to be the one under observation. Even if you enjoyed watching him so much. There was nothing so wonderful to look at in the entire world.
You hadn’t known it was possible to be so in love.
You tucked your hair behind your ear, feeling him watching. He enjoyed being the observer, and you were happy enough to be observed by him. You knew the way he looked at you was nothing like the way others did. His gaze was kinder, gentler, softer. It was the way you knew he was only interested in seeing you in the very best light, his gorgeous mind painting such a pretty picture of you.
It was the feeling of being adored.
“Now who’s the one staring?” you asked when you were halfway through the crossword.
“Best view in the world,” he replied, parroting back your own words at you.
You shoved at him with the foot he still had a hold of. His soft chuckle was one of your favourite sounds. He tugged on your ankle. You stood once he released you, rounding the table. His arm caught you around the waist, pulling you onto his lap. With his arms around your waist, he picked up the paper again, reading the words printed on the page. You curled up against his chest, head resting on his shoulder, listening to him breathe.
His lips pressed to your forehead, soft and warm, melting you. There was no place safer than in his arms, on his lap, in his heart. You closed your eyes, letting yourself relax against him completely, trusting him to keep you from harm.
Synopsis: Sherlock has an insane favour to ask you of you, but it might just end up getting you everything you ever wanted.
Words: 3.1k
Warnings: jealousy
“You want to do what?”
Sherlock wasn’t even looking at you, eye pressed to the microscope as he searched for something. He’d summoned you to his flat with a text, expecting your appearance in that way he did. You’d entered the flat and without so much as a greeting he’d said the most out of pocket thing you’d ever heard.
“I want you to pretend to be my girlfriend to annoy Mycroft,” he said.
“Yes, that’s what I thought you said,” you replied.
“You have questions,” he said.
“Bloody right I do,” you said, “mainly why?”
“Do you not listen? I want to annoy Mycroft,” he said.
“Sure but why?” you asked.
“He’s been keeping secrets,” he replied.
“If there’s one thing we can count on from Mycroft, it’s keeping secrets,” you said, “why would pretending to date me annoy him? I doubt he’ll care much.”
Sherlock snorted but didn’t answer your question. You rolled your eyes, falling back into his chair.
“He’s going to know immediately we’re lying,” you said, “he’s better at the deduction thing than you are.”
He glanced at you before going back to his microscope.
“Don’t worry about that,” he said.
“Fine, but don’t blame me when this doesn’t go the way you expect it to,” you said, “and you owe me a massive favour to be cashed in whenever I want.”
“Yes, yes, fine, whatever,” he said.
“Cool.”
You sat, watching him, waiting for some kind of further discussion or information but it appeared as if he was done. You curled up in the seat, picking up the book John had left lying around, choosing to read it while you waited for the next part of his plan.
He didn’t seem surprised when Mycroft came calling not even half an hour later. You looked up from your book, smiling at him. He paused a moment, his eyes sweeping over you, so obviously lounging in his brother’s chair. Your legs were thrown over the arm, bare, still in your pyjama shorts.
“Hi,” you said.
“Good morning,” he replied, “busy day for you it appears.”
“Can’t complain,” you said.
“I’m assuming my brother is here,” he said.
“Kitchen,” you said, opening the book once again, “been in there since I got up.”
Technically true, given the first thing you’d seen that morning was the text for him, asking you to come downstairs to him. You’d even made your own cup of tea in his kitchen, in your hands, half drunk as you continued to read.
Mycroft’s eyebrows drew together. You looked up at him as you took a sip of tea, quirking an eyebrow. You’d always had a way of wordlessly communicating with Mycroft, understanding his facial expressions better than most. It was one of those things that made you think you could sometimes see the man under the ice. You quite liked the view you got.
“You’ve been here all morning?” he asked.
“Yeah. Why? Was I meant to be somewhere else?” you asked.
“He probably expected you to wake up in your own bed,” Sherlock called through to you.
“You spent the night here?” Mycroft asked.
“It’s been known to happen,” you said, “and Sherlock has a very comfortable bed.”
“He let you sleep in his bed?” He was full of questions today.
“Where else would she sleep?” Sherlock asked.
“Her own bed,” he replied, raising both eyebrows like it was obvious.
“I was hardly going to send her back up there when she was already in mine,” Sherlock replied.
His head was slow as it turned back to you. You gave him a small smile, going for bashful but perhaps coming off a bit smug. His lips pursed as he turned back to Sherlock. He stepped into the kitchen, obviously shutting you out of the conversation. You went back to the book, trying to ignore their hissed conversation.
You startled when a kiss was dropped on the top of your head, a warm body perching on the arm of the chair beside your head. You looked up, smiling at Sherlock. His arm curled around your shoulders.
“Can you get on with your reason for being here? Only we have lunch plans,” he said, his smug grin turning on Mycroft.
He was looking less than pleased at his baby brother, fingers tightening on the umbrella in his hands. You lent against Sherlock’s side, looking at Mycroft expectantly.
“I’ll have the files sent to you,” Mycroft said before sweeping out of the flat.
“He came a long way to just tell you he was sending you some files,” you said, “he could have phoned.”
“He planned on staying longer. Plans change,” he said, getting up from the arm of his chair and returning to his microscope.
“Changed quick then,” you said.
“I told you. I was hoping to annoy him,” he said.
“And that worked, did it?” you asked.
“You know it did,” he said.
“I still don’t get why though,” you said, following him, resting a hip against the counter.
“Don’t you? It must be so quiet in your brain,” he said.
“Right. Thanks. Text me if you need me,” you said.
“Dinner tomorrow,” he said, “my parents are insisting.”
“Fine,” you called over your shoulder.
Sitting across from his parents reminded you why the whole thing was a stupid idea. Mycroft was glowering behind his menu, not looking at anyone, foot bobbing. It was close enough for you to feel it, almost close enough to touch your leg. Sherlock’s arm was slung over the back of your chair, telling his parents exactly how the two of you had fallen in love. Your eyes kept darting over to Mycroft who was doing his best not to listen. You lent towards him.
“You okay?” you whispered.
“Fine,” he replied, voice tight, still not looking at you.
You lent back, further into Sherlock’s embrace. Mycroft’s fingers tightened on the menu. You looked away, back towards his parents. If he was annoyed or unhappy it was on him to say so, not throw a tantrum like a child. You couldn’t imagine why he would be. Unless he didn’t want you there.
You’d been the buffer between himself and his parents multiple times before. It made no sense that this time he was annoyed at your presence. Hell, half the time you thought he enjoyed your company, lingering when you were around a lot longer than when it was other people. This was like a smack in the face.
“Of course, we really must thank Mycroft. If he hadn’t sent us off to the Devon coast we never would have admitted this was something we both wanted,” Sherlock said.
“Oh Myc, you’re such a matchmaker. Always looking after Sherlock,” his mum said, grasping his wrist.
“Mycroft,” was all he said in a growl of a voice.
It wasn’t until dessert that he looked up at you instead of moodily staring down into his own plate of food. Sharing a slice of cake with Sherlock, you happened to glance up, finding blue eyes staring back at you. You felt frozen, the absolute anger so unlike anything you’d seen directed at you from him.
A thumb grazed the corner of your lips. Your attention turned back to Sherlock, just in time for his lips to press to yours for a soft kiss. It was surprisingly nice, if unexpected. Who knew Sherlock Holmes was a decent kisser? He drew away, a soft smile on his lips.
“You had some chocolate,” he said, voice low, intimate, making you wonder how he got so good at this.
“Thanks,” you replied, equally soft.
The scrape of a chair made you jump. Mycroft was already striding towards the exit by the time you looked over. Sherlock settled more comfortably in his chair, leaning back. You dropped your fork to the plate with a clatter.
“Okay, you've annoyed him, you can stop now,” you said, “it’s gone too far.”
“Yes, fine, go run after him,” he said with a wave of his hand.
You hated doing what you were told but you did want to follow Mycroft. So you did. Slipping past tables, you pushed out the front doors, expecting to have to chase him down. Looking down the street, you found him standing a few shops down, cigarette in hand, staring out at the rain.
Ducking under awnings, you made your way to him, trying to stay as dry as possible. He didn’t even glance at you as you stopped by his elbow, sheltered under this umbrella.
“That was quite the performance,” you said.
“You should return to the restaurant. Sherlock won’t like you being out here with me,” he replied.
“I don’t see why he’d care that much,” you replied.
It was a very droll eye roll that brought his gaze down to you. Your raised eyebrow only caused him to purse his lips. He brought the cigarette back to his lips, slow to blow the smoke out, away from you, still considerate even in his annoyance.
“You are his girlfriend. He is hardly my biggest fan. He would not want you to focus your emotional energy on me,” he replied, “not that I ever believed him capable of having a girlfriend.”
“Careful, Mycroft, you’re sounding bitter. Jealous?” You nudged him with your shoulder.
The look he gave you was so cutting you were shocked you were still in one piece.
“You really don’t think he’s capable of having a girlfriend?” you asked when it became clear he wasn’t giving you an answer.
“Sherlock is hardly like you normal people. He’s never indicated it was something he wished for before,” he said, “you must be special.”
“I like to think so,” you said, looking down at your scuffing feet.
When you looked up, he was gazing down at you with such an expression of aching you felt yourself reel back. You stared up into his face, trying to piece together why he would be looking like that. Why he would be so upset about you being with Sherlock. Why Sherlock thought you being his girlfriend would annoy him.
A seed of hope began to bloom in your chest.
You lent closer, watching the way his eyes darted down to the place your arm brushed against his. He brought his cigarette back to his lips, inhaling deeply. You inched closer. His eyes darted down to you.
“Mycroft, are you jealous?” you asked.
“Why would I be jealous?” he asked, trying to look as if he was unbothered. You knew him better than that.
“You seem jealous,” you said.
“There is no reason to be jealous,” he replied.
“No?” You inched closer, practically pressed against his side, “you’ve never wanted to be the one I was in a romantic relationship with?”
“You think highly of yourself,” he said.
“You’re deflecting,” you said, grinning up at him.
“It doesn’t much matter, given your feelings for my brother,” he replied.
“And what are my feelings for Sherlock? Go on, do your deduction thing,” you said.
His eyes swept over you before he turned away, looking back out onto the rainy street. His cigarette was almost down to the filter, and you were certain once he was done he’d be walking away. There was no returning to the table after the exit he’d given.
“Go on. Or aren’t you as good as you pretend to be?” you goaded.
“You’re comfortable around him and being in his space. You’re comfortable being physically close to him. You smile at him a lot. You enjoy spending time with him,” he said, “conclusion, you have romantic feelings for him.”
“Interesting,” you said.
“Is it? I don’t find it particularly so,” he replied.
“Well, I’m just wondering if those same things could be applied to someone else,” you said, “if you’ve noticed me having the same symptoms around someone else?”
“It would be rather unfriendly to my brother if I had,” he replied.
“So you’ve never seen me smile at another man a lot? Or enjoy spending time with another man? Or be comfortable being physically close to another man?” you asked, smiling up at him, your arm brushing his from how close you were.
He didn’t answer, staring down at you, eyebrows drawing together. You waited, wondering if that big beautiful brain would be able to put the pieces together.
“Are you suggesting you have romantic feelings for multiple people?” he asked.
“I’m suggesting that perhaps your conclusion is faulty,” you replied.
“Does my brother know?” he asked.
“That I’m not particularly interested in him romantically? Yeah I’d say so,” you replied.
“Then why was he playing happy families with you?” he asked.
“That’s a question for him,” you replied with a small shrug, “I’d rather find out why you were so jealous when you thought I did.”
“I’m not jealous,” he said.
“No? You weren’t hoping I’d flash my pretty smile in your direction?” you asked.
He dropped his cigarette, crushing it underfoot as he put out the smouldering end. You sighed, knowing he was about to walk away, taking the umbrella and your refuge with him. In desperation, you grasped his forearm. He froze, looking down at it, but you refused to let go until you got some answers.
“Sherlock was right. It does annoy you that I’m with him,” you said, “why?”
“Sherlock is a meddling busybody.” he muttered.
“Why?” you asked again.
He didn’t answer, jaw clenching, staring down at you. Your fingers tightened on his forearm, refusing to let him out of the question.
“Mycroft,” you whispered, “why?”
He shook his head. You sighed, wondering why you bothered. You drew back, ready to step out into the rain and go home. You were tired of dealing with these brothers and the games they played, especially when you were put in the middle of them. You took a step away, tensing for the cold rain, only to find him following you with his umbrella.
“He believes I’m fond of you,” he said, “I suppose this was his way of forcing the issue.”
“Mycroft,” you said, heart doing a backflip in your chest.
“Of course this could have been his way of proving that you prefer his company to mine. Not a fact I needed to be demonstrated as it’s one I’m well aware of,” he carried on before you could say anything else.
“Why would you think that?” you asked.
“I know how I come across. I don’t collect pets like Sherlock does. I’m not built for it,” he said.
“Are you fond of me?” you asked.
“That’s irrelevant,” he said.
“Not to me it’s not,” you said.
“Yes, I suppose I’m fond of you,” he said.
“It’s a good thing I’m not dating Sherlock then, isn’t it?”
You pushed up onto your toes, hand curling around the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. He jerked back, a full story of emotions going over his face. Horror filled you. Stumbling back, your heart was thudding in your chest. You’d overstepped the line so completely.
The wash of cold water left you gasping for breath.
“Sorry,” you said to him, still sheltered under the umbrella, “oh god, I’m so sorry.”
You were ready to turn tail and run. He was never going to want to see you again, Only then he was dropping the umbrella and reaching for you. He swept you up into his arms, kissing you like a drowning man finding air. You wound your arms around his neck, letting him lift you as he kissed you with a desperation that took your breath away.
“Isn’t that just so romantic?” a familiar voice said, breaking through your haze.
He was slow to lower you back to the ground, careful with you, almost gentle. When he did, you didn’t want to turn away, knowing you were going to find an audience watching on and that would be more than you could handle. Embarrassment was already eating away at you, the cold from the rain not making it any better.
“Couldn’t you have waited until I didn’t have to be around to see that?” Sherlock asked, sounding like a whining teenager. You rolled your eyes.
“No,” Mycroft replied, curling an arm around you protectively.
You turned, finding Sherlock and his parents safely sequestered under the closest awning. Mycroft stooped to retrieve his umbrella, lifting it above your head, sheltering you once more from the rain. His arm tightened around you as you began to shiver, keeping you pressed against him.
“Oh leave him be, Sherlock,” his mum said, swatting at his arm, “don’t ruin this for him. It’s his first time in love.”
“Is it?” you asked, looking up into his face.
“I told you. I’m not built for this,” he said.
“You are when it’s with me,” you replied, pressing up onto your toes to press a soft kiss to his lips. His low groan was soft enough only you could hear it, a giving in to you, a relief that he was getting what he’d been yearning for for so long.
“Seriously, can’t you contain yourselves?” Sherlock asked.
“Nope,” you replied, “it was lovely seeing you again, Mr and Mrs Holmes. I hope you enjoy the musical.”
You grabbed Mycroft’s hand from your back, threading your fingers together. Tugging on him, you began to walk down the street, not really sure where you were going, but knowing you wanted to be alone with Mycroft. He followed you, letting you lead, looking a little dazed.
“I suppose Sherlock also knew that I have a crush on you,” you said, musing on it, “he really was playing matchmaker.”
“Don’t give him the benefit of the doubt. He wanted to vex me,” he replied.
“Still, it worked, didn’t it?” You squeezed his hand.
“Yes, I suppose it did,” he said, gazing down at you.
Your shoulder bumped against his arm. You couldn’t keep the grin from your face, not able to keep your eyes from darting up to him. It was hard to believe this was actually happening, that Mycroft wanted you too, that he was allowing you to do this with him.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“That I’m lucky,” you said, “that I’m really really lucky to be here with you.”
Something in him softened, a small smile on his face lighting him up.
“I believe I’m the lucky one, my dear,” he said.
“We’re both pretty lucky,” you said.
He paused at the lights, bending slightly to press a kiss to the top of your head. You tipped your head up, and he took your unspoken instructions, kissing you softly. You sighed, certain you were never going to grow tired of the feeling.
“Definitely lucky,” you murmured when he pulled away.
Who knew a meddling Sherlock might just be the best thing to ever happen to you?
I fell in love with your Mycroft fics 😭😭😭they are so beautiful that I can't describe it with words in its full depth (I'm not as good at writing as you, so sorry😔). I don't know if you take requests or if this even counts as a request, but it would be cool to read something super domestic, sweet, and warm with Mycroft in your style. I can die calm and happy if I read dad!Mycroft x mom!Reader
I’ve been thinking about doing a super domestic fic. Our man Mycroft deserves some softness in his life. Not sure it’ll be about dad!Mycroft but it’ll be super fluffy
Synopsis: You're there for Mycroft in the aftermath of his sister's games.
Words: 2.5k
Warnings: mentions of stuff from The Final Problem
Waiting was a specific form of torture. You were going to destroy whoever had come up with it. You felt as if you wanted to tear your skin off, antsy, unable to sit still. You were driving the people around you nuts.
Pacing was helping a bit but there wasn’t a way to stop it until you saw him. You didn’t know how to function while waiting for that moment when you could reassure yourself he was fine. You needed to see it with your own eyes.
The entire thing had been unbearable. The moment you’d realised he was gone had sent you spiralling. When it had become clear his life was in danger, that something terrible might have happened, your heart had been caught in a vice-like grip, squeezing until you couldn’t breathe. Hence, being the most annoying one as you waited, doing all you could to not keel over in a puddle of useless anxiety.
The first glimpse of him was from afar. Stilling, you followed his path, fear gripping you when he disappeared for a moment before returning. He looked okay. He didn’t look like he’d been hurt. He was still walking.
Someone said something to you. You didn’t hear, focused as you were on him. Nothing else mattered to you but him.
Mycroft Holmes was the only thing you could see.
The moment his eyes met yours he seemed to stumble, foot frozen for just a moment. Not long enough for anyone else to notice. But you were watching him so completely, focused on only him, seeing only him. You were certain he hadn’t expected to see you there.
But where else would you be when you might never see him again?
You gave him time to address the troops, to report, to debrief, even in the cold night air. You kept to the edges, lingering in the shadows outside of the harsh light left to lit up the night, just watching. You could watch him forever.
It helped calm you. You were so intune with him usually, used to him in ways you hadn’t thought were possible. But he wasn’t unknowable and you’d put in the work to know him better than yourself. Seeing him in all his glory helped settle your heart, even as you took stock of his well being. He looked okay.
Even so, his eyes kept flicking up to find you, as if checking you hadn’t left.
Once it became clear he was done talking to the grunts, he turned away, immediately finding you. You straightened, watching him walk towards you, ignoring any further attempts to talk.
The last few feet you couldn’t help yourself. You launched yourself at him, flinging yourself into his arms. He caught you without hesitation, drawing you closer, arms wrapped around you. You clung to him.
“You didn’t have to come,” he murmured, low enough that only you would ever hear him.
“I did,” you said, “of course I did.”
And then you were crying. You hadn’t let yourself the entire time you were waiting for him, but now you couldn’t stop the tears. With your face buried in his neck, great heaving sobs were going through your body. It felt selfish. He’d been the one under threat. You’d done nothing. You had always been safe. And yet you were the one uncontrollably sobbing into his shoulder.
His arms tightened around you, almost crushing you against him. It was the most emotion you’d seen in him in public in quite a while. His nose was buried in your hair and you thought his eyes were probably closed as he breathed, holding you like he was never going to let you go.
“Don’t you ever do that again,” you said, half garbled through your sobs.
“I don’t plan to,” he replied, sounding far more put together than you did.
“Good, because I don’t think I can survive without you,” you said.
His lips pressed to the top of your head, a deep inhale letting you know how strong his emotions were. Normally so put together, in his arms you were reminded of how human he was. You felt the privilege of being the one who could undo him, and being the person who got to see him so undone.
“Can we go home?” you asked as the tears began to stop.
You ducked out from his shoulder, looking up into familiar blue eyes. The expression on his face broke your heart. It was almost like he couldn’t believe you were there with him.
“I’m afraid there is going to have to be a meeting,” he said, “they’re bringing mummy and daddy to be appraised of the situation.”
“That'll be a fun conversation,” you laughed through the last of your tears.
His indulgent smile had you chuckling. Falling forward, you pressed your face to his chest, listening to his heart beat beneath his skin. His hand came up to cradle the base of your skull, gentle as he held you close.
“I would like nothing more than to be home with you after the day I’ve had,” he murmured.
“So do. What’s the point of being in charge if you can’t bunk off once in a while?” you whispered, “deal with it tomorrow.”
He was silent as he considered your request. His lips pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head.
“Alright,” he said, so simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world to give in to your requests.
“I hope you know I’m not letting you out of my sight,” you said.
“That may cause some serious trouble down the line,” he said.
“Don’t care,” you muttered, tightening your arms around him.
“Whatever you want,” he promised.
He must have been seriously shaken. That was basically him saying he would give you the world, to promise so much without exception. No caveats. No conditions. Just a promise.
“What I want right now is a kiss,” you said.
You pushed up onto your toes, your lips pressing to his. He let you, kissing you back like he’d thought he’d never do it again. Like this was extra time he hadn’t thought he’d get with you. Like he was feeling how lucky he was to still be there with you.
With the way you were clutching him, he could probably tell that you were feeling the same.
“We have an audience,” he mumbled against your lips.
“I don’t care.”
You kissed him again, needing to feel him. He was still so alive. He was there with you. You had him in your arms and you weren’t ever going to let him go again.
“Sir?”
He took his time breaking away from you, forehead pressing to yours. He let you go, turning to the grunt.
“The car is waiting, sir,” he said.
His hand on the small of your back, comforting in its familiarity, led you towards the car. You slid in beside him, grasping his hand in both of yours, holding it in your lap.
“Are you going to be okay?” you asked.
“I’m fine,” he replied.
“Physically but I meant in that beautiful brain of yours,” you said.
You pulled his hand up to your lips, not able to help it, enjoying the feel of his still warm skin. His face had closed off but you’d known he wouldn’t be pleased with your question. He hated being perceived as human, even by you. But it was up to you to remind him he didn’t have to be the pillar of strength he saw himself as.
“I’m fine,” he said again.
“Okay,” you said, pressing another kiss to the back of his fingers.
Silence reigned the rest of the car ride home. He was staring out the window, but he hadn’t taken his hand back, which told you enough about his feelings. He might not want to admit it, but he was shaken.
Once the front door of your home was closed, leaving the two of you alone, outside of the watchful gaze of anyone, he sighed, shoulders slumping. You tangled your fingers with his, guiding him up the stairs, into your bedroom. You were slow to slip the blazer from his shoulders.
“Bath?” you asked.
“Please,” he sighed.
You left him on the bed, going into the bathroom to run hot water into the bath. Running your fingers through it, you wondered if he’d ever tell you exactly what he’d been through. You assumed not. He kept so much inside.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, staring into space, when you returned. Cupping his cheeks, you lent forward, placing a kiss on his brow.
“Come on, love,” you said, “it’s all ready for you.”
You helped him strip out of his clothes, slow and steady. Taking care of him was a privilege you never took for granted. He stepped in, grimacing at the heat as he slowly lowered into the water.
“Are you coming in?” he asked.
“Do you want me to?” you asked in return.
“Please,” he said.
You stripped down, climbing in with him. He settled you between his legs, curling his arms around his waist. You lent back against his chest, his chin resting on your shoulder. He didn’t say anything, just holding you close as he got lost in thought.
“I thought she might have taken you,” he murmured once the water had cooled down a bit.
“I was safe,” you said, “you made sure I was.”
“She wanted to torture us,” he murmured, arms tightening around you.
“Too bad for her that position in your life has already been filled by me,” you said, hoping your joke landed well.
“Caring for you has never been torture,” he murmured, face burying itself in your neck.
“Except for those early days when you refused to believe your own eyes about how smitten I was with you,” you said.
“Yes, except then,” he replied easily.
“You’re being rather sentimental,” you said, “it’s nice.”
“Thinking about our childhood has brought it out I suppose,” he said.
You marinated a little longer, letting him guide the conversation. You were happy to give him whatever he needed, especially given he’d promised you the same. Now you’d calmed, no longer thinking about the worst case scenario, it was easy to centre his needs.
“The entire time we were in there,” he began, emerging from your neck, “I couldn’t stop imagining what she would do to you. The horror of watching it. Losing you. I can’t…”
The words had run out. You shifted in the bath, uncaring of the water that might be sloshing over the sides, winding your arms around his neck.
“I can’t lose you,” he whispered.
Your lips found his, a soft kiss, sweet, lingering, nothing more than needing to show him how you felt. Needing him to feel you there with him. His hands were stroking your skin, feeling as you breathed.
“I’m getting pruney,” he said once you'd turned back again, lounging against his chest.
“Do you want to get out?” you asked.
“In a moment.”
Once the water had turned cold, he let you drag him from the bath and back into bed. He curled against your side, head resting on your chest, your arms around him. You dragged your fingertips over his skin, drawing mindless patterns until he fell asleep, cradled against you.
You spent most of the night watching him, not able to help yourself. There was that worry still, that if you closed your eyes he would disappear. You weren’t willing to risk it. Plus, there was joy in just watching him sleep, to study him at his most relaxed, to feel him in your arms.
In the end, he only managed to get a few hours of sleep before he was being called into the office. His parents had arrived and your bubble had burst. The real world was demanding things of him once again. No rest for the most powerful man in the country.
You trailed him to his office, making good on your promise not to let him out of your sight. His parents were already there, waiting. He straightened, muscles tensing. Pulling away from you, he sat behind his desk, reclaiming the power he so desperately needed.
“You okay?” you asked Sherlock in a low voice, leaning against the wall beside him.
“Never better,” he replied, but you could see how not true that was.
Your eyes itched with fatigue. Sinking down onto the ground, you sat with crossed legs, resting your head against the wall, keeping your gaze on Mycroft. You didn’t often see him in this mode, used to something slightly softer in the privacy of your home.
“She is my wife and she shall stay,” he said, voice hard, and you realised you’d zoned out, not listening to anyone else.
“She’s your wife? You married her?” his mother demanded.
“Of course I married her,” he snapped.
“Did you know about this?” she asked, craning in her chair to look at Sherlock.
“Of course,” he said.
“He and John were our witnesses,” you said quietly.
Mycroft’s eyes dragged down to you, softening for a moment before he returned to his parents, hardening, returning to the ice man everyone thought he was. You rested your head back against the wall, zoning out again. You knew the story. You didn’t need to listen. As long as you could see your husband you were okay.
Which means you saw the exact moment his mother’s words hit him. You straightened, ready to fight. His mother already didn’t like you, clearly, so what did it matter if you argued with her. She couldn’t dislike you any more. And as long as she wanted her eldest child in her life, she would have to put up with you.
Only then you didn’t have to. His parents were leaving the office, Sherlock lingering for a moment before following him. You watched him deflate in his chair, his hand passing over his face. Climbing to your feet, you made your way over to him on soft feet. His hands grasped your hips, pulling you onto his lap without looking at you.
You threaded your fingers through his hair, holding him close. He breathed in deeply and when he finally looked at you the mask was back in place.
“I suppose I won’t be able to entreat you to return home while I work,” he said.
“Nope,” you said.
You laid a kiss on his lips, letting him know you loved him and you were always on his side. He was your favourite of the Holmes, something he probably didn’t hear often enough. You just hoped he knew it when it came from you.
And if you fell asleep in his lap as he worked, you figured he had to be feeling it, given he didn’t complain about it once.
Synopsis: When secrets are revealed, your arrangement with Mycroft might be in jeopardy.
Words: 6.6k
Warnings: smut, jealous Sherlock
The room was dark, shrouded in shadows. The fire had fallen into embers hours ago, leaving the air chilled against your bare skin. The mattress was firm beneath you, but the pillows were plush and the duvet thick. Stretching, you felt a delicious ache in your body.
You rolled, expecting a warm body beside you to curl against but although the sheets were still warm, there was no one there. You sighed, rolling over again, staring into the embers. You gave yourself a maximum of fifteen minutes before you were being ushered out of the house in the dead of night, dressed back in the clothes scattered across the floor.
He only ever gave you snatched moments. Fifteen minutes was all you could ever hope for.
Still, he’d let you nap first. That was a kindness you weren’t expecting. But now it must be the middle of the night, more likely the early hours of the morning, and he had disappeared. You buried your face in the pillow, not sure you were up to making the trek across London right now.
Soft footsteps. You sighed, rolling over again, gathering your energy to sit up. The mattress dipped and you felt the covers tug. A warm body settled beside you, lying as you sat.
“I know, I know. I’m just about to head out,” you said.
“I’ll have my driver drop you at Baker Street,” Mycroft said.
“Can’t. Sherlock will notice,” you replied, sitting up properly.
“You assume he hasn’t already,” he said.
You gazed down at him, wondering at what point you’d stop getting a thrill of seeing him so undressed. The smattering of hair on his chest always felt so good against your skin, his skin warm where it met yours.
“You know Sherlock. He wouldn’t keep quiet if he knew. He’s never been one to hold his tongue and he’s said nothing,” you said.
You climbed out of the bed, knowing that lingering would only make your heart ache in ways you couldn’t put into words yet. Under his watchful gaze, you dragged your clothes back onto your body.
“A taxi then,” he said.
You glanced over your shoulder at him, lips pulling up into a small smile.
“Fine,” you said, “if it’ll ease your worry.”
He let it go, the poke at his emotions, giving you a tight lipped smile. Still, when you slid into the taxi he called, you felt the unspoken care. He might pretend, but he could be so like his brother when he cared for someone.
You hadn’t meant for it to happen. When you’d met Mycroft, he’d just been Sherlock’s big brother, dropping in occasionally, calling you when he was worried about his little brother’s mental state and John wouldn’t tell him. Always at a distance, always not quite a real person, mostly a man in the shadows, watching, always watching. He was never meant to matter to you.
But then one night he’d found you at a bar. You’d been out with friends and he’d needed to talk to you about Sherlock. He’d complained you hadn’t been picking up your phone. You’d accused him of stalking. So you told him to buy you a drink and you might have been flirting, but he bought you the drink so he might have been flirting back.
When he’d come to you with the proposition, you wish you could have said you’d thought it over, really thought about your decision. But you hadn’t. He’d suggested it, you said yes, and then you were on your way to his home. It was mutually beneficial. Both of you got what you needed from it. Without discussing it, you both agreed Sherlock shouldn’t find out.
He could get so territorial over his friends.
Now, months later, you spent most of your Friday nights in Mycroft’s bed. Sherlock had yet to find out, and you had no interest in ending your arrangement. Although, your feelings had changed. That was perfectly understandable for a normal person such as yourself. You weren’t expecting anything to come of it.
Climbing out of the taxi, you looked up at 221, taking a deep breath. There was no sneaking in, not with Sherlock bound to hear you on the stairs. The best you could do was scare him off by talking about your sex life.
“Another one night stand,” Sherlock said from inside his apartment.
“No complaints from me,” you said, “a very satisfying night.”
You got a small thrill from talking about his brother without him knowing.
“Clearly. Except for the fact he threw you out after you were done,” he said.
“No need to be mean, Sherlock,” you called as you mounted your own stairs to the flat above, “just because one of us had a night full of pleasure while the other was bored.”
You’d read the texts from John on the way home. You knew Mrs Hudson had confiscated his gun. Nothing shut Sherlock up like hitting back when he thought he was being so clever. Even if what he said hit a bit too close to the bruise in your heart.
Still, the next Friday you made your way to the prearranged spot to be picked up by Mycroft’s car. And the one after that. And the next.
You were gasping for breath, your moan loud, sweat beading at your temple. Mycroft’s thrusts were slow, taking you apart inch by inch. With your thigh hitched over his hip, he could drive deeply into you. He was watching you, so intent as he aimed to draw out as much pleasure as possible.
His name on your lips urged him on, pace increasingly minutely. Your fingers were digging into the skin of his back as you arched towards him, offering yourself to him. With one hand planted by your head to keep him from crushing you, the other was squeezing at your breast, playing with your peaked nipple. You dragged him down into a kiss, teeth nipping at his bottom lip.
The loud ringing of his phone was everything you didn’t want to hear. An interruption that would leave you wanting. He stilled, frozen, drawing away to search for his phone. Your hips circled, the guttural sound he made gratifying. He was still buried in you to the hilt, the perfect position for you to open negotiations to get what you wanted.
“Stop,” he growled.
“Make me,” you said, grinning up at him, clenching around him.
The phone stopped ringing. There was the answer. He was glowering down at you, frustration clear. You bucked your hips against him, watching his eyes close for a moment as if trying to get himself under control again.
The phone began to ring again.
You whined as he dragged himself off your body, reaching for his phone. With both feet planted on the floor, he sat on the edge of the mattress as he answered the call.
“Trouble, brother mine?”
You sat up, following him to the edge of the bed, lips trailing kisses over his bare shoulder. He turned his head to look at you, watching you as he listened to Sherlock on the other end of the line. You hid your smile in his skin, arms curling around his waist as you pressed against his back.
“I’m unsure why this is my problem to solve for you,” he said.
Your hands wandered down his stomach as your tongue ran over his pulse point, feeling it thrum. His glare cut to you as your hand found his still throbbing erection. Your teeth scraped over his skin.
“Of course I’m not,” he snapped into the phone.
He listened, face growing more grave with every word Sherlock spoke. Your hand was lazy as it stroked him. You listened as his breathing grew a bit more laboured.
“Why yes, brother mine, you have interrupted,” he said, voice a sarcastic drawl.
His free hand grasped your wrist, stilling your hand on him as he listened intently to his brother. You nipped at his skin.
With a swift elegance, Mycroft had turned, the wrist in his hold pinned to the mattress by your head, hovering over you. Flipped onto your back, all you could do was stare up at him as he continued to listen to his brother.
“It’s a Friday night, she’s a young woman, do the maths, Sherlock. She’s off having fun with the other goldfish,” he said, looking down at you.
You pinched his side, the amusement in his eyes twinkling. You brought your legs up, trapping him between your thighs, holding him there. He drew closer, lips brushing over your skin as he listened to the phone. Electricity was running over your skins, the needy throb between your legs left over from the unsatisfactory interruption.
“This is not a concern, nor is it a priority,” Mycroft said, “work it out on your own, baby brother.”
He hung up the phone, leaning over to place it on the nightstand. Returning back to you, his blue eyes swept over your naked body, lingering where your hips were pressing into his.
“My brother seems to believe you’re in trouble,” he said.
“I am,” you said, smirking up at him.
“It appears as if my text message to you resulted in suspicious behaviour,” he said, “and you have been ignoring his text messages.”
“I’ve been busy,” you said.
“He thinks you’re with someone who will hurt you,” he said.
“Only with consent,” you replied.
He considered you for a long moment, making you squirm beneath him. Your legs tightened around him. His hand skimmed down your body, finding the heat between your thighs. His name came out as a strangled sound when he began to slowly circle your clit.
“He’s going to work out the change in our relationship,” he said, watching your face begin to contort in pleasure, “he’s almost there.”
“I’m almost there,” you panted.
“Quite,” he said.
Then he lowered his head between your thighs and that tongue was put to better use than talking about Sherlock.
He was waiting for you when you returned an hour later, the flush of your evening finally fading from your cheeks. You sighed, the door to his flat open, entering to find him with his violin.
“Good evening then?” you asked.
“Another sexual conquest,” he said.
“Yes,” you replied evenly.
“Not under duress,” he said.
“Nope,” you said, obnoxiously popping the p at him.
“You’re perfectly okay,” he said.
“More than,” you said, “are we done? Only I’d quite like to sleep now.”
“Sex does that,” he said.
“Yes. It does. Goodnight,” you called.
But he started keeping a closer watch on you which you found hilarious. Mycroft, in response to your updates, seemed uncaring of the information. Or at the very least, he wasn’t surprised by it. You were certain he’d expected it.
So the next Friday, you thought you might have a tail as you made your way to Mycroft’s office. You continued on, acting as if you didn’t notice. If Sherlock wanted to play his games then you weren’t about to ruin them for him. Anything to keep him from growing bored.
Mycroft, of course, was warned during your report on his behaviour that week. And when you slipped out a back entrance, he agreed that Sherlock was following. So you were dropped at your favourite bar and left to fend for yourself for the evening.
You were home nice and early that night, ignoring Sherlock’s quip about not getting any that night.
The next Friday he did the exact same thing.
After a month, you were practically gagging for it. You missed his touch, you missed the pleasure that ran through your veins, you missed the taste of him. A whole month bereft of more than a look over the top of a file, barely interested in what you were saying despite him summoning you to hear it.
So when you came barreling up the stairs on a Tuesday afternoon, overloaded with groceries and slightly damp from the rain outside, you were glad to see his face. There it was, looking at you like he had been expecting to see you. You looked to Sherlock.
“I got those biscuits you like,” you said.
“Good,” he said.
“Not you,” you said, turning to look at Mycroft, “you.”
“Why would you get the biscuits he likes?” he asked.
“Someone should if he’s going to keep visiting,” you said.
“Why would he keep visiting?” he asked.
“Because he’s going to ask for your help on a case, you’re going to say no because you always say no, and he’s going to keep coming back until you say yes because you always end up doing it anyway,” you replied, “am I missing anything?”
The silence was satisfying.
“Wonderful,” you said, moving past them into the kitchen.
You dumped your bags on his counter, scrabbling through them until you came up with the packet of biscuits you’d intended to drop off. Mycroft was already there, taking them from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours.
Oh yes, you’d missed his touch.
“Right,” you said, collecting up the bags once again, “I’ll be upstairs if you need anything.”
Mycroft handed you one last bag, forgotten on the kitchen counter. You smiled up at him in thanks before you turned away. The slight brush of his hand on your lower back was all the encouragement you needed to leave.
“Wait,” Sherlock said as you made it to the door.
You paused, raising an eyebrow at him. His eyes were looking at you, scanning, doing that thing he did that he thought made him look so clever. You waited, glancing up at Mycroft whose eyes had narrowed.
“No,” Sherlock said, face scrunching.
“So I can leave?” you asked.
“Your one night stands haven’t been one night stands,” he said.
“Ah,” Mycroft said.
“No they haven’t,” you said.
“The pin has finally dropped,” Mycroft said to you.
“Can you not let me have something for myself without getting involved?” Sherlock demanded of his brother.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, brother mine,” he replied.
“You can never let me just have my own friends. You always have to get involved. Is this some kind of attempt to annoy me? It’s not working,” he said, shaking his head.
“Ouch,” you said.
“Oh please, you have no interest in Mycroft. No one does. And my brother isn’t known for forming attachments. This is all to punish me for something. I wish I knew what. Or cared. But I don’t,” he said.
He really sounded like he didn’t care. Sure. Believable.
“Can you conceive for one second that this might have nothing to do with you?” Mycroft said before you could answer with a sarcastic roll of the eyes, “that we are acting for our mutual benefit outside of our connection to you?”
“Impossible. I’m the only thing you have in common,” he said.
“Not the only thing,” you muttered.
“Is this a tantrum? Are you throwing a tantrum?” Sherlock asked.
“No, I'm just being reminded of the staggeringly large amounts of narcissism you possess,” you replied.
“Please,” Mycroft said, holding a hand up to you. You bit back your retort, fingers tightening around your grocery bags.
“At least you can end this ruse,” Sherlock said, taking his place in his chair, considering the two of you, “that must be some comfort.”
“Not everything I do is about you, Sherlock Holmes. And there’s no need to be cruel because you’re feeling hurt,” you said before you swept out of the flat.
You stayed locked up in your flat for the rest of the day, not hearing from either Holmes brother. You wanted to say you were surprised, but you weren’t. Neither were known for their kindness. So you stayed there for the rest of the day, trying not to focus on the harsh words from Sherlock.
Probably because you thought there was a facet of truth to what he said. You had nothing in common with Mycroft except Sherlock. You were convenient for what he wanted. You were on hand and it wasn’t a hard time to touch you. Why wouldn’t he go through the path of least resistance to get what he needed? It was as simple as that.
Stupid heart desperate for more. Mycroft was never going to be more than what he said he was, an uncaring ice man with no interest in opening his heart to anyone. So of course you had to go and fall for him because emotionally unavailable was so your type.
Sherlock had managed to hit all of your insecurities right on the head seemingly without caring about how it hurt you. All because he felt a sense of ownership over you as his friend and not Mycroft’s and therefore was feeling the sting of realising you and Mycroft had kept the change in your relationship a secret from him.
You didn’t hear from him until Friday.
Lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if you should get a take away, your phone rang. You didn’t even bother looking at the caller ID. There were only a handful of people who actually called you and unless your mother was calling to complain about your grandmother refusing to wear her hearing aids again then you weren’t looking to avoid a conversation with anyone.
“Hello?” you said into the phone.
“There’s a car for you outside,” the voice on the other end of the phone said.
“And if I chose not to get into it?” you asked.
“Don’t make me come up there,” Mycroft said, “I doubt it would end well if I ran into Sherlock right now.”
You thought about it for a moment.
“Fine. But you’re buying me dinner,” you said.
You ended the call and sat up. Shrugging into your coat, you shoved your phone and your wallet into your pocket, not sure how long you’d be gone. It felt like this might be the end of things now that Sherlock knew. Something in losing the secrecy felt like it had broken the whole thing.
That was a depressing thought.
Mycroft was waiting by the car, his umbrella tapping against the pavement. Straightening as he saw you, he pulled the car door open, waiting for you to slip into the back seat. The driver pulled away while you were still in silence, almost drowning in it.
You turned to watch him, wondering if this would be the last chance you got to do it. He was heartbreakingly handsome, the exact kind of man that could bring you to your knees. If this was the last chance to look at him like this, you weren’t going to waste it.
“You’re staring,” he said, breaking the silence.
“Admiring, more like,” you replied.
He didn’t have an answer to that. You’d begun to notice any time you offered him a compliment, specifically about how he looked, he never seemed to know what to do with it. It was like it was alien to him. It sent a pang through your heart, the thought that this man had never been made to feel attractive. That no one had seen how beautiful he was.
You stopped long enough to pick up dinner from your favourite takeaway place, only making you more concerned. He was trying to be nice. Mycroft wasn’t nice.
Sitting at his enormous dining table, the silence had grown stifling. You were practically choking on it. Pushing food around your plate, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to look at him, even when he was still close enough to make it easy. You were sitting to his right, at one end of the expansive table, the lamps the only light in the room.
“Sherlock is still refusing to believe our relationship is separate from him,” he said, almost conversationally, laying his knife and fork down.
“Maybe he’s right,” you said.
This was the moment. The moment you both agreed this was done, it had stopped being fun, and there was no point continuing. The jagged edges of the holes in your heart ached.
“He so rarely is,” Mycroft said, brushing off your concern. Your eyebrows drew together because in your experience Sherlock was often right.
“You don’t think there’s any truth to his complaints?” you asked.
“Of course not,” he said, “but clearly you do.”
“All I know is that it makes no sense that we’d be doing this without Sherlock. It’s not like we would have met anywhere else. We have nothing in common, just like he said. And we kept it a secret from him for a reason,” you said with a small shrug, letting your fork drop with a clatter.
“We’ve engaged in a sexual relationship as it’s mutually beneficial. No other reason,” he said.
“Isn’t there? You didn’t get a thrill from getting one over on Sherlock? Not ever?” you asked.
“My thrill came from the satisfactory activities we engage in,” he said.
“Satisfactory,” you said, nodding to yourself. Of course. That was the height of compliment from him. Merely satisfactory.
“You don’t agree with that description,” he said.
“Look, I’d probably have described it as mind blowing sex, but then what do I know? I’m just an ordinary person,” you said.
“There’s nothing ordinary about you,” he said.
You didn’t quite know how to respond to that. He wasn’t given over to complimenting you, certainly not beyond your performance in bed, so this felt very out of left field.
“You really think this isn’t going to change anything?” you asked, “now that he knows, nothing will change?”
“I don’t see why it would,” he said.
You weren’t sure if he genuinely believed it or just couldn’t see the impact your secret getting out would have. It felt so obvious to you. Sherlock would do everything he could to get between the two of you, to annoy you, to ruin it in a childish fit of jealousy. He had never liked sharing his people, and certainly not with his brother who he still had a complicated relationship with.
“Maybe it’s better just to call it now. It was fun, no hard feelings, and there’s no awkward fizzle out. Nice and clean without anyone getting hurt,” you said.
“You want to end our arrangement?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“What I want isn’t an option so i suppose this is the next best thing,” you said. It might not actually be the next best thing, but it would probably be the option that caused the least pain to you now.
“What is it you want?” he asked
“Irellevant,” you replied.
“I don’t think it is,” he said.
“Well, unfortunately for you, two people are involved in this conversation and your opinion isn’t the most important. So, do we agree we should end this?” you asked.
“No,” he said.
You stared at him. Blinked. Stared again. Nothing about him changed as he gazed cooly back at you. You opened your mouth but nothing came out. Shaking your head you looked down to your half eaten plate of food.
“Then I’m sorry but I do. I think it’s run its course. It’s been lovely but… it’s probably time to end this now,” you said.
“Is this because of Sherlock? He’s said something to you,” he said, leaning back in his chair as his fingers steepled beneath his chin, “he’s convinced you this is not a good idea.”
“He didn’t have to,” you said.
There it was, the flash of hurt that passed over his face before his mask settled back in place. You’d gotten better at reading him over the months you’d been with him. Seeing him in his most vulnerable moments had led to a better understanding of the man beneath the ice.
“It appears as if your mind is made up,” he said.
“It is,” you replied.
“I’ll have my driver return you to Baker Street.”
The drive home felt excruciatingly long.
Sherlock was sitting on the staircase leading up to your flat. You ignored him, pushing past, keys in hand to unlock your front door. But, of course, someone had already done that.
“That time I interrupted you and Mycroft…” he said, clearly with something he wanted to say.
“Yes?” You remembered that incident, how fun it’d seemed at the time.
“Looks like I was right about you being with someone that would hurt you,” he said.
“Looks like it, you agreed.
You closed the door on him, sliding the chain across to discourage any more snooping from him. You weren’t sure what he’d seen on you as you’d passed him but the last thing you needed was his pity. Of course your arrangement had ended in you getting hurt. Yours was the only heart that still felt anything in the equation.
You dragged yourself to and from work, keeping mostly to yourself in the weeks that followed. You didn’t have the wherewithal to have Sherlock deducing you while you were trying to put yourself back together. His cutting words would only topple the house of cards that was your emotional well-being. You aimed to get through a single day without thinking about Mycroft.
You were yet to accomplish it.
Maybe he also had no interest in seeing you in the utter pile of shit that was the end of your arrangement but he seemed to be keeping away from 221b. You hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him. You hadn’t been summoned to give a report on his brother. It was as if he’d completely forgotten you existed. Probably for the best given the circumstances.
It was as you were returning on a particularly sunny afternoon that you heard the voices from the stairs. You paused, your heart recognising one before your brain caught up. Frozen, you weren’t sure what to do. Flee? Eavesdrop? Continue on like nothing was wrong?
“This is boring. If you want to know how she is, go ask her. She only lives upstairs,” Sherlock said as you still hovered in indecision.
“I know you said something to her. You caused this. I lay the blame firmly at your feet,” Mycroft said. You squeezed your eyes closed.
“Interesting,” Sherlock said.
“What?” his brother snapped.
“I never thought I’d see the day when you would care for someone. Sentimentality has gotten the best of you,” he replied.
That was enough. You didn’t bother staying quiet, hurrying up the stairs, hoping to be fast enough that neither would be able to catch you. Still, when you heard your name in Mycroft’s voice you found yourself stumbling.
“Hi,” you said, turning to him, painting a smile on your face.
“How are you?” he asked, so stiff and formal it almost hurt to hear.
“Oh fine, fine,” you said, waving off the question.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. Both of his hands closed over the handle of his umbrella, the tip resting between his feet. If you didn’t know the man so well it might look like he was at ease. You could see the tension.
“Right, well I’m just gonna...” You jerked your thumb over your shoulder, “it was nice seeing you.”
You only paused once you heard the footsteps following you up the stairs. Turning, you found him peering up at you.
“I was hoping we could talk,” he said
“I don’t-“ you began to say.
“Please. Talk to him. He’s been so pathetic. ‘Oh how is she, Sherlock? Has she been eating enough, Sherlock? Do you think she likes me, Sherlock?’ It’s gotten boring,” Sherlock said from his doorway.
“I never asked you if she likes me,” Mycroft snapped.
“You basically did,” he replied, “underneath all the irrelevant stuff.”
“Can you for once in your life allow me to handle this situation without your input?” he hissed down to his brother.
He waved him off, disappearing back into his flat. Mycroft was slow to turn towards you, almost apprehensive at what he might be seeing. You were staring at him like he’d grown a second head, not sure what he was doing.
“Look, we don’t have to make a big thing out of this. I live here, Sherlock lives here, we’re bound to run into each other. We don’t need to talk about it,” you said, “it’s fine. I promise.”
“I want to talk,” he said.
“Why?” you asked.
“There are things left unsaid,” he replied.
You considered him for a long moment, watching as he began to shift his weight from foot to foot. That was what made you nod, turning back to finish climbing the stairs. He followed you into your flat, eyes sweeping over your space. Every time you’d had an encounter, it had been at his place, partly because you didn’t want to run into Sherlock and partly because he had standards and your flat would never measure up. You turned, crossing your arms over your chest as you stared him down.
“Okay, you wanted to talk, so talk,” you said.
“I don’t like how we left things,” he said.
“I thought we left things in agreement,” you said.
“We did not,” he said.
“You sent me home,” you reminded him.
“You weren’t open to negotiations,” he said.
“And you think I am now?” you asked.
“Yes.” He sounded so confident, “and if you’re not now then I’ll convince you.”
“You arrogant prick,” you huffed.
“You’ve missed me,” he said, stepping closer to you.
“Says you. Can’t stop asking after me.” You rolled your eyes, looking away from him.
“I find myself needing to know how you are at all times,” he said, “it’s quite inconvenient.”
“You’ve been stalking me again, haven’t you?” you asked.
“Yes.”
No shame. Absolutely no shame.
“Fine.” You uncrossed your arms, “open your negotiations.”
“We should continue our arrangement,” he said.
“Respectfully, I disagree,” you said.
“Why?” he asked.
You took a deep breath.
“Look, I get that you’re the iceman and you leave sentimentality out of it but I’m just a normal person. And I can’t. I know you’re going to think less of me for this, but I’ve got feelings for you. Romantic ones. And I’m not expecting anything from you because I know you enough to know that’s stupid. But, it would be remiss of me not to tell you that continuing our arrangement will hurt me under the circumstances,” you said, “so I have to respectfully decline.”
“You don’t want to continue our arrangement due to your romantic feelings for me?” he asked.
“Pretty much, yeah,” you said.
“Thank you for telling me,” he said.
And then his hands were cupping your cheeks and he was kissing you, umbrella clattering to the floor. Your hands slammed into his chest, pushing against him. He took another moment before he drew away. You hit his chest again, refusing to hide how angry you were at him.
“Arsehole,” you said, hitting him again.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asked.
“I said I didn’t want to continue our arrangement,” you said.
His hands were still holding your face and you were trying to push him away. It seemed to have about as much effect as telling him you were done with the arrangement seemed to have had.
“You said you did not want to continue it due to your romantic feelings for me. You believe I don’t reciprocate them. You’re mistaken,” he said.
“I- what?” You were certain you’d misheard him.
“It has become clear that I have grown attached to you. I worry for you. I would like to continue our arrangement, not because it fulfils a need satisfactorily, but because it involves you,” he said.
“Sorry, just to clarify for my mind, are you asking for a purely sexual relationship, or are you hoping for something more?” you asked.
“I find myself out of my depth here,” he said.
“Let me rephrase. Do you want it to be exactly what it was, where I arrive at your place on Friday, we have sex, and I leave? Or do you want to spend time with me outside of sex and give a romantic relationship a go?” you asked.
His thumb was running over your cheekbone as he considered you. It was as if he wasn’t sure of the answer, a first for you to witness. You let him think about it, not wanting to rush it, not when what you wanted might be on the table.
Stupid man not able to vocalise his feelings. Stupid man expecting you to just know what he was thinking the way he always knew what you were thinking. Stupid man experiencing emotions for the first time.
“I must admit,” he muttered, “I’m beginning to understand Sherlock’s jealousy when it comes to you. I’m not sure I like the thought of another man owning a part of you.”
“Mycroft, tell me exactly what you want,” you said, staying firm even at the thrill of his words.
“To have you,” he said, “to keep you. The thought of losing you has been plaguing me these few weeks without you. There is not a problem I can’t solve but I had no idea how to get you back.”
“So you thought you’d demand to talk to me then kiss me when I said I didn’t want to go back to how it was?” you asked.
“I’m not good at this,” he said, a self-deprecating tilt to his head.
“I’ll tell you what I want and then you can tell me how it aligns with your wants,” you said.
“Okay,” he said with a slow nod of his head.
“I don’t want to go back to how it was. I want more. I want to be emotionally involved with you. I want to be in a romantic relationship with you. I want to go on dates with you and spend the night with you, and see you for more than a few hours every week. I want to share meals with you and go on stupid weekends away with you, and sit in rooms with you doing nothing much just because we can. I want our lives to intertwine so completely you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if I was gone,” you said, going for the absolute dream scenario. No point hiding it now.
The silence stretched for a long while as he considered what you’d said. His thumb was almost absentmindedly running along your cheekbone. You could see the cogs turning behind his eyes, assessing the information he now had, putting it together to get the answer he wanted.
“You want all the mundanities of a romantic relationship,” he said.
“Sometimes I want to hold your hand, yes,” you said.
He seemed shocked by that admission. It was the simplest thing to you, though, the least embarrassing of the things you’d said to him.
“That sounds acceptable,” he said.
“You want that too?” you asked.
“I’ve never understood the appeal of settling down in a romantic relationship,” he said, “but I can see the appeal when it’s with you.”
“That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” you said.
And then you kissed him. You kissed him like all of your dreams were coming true. Mainly because they were. And you pulled him closer, your body pressing to his, caught in the cage of his arms. You couldn’t get close enough, overcome with your need for him.
You guided him towards your bedroom, fingers working on the buttons of his waistcoat, ready to peel him out of his clothes and show him exactly how much you wanted him. His hands were running over your body, feeling your curves, driving you insane. You’d become obsessed with his hands almost as soon as they’d touched you that first time.
You pushed him down onto your bed, straddling his hips as you looked down at him. Your hands splayed over your chest, leaning forward, taking in the way he was looking at you. You rolled your hips, feeling his interest growing.
“See how good it is when you tell me what you’re feeling,” you said, rolling your hips again.
“You didn’t tell me your feelings until I prompted you to,” he said, hands grasping your hips.
“And I got what I wanted,” you said, “so now I guess you can get what you want.”
His kiss was dominating as he flipped you onto your back. He let you push his blazer off his shoulders, feeling the muscles shift beneath your fingers. Kissing him deeper, your legs curled around his hips, fingers tangling in his hair.
You didn’t notice him stripping you, so focused on the way he was making you feel. His lips began to trail down your body, lingering on the curve of your breast, his tongue tasting your skin. You whimpered, arching into him, offering yourself.
There were nights when he would take his time, taking you apart piece by piece before he put you back together again, driving you higher and higher just to pull you back. It drove you mad in the best way. You’d let him manipulate your body until the early hours if that’s what he wanted.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
You dragged your gaze down your body, finding his blue eyes smouldering up at you from between your thighs. His mouth descended on you and you were lost. You’d missed this, you’d missed him, you never wanted to let him go. Your fingers tightened in his hair as your hips bucked up into his mouth.
You whimpered, maintaining eye contact even as he set your body alight. He watched you like you were something spectacular, like he couldn’t get enough. It was an addictive feeling, to have that wonderful man so focused on you and your pleasure. It was just a confirmation that all your dreams were coming true.
You came with his name on your lips, uncaring of who might hear. His smug smirk was infuriating and beautiful and wonderful. You dragged him into a kiss just to wipe it from his face. And when you fell asleep, his naked body was curled around yours.
You awoke the next morning with his arm thrown over your waist, face buried against your neck. You let yourself enjoy it, knowing as soon as he awoke he would be out the door and at work. The short reprieve was nicer than the romantic declaration the night before, if only because it was proof that he’d been serious.
“Do you have tea?” he murmured, lips brushing your skin.
“Course,” you replied, tucking yourself against him.
“Good. Go make some,” he said.
“No.”
You rolled over, facing him. Your lips pressed to the tip of his nose, watching his eyes open as he considered you.
“Morning,” you said.
“Yes. Good morning. Tea,” he said.
You laughed, rolling out of the bed. His fingers brushed over the curve of your ass, sending a shiver of desire down your spine. Climbing back into the bed with your mugs of tea, his fingers brushed against yours as he took the one you offered him. And then he let you lean against his shoulder as he told you about the day ahead and when he’d come pick you up for dinner.
He left your flat with a kiss, short and sweet, enough to make you ready for more that night. Leaning on the door jam, you watched him walk down the stairs, the joy you were feeling incomparable to anything you’d experienced before.
“So you’ve made up then.”
You turned your cool gaze onto Sherlock.
“We have,” you replied evenly.
“Try to keep it down next time,” he said.
“No promises,” you replied, turning away.
You grinning as you shut the door, the image of disgust on Sherlock’s face lingering long enough to make up for the heartbreak he’d caused.
Synopsis: When Mycroft kidnaps you for the night, it might be less to do with your life being in danger, and more to do with his feelings for you.
Words: 5k
Warnings: jokes about death
The mantle was cool to the touch. Despite the fire flickering below, the warm air brushing over your skin, the wood of the mantle was still cool beneath your fingertip as it ran along it. You lingered on the photo, an old photo, one you were surprised was in a place any visitor could see.
“Are you quite done?”
You turned your head. The man in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, a crystal glass dangling from long fingers, the warm liquid inside waiting for lips to pass over, was watching you. Ignoring him, you turned back to the photo. You’d long since learnt not to be intimidated by the man.
“You were a cute kid,” you said.
“Is that supposed to be flattery?” he asked.
“Don’t pretend you don’t get a little thrill from hearing it,” you shot back.
You turned your back to the fire, looking at him properly. The lamp beside him was the only other light in the room, exposing his face to you. Dark hair, cold blue eyes, three piece suit perfectly put together, Mycroft Holmes was letting you study him. Your head tilted, eyes narrowing, feeling him study you back.
“I won’t let you quit,” he said.
“You don’t have a choice,” you replied, “I can be quite stubborn.”
“Yes, you’ve proven that,” he said.
“So what am I doing here?” you asked.
“You don’t already know?” He raised an eyebrow at you, “how disappointing.”
“You know I don’t plan on playing this game anymore and I know you’re going to try and convince me otherwise. We both know it won’t work. I don’t see the point of this,” you said.
“Consider it a respectful gesture to allow you to quit to my face,” he said.
“Or maybe you just wanted an excuse to see me,” you replied, flashing him a grin.
The look of displeasure was worth it. You laughed, shaking your head as you turned away from him. The Holmes boys could be such fun. Your eyes lingered on the picture.
“Cute, but not as cute as Sherlock I’m afraid,” you said.
“He had the advantage of being younger,” he replied.
“And the hair. Who doesn’t love a mop of curls on a small kid,” you shot back over your shoulder, “it’s how I got away with so much as a kid.”
“And now you hide behind humour in an attempt to keep others from realising how true your statements are,” he said.
“Why am I really here?” you asked.
“I thought we covered that,” he said.
“We could have met at your office or your club or this could have been a phone call. I’m in your home. You don’t let people into your home,” you said.
“Don’t I?”
You turned, the weight of his gaze growing heavy. Stepping away from the fire, you watched him take a drink from the crystal glass. The shadows hid you from all but his eyes, knowing even in the darkness he could see enough to know all your secrets.
“You’re pathological about your privacy. Obsessive some might say. But I wasn’t even blindfolded on the drive here. I know exactly where we are and I know it’s your home. Quite the romantic gesture from you,” you said.
“Romantic?” He sounded amused.
“You wanted to see me, somewhere private but personal. This isn’t just business. This involves trust,” you said.
“My brother,” he began.
“Doesn’t want me to quit,” you said, “I split the money with him. It’s quite lucrative.”
“So why are you?” he asked.
“Doesn’t feel as simple as before. What else do you want from me?” you asked.
“I need you to convince him to do something,” he replied.
“That’s not why I’m here,” you said, “that’s business.”
You took another step towards him, drawing closer, a moth to the flame, knowing your wings were about to get burnt. He let you, fingers tightening around his glass of whiskey.
“You did want an excuse to see me,” you said.
“You're my brother’s keeper. I’m expecting a report on his movements,” he said.
“Business,” you sing songed.
When he’d first installed you in Baker Street with strict instructions to keep an eye on Sherlock, you hadn’t thought it would come to this. You hadn’t thought you’d actually grow to care for the man you were tasked with watching. Nor did you think you’d ever enjoy your meetings with Mycroft.
But now you enjoyed playing with them. They got the same crease between the eyebrows when you annoyed them. It was rather endearing.
“I’ve been doing this for over a year and we’ve always met at one of your offices. At your club on occasion. That warehouse you seem to like so much more than I appreciate. One time at a cafe. All impersonal. All relatively public. Why am I here?”
He stood, one leg elegantly uncrossing from the other. Standing before you, it was easy to remember just how much taller he was than you. You could forget when he was sitting down but now, having to look up into his face, it was blatantly obvious.
“We’ve had some intel,” he said, voice lowering in that way that always gave you a little thrill.
“How surprising. That never happens with you,” you said.
“I don’t appreciate the sarcasm,” he said.
“You never do, and yet it won’t stop me.” You grinned up at him.
His eyes closed for a moment, his frustration so clear to you. You softened, enjoying the experience of having an effect on him.
“Our intel has led us to a group looking to take down my brother. Their first step is to take out his support network, beginning with you,” he said.
You froze.
“We have it on good authority they were looking to kill you tonight,” he said, “your removal to a safe location was imperative.”
“There are other safe houses,” you said.
“You refuse to do as you're told. I thought it would be better if I kept a watchful eye on you so you would not give your protection detail the slip,” he said.
You reached up, your fingers gently smoothing over the crease that had appeared between his eyebrows. He froze, eyes burning into you as you gazed up at him.
“You care about my survival,” you said, still trying to smooth out his forehead.
“It would be a pain to find a replacement for you,” he said.
“Except you’ll still have to because I’m quitting,” you said.
“We’ll see,” he hummed.
His fingers curled around your wrist, lowering your hand from his face. Still, his touch lingered and you thought he might be taking your pulse. The Holmes boys could be tricky like that.
“So I’m meant to spend the night here then?” you asked.
“There is no location more secure than here,” he said.
“Don’t say that. Sherlock will take it as a personal challenge,” you replied.
He sighed as he released your wrist, taking a step back. The pang in your chest was at least a familiar feeling.
“You will remain here until the threat has been neutralised,” he said.
“We’re not even going to discuss it? I am, as ever, at your command?”
You followed him back to his chair, not letting it go. He was so used to getting his own way. It frustrated you to no end, even as you’d grown used to it. He sat, still so elegant, keeping his eyes trained on you.
“Would you rather die?” he asked, sounding so confident of your answer.
“It’s not like they know where I am anymore,” you replied with a small shrug, “I could slip out the back now and I’m sure I’d be fine.”
“You’ll remain here,” he growled.
“Aw, you do care,” you said.
“This isn’t a joking matter,” he said.
“We can’t joke about my death? I thought we’d reached that level of camaraderie by now,” you replied, grinning when the divot appeared again, “sorry. Not funny. I get it. How long will I be trapped here?”
“Trapped is such a negative word,” he said.
“So a while then.”
You sunk down onto the settee. This turn of events was less than ideal for a number of reasons. He watched you.
“You’re unhappy,” he said.
“I see that genius brain of yours isn’t taking a break,” you said.
“No need to be nasty,” he said.
“What will you do about Sherlock? He runs towards death. He won’t hide,” you said.
“Yes,” he replied, leaning back in his seat, a dark look passing over his face, “we’re assuming he’ll be ferreting them out for us. But not before tonight. Hence…”
He gestured at his home. It was quite rich, ostentatious. Pretentious. You imagined it was what the inside of his brain looked like if it was a house. There was a suit of armour in the corner. It was lush but not particularly homey. You preferred Baker Street.
“So I'm here for tbd,” you said.
“Quite,” he said.
“Okay.” You stood up again, “I’m making popcorn.”
“Why?”
He followed you as you began to walk through his house, looking for the kitchen. His hand on the small of your back guided you towards the back of the house, burning through the thin cotton of your t-shirt.
“If we’re going to have a sleepover I expect popcorn and a movie,” you said.
You looked around his kitchen. It seemed mostly unused and you pressed your lips together to hide your grin. Very on brand for Mycroft Holmes.
“This isn’t a sleepover,” he said.
“You say potato, I sat tomato,” you replied, opening cupboards at random, “you do have popcorn, right?”
He opened a cupboard above your head, his warmth seeping into your spine. You turned your head to look up at him, finding him already looking back at you, head bowed towards you. This was not like him at all.
“You’ve got such lovely eyes,” you said in a soft whisper.
He stepped back from you, dropping the microwave popcorn on the counter. The disappointment was acute but you ignored it. It grew more familiar after every meeting with this man.
“So does this place have a home cinema?” you asked, plucking up the popcorn.
“Of a sort,” he replied, arms crossed over his chest as he leant back on the furthest counter from you.
“Of a sort? Well, now you’ve intrigued me, Mr Holmes. What does that mean?”
The scent of popcorn began to fill the air. You pushed up onto the counter, heels bumping against the cupboards beneath.
“I suppose you’ll want to pick the film too,” he said, not answering your question.
“Depends on what you’d choose. If I leave it up to you we might end up watching some boring documentary where you correct every expert,” you said.
“I’m not Sherlock,” he said.
“You’re very like him,” you replied with a shrug.
“But less sentimental,” he said.
“I don’t know about that,” you muttered, “you’re certainly more fun.”
“Am I?” He didn’t sound like he believed you.
“When Sherlock kidnaps me it’s so flashy. You’re far more mysterious. Adds an element of elegance,” you said.
“Does my brother often kidnap you?” he asked.
“More than my other friends,” you said, “except you, of course.”
“Are we friends? I must have missed that memo,” he said.
“You’re letting me stay at your place when no one ever gets this far into your sanctum. You’re letting me make popcorn. You’re going to let me watch a movie with you. If I didn’t know any better I’d say we’re very good friends,” you said, “might even describe us as close friends.”
He handed you a bowl to pour the popcorn into. You plucked up a piece, popping into your mouth as you smiled at him. It wasn't an agreement but he wasn’t scoffing at you. For once.
“Go on then. If you’re nothing like Sherlock, pick a movie and surprise me,” you said, “your favourite movie.”
He considered you for a moment before he turned away. You tossed another piece of popcorn into your mouth before you followed him. His house was expansive and stupidly stuffy and you loved it. You also enjoyed the view as you walked behind him, especially when he shrugged out of the blazer he’d been wearing.
You weren’t expecting the old film and the projector. Nor were you expecting the sofa you could both sit on, side by side in the dark, the bowl of popcorn between you. You enjoyed timing it so your hand would brush his as you both reached for a snack. Each time he would freeze for a moment before continuing on. You enjoyed playing with a Holmes.
The jolt it gave your heart wasn’t an unpleasant feeling either.
Tickering film and black and white images. It was so quaint, so typical for him, pretentious and from another time. You snorted when it began to play, a film noir, a classic. The look he shot you was one of annoyance. You winked at him before settling down to watch.
Out of the corner of your eye you could see when he mouthed along with the dialogue. You ducked your head, hiding your smile. He didn’t even realise he was doing it. That ridiculous man.
As the credits ran over the screen, you rolled your head towards him. He lingered a moment, the shadows playing over his face in a rather fetching way. You pulled your knees up to your chin, resting it on them as you stared at him.
“What?” he asked after a long drawn out moment.
“You pretend to be so unknowable and above it all but the truth, Mycroft Holmes, is that you’re a very simple man,” you said.
“If this is your attempt at insulting my choice in film, you’ll have to do better,” he said.
“And if it was my attempt at complimenting you?” you asked.
“What part of being simple is a compliment?” he asked in return.
You ignored the question, shuffling closer to him. Placing the empty bowl on the floor, your knees came to rest against the side of his thigh. His hand closed over your shoulder and you waited for him to push you back. Only he didn’t. His fingers dug in.
“Why are you so determined that I stay alive? Wouldn’t I be good bait? Let them come for me and then you get them, saving Sherlock without ever putting him in danger,” you said.
“I’ve already told you,” he began.
“It would be too annoying to replace me, yes, so you said,” you interrupted before he could finish, “so you decided that you should protect me. You, specifically. You’re not trusting this to people whose job it is. Trust is a weird one, isn’t it?”
You sat back, leaving his personal space. He seemed to relax, just a touch, but you still missed the warmth of him.
“Is this the kind of sleepover where we stay up all night? We could gossip about boys,” you said.
“Is that how you want to deliver your report on my brother?” he asked.
“Well, I was going to tell you about the man I was meant to go on a date with tonight. Thank you, for that, by the way. He’s not going to want to see me now I’ve stood him up. And he was quite handsome,” you said.
“Quite,” was all he said.
“Your brother has been staying at home, experimenting on toes Molly Hooper supplied him,” you said, “he paces in the middle of the night and his flat is littered with empty cans of energy drink. He hasn’t slept in a few days but I have managed to shove some biscuits down his throat. He can never say no to my gingerbread.”
“I thought you were quitting,” he said, looking rather smug.
“Well, since I'm here…” You rolled your eyes, “so are we staying up all night?”
“It’s not a requirement,” he said.
“You will be, though, won’t you? Just to make sure,” you said.
“Just to make sure what?” he asked.
“That I’m safe.” You smiled at him, not the grin that said you were teasing him, a softer more genuine one.
“You’re making me sound sentimental,” he said, almost mocking you for it.
“Am I? I thought I was just stating a fact. You like facts, don’t you?” You tilted your head to the side as your eyes swept over him. He was such a lovely specimen of a man.
You reached over, taking his hand when he didn’t bother answering you. His deep inhale could have been annoyance or it could have been something else. You bowed your head over his hand, hair falling forward, dragging his hand towards you. Your fingers were gentle as they ran over the lines of his palm, his skin warm beneath your fingertips. There was something thrilling about touching him without more purpose than you wanted to.
He wasn’t stopping you.
“Oh no, this situation must really be bad,” you said.
“What makes you say that?” he asked.
“You’d never let me touch you like this if it wasn’t serious,” you said, looking up at him.
The expression on his face shifted from something you might consider fond back to annoyance. Your chuckle was soft, more for yourself than for him, as you went back to tracing patterns over his palm.
“Palmistry is a pseudoscience used by vagabonds and deceivers who prey on the weak,” he said.
“I don’t need to read your palm to know about you or your future,” you said, “I’ve picked up a few tricks from Sherlock over the months.”
“He’s been teaching you deduction,” he said.
“He’s tried,” you replied, “sometimes he misses the big picture though. That’s why he needs us. Me and John. We keep the bigger picture in sight when he goes too micro on the details.”
“Then what do you know about me?” he asked, “what have you deduced?”
“It’s not deduction. It’s bigger picture. I can’t tell you what you had for lunch or where you’ve been today,” you said, watching your finger move over his palm, still so relaxed in your hold, “but I know you think yourself a man without sentiment but every interaction I’ve ever had with you speaks to the heart beating in your chest. You care, more than you’d ever let people know. You do what you have to, but when it comes to Sherlock… you’re not without sentiment, Mycroft. You’re just good at hiding it. But anyone paying enough attention to you can see it. You have a heart and you’re ashamed of that but you shouldn’t be. You don’t bother trying with people, but you know the right ones to charm, and you don’t wield your power like a weapon. You’re not cruel, even if you’re not always kind. But you can be kind. I’ve seen you be kind. You’re being kind right now.”
“You make me sound like some kind of whimpering boy overtaken by emotion,” he said.
“No, you’re still made of ice. Cold and above us. Your heart beats but it’s slow, buried under layers of logic. I like when I get to see your heart, though. You probably don’t like hearing that or you think it makes me sound… I don’t know. Weak? Or some kind of lesser being. I already know you don’t see me as anything more than a means to an end. A convenience. Nothing more. But sometimes you can be so caring,” you said.
His fingers jerked, closing around the finger you’d been dragging over his skin. You looked up at him, finding blue eyes burning into you. His breathing wasn’t calm and his lips were pressed together tight enough to be bloodless. Your lips parted, caught in his gaze. The grip on your finger tightened.
“You think I’m being caring?” he asked.
“You're stepping in and changing my fate. You’re saving my life. Even if it’s selfish, I’ll be alive tomorrow because of you,” you said.
“You might not thank me for that,” he said.
“Why? You planning on torturing me tonight?” you asked.
His fingers clenched around yours, a spasm of a move. You chuckled, raising his hand up, your lips brushing his knuckles. He made a noise, so small, so quiet, you might have missed it if you weren’t tuned in to him so completely.
“Or am I here to torture you?” you murmured.
“Why are you acting like this?” he asked, a harsh noise, accusatory and angry.
“Why are you letting me?” you asked in return.
He released your finger as if burnt. You laughed, tipping back to lounge against the arm of the sofa. The cool leather was a relief on your burning skin from touching him so much. He usually kept far more distance. This whole night felt like a dream, hazy, a sense of unreality to it all. Mycroft only ever acted like this in your dreams, never in real life. Your head was a whirl and the way he was looking at you was turning you breathless.
“Sherlock warned me about falling for a Holmes, you know,” you said, conversationally, turning your gaze to look up at the ceiling, “second time we met. He did the deduction thing at me and then told me not to fall in love. Said it was a useless endeavour and I’d just grow to resent him.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Mycroft asked.
“It took him a while to realise he was warning me off the wrong Holmes brother. Bigger picture. Took him a while to see it,” you said.
You were slow to turn your eyes back on him. He was watching you, face impassive, almost pitying. You shook your head and looked to the lit up projection. His pity wasn’t required. You knew you were an idiot.
“You knew though. Of course you knew. I wasn’t hiding it. No point with you boys. The more you try to hide something, the more likely you are to see it. I tested that once. Never say I’m not a fan of science,” you said, “why am I really here, Mycroft? And why are you indulging me?”
“You had a date tonight,” he said.
You sat up again, about ready to throttle him. But he was looking at you like he’d laid his heart at your feet, like he’d answered your question clearly.
“Mycroft,” you said, softening your voice, “was someone actually coming to kill me tonight?”
“Don’t be so ridiculous. Of course your life was in danger tonight,” he said.
“Because of a group looking to kill me or because I was going to go out with the wrong person?” you asked.
He considered you a moment before he inhaled deeply. His fingers steepled beneath his chin as it dipped, watching you. You waited, used to being patient with the Holmes boys. Or rather, stubbornly waiting them out until they grew frustrated enough to speak.
“It’s both,” he said, “I can’t have you dying, and I can’t have you distracted.”
“You don’t want me to die,” you said, “and you’re jealous.”
His lips pursed.
“Conclusion, you care about me too,” you said.
“You are deducing,” he said.
“No, but even a goldfish can put two and two together if they’re bashed over the head with it,” you said, “you brought me into your home. Your personal home. Your inner sanctum. That told me everything. You played your hand, Mr Holmes.”
That crease returned. Your fingers were drawn back to it, smoothing it out. He caught your wrist again, dragging your hand away. That hard gaze watching you, silent and uncompromising.
“Of course, there is a simple solution to stop me from going on a date with the wrong person that doesn’t include kidnap,” you said.
“You think there’s a solution I didn’t already think of?” he asked.
“Clearly,” you said, “aren’t you going to ask what it is?”
“What is it?” You loved when he indulged you.
“Ask me on a date before anyone else does,” you whispered.
“There’s no guarantee you’d say yes,” he said.
“You Holmes boy. You’re always so desperate to see what people are hiding you refuse to see the bloody obvious. The stuff we’re not hiding. The things we want you to see.” You tugged your wrist out of his hold, “I sat here and told you I’ve fallen for you and it’s like you still don’t see it.”
Standing up from the sofa, you stared down at him. He was watching you, assessing you, looking for the lie. You rolled your eyes.
“I guess you’ll be staying up all night alone then,” you said, “you know how I feel. The ball is in your court now, Mycroft. Do with that information what you will.”
You turned away, ready to explore the house until you found a bed you could crawl into and sleep. Maybe the dreamlike quality of the night was the truth and when you woke up none of it would be real.
“Wait,” he said.
His hand closed around your wrist once again. You spun towards him, ready to tell him off. His other hand cupped your cheek, pulling you in. His lips landed on yours, slightly clumsy but searing. Your sharp inhale was enough to make him pause for a moment.
You weren’t about to let that big brain of his overthink it and ruin the moment. You curled your arm around his neck, pushing up onto your toes as you kissed him, pouring every iota of feeling into it. His fingers easily slid into the hair at the nape of your neck as he released your wrist, hand pressing into the small of your back. You were arching towards him, his warmth flooding your senses.
When his tongue swept over your lower lip, you opened to him. He tasted of the whiskey he’d been drinking earlier and the popcorn you’d forced upon him for your movie viewing. You moaned, pressing closer, wanting to feel him. The hand in your hair tipped your head back as he kissed you deeper. There was a level of arrogance to his kiss, like he knew he was a fabulous snogger, like he knew you’d enjoy it.
Damn him for being right.
By the time he drew away you were feeling thoroughly snogged and ready to drag him to the closest vertical surface to pull all those layers off like he was the prettiest of presents. His eyes were blown wide, the blue almost missing, and his cheeks were flushed. This was the kind of view of him you’d dreamt about seeing before, the kind you would be filing away to revisit at a later date. The kind you wanted to keep seeing for the rest of your life.
“I rather think that tells you my position on the matter,” he said.
You dragged him into another kiss, uncaring if that’s what he intended or not. You wanted more. You thought you might end up wanting everything from him.
“I’d still like to hear it in actual words,” you mumbled into his mouth.
Your hands on his chest shoved him back until he fell onto the sofa. You climbed onto his lap, knees either side of his hips, straddling him as you dove in for another kiss. His hands were burning through the thin cotton of your t-shirt as he grasped your waist. Turns out you were insatiable when it came to him.
“I care for you,” he ground out as your lips pressed to his jaw, tongue darting out to taste his skin. Interesting. You did it again. He groaned.
“How much?” you asked.
“I’m not one given over to expressing sentimentality,” he managed to say.
“Go on, tell me,” you whispered into his skin, “I won’t tell anyone what you say.”
“I suppose if love was an emotion I was given over to feeling, I might apply it to you,” he said.
“I do enjoy a big romantic declaration,” you said, drawing back to look at his face.
His unimpressed expression had you grinning down at him. His hands tightened on your waist, squeezing until you were laughing. You lent forward, your forehead coming to rest against his.
“Might be fun staying here,” you said, “now that you’re open to sharing a bed.”
“Am I? I must have missed the part where I said that,” he said.
“Oh, well, if you don’t want to have some fun…”
You began to climb off his lap but the hands still on your waist pulled you back, pressing you tightly against him.
“If you were in my bed, I suppose it would be easier to keep an eye on you,” he said.
“Well, if it would be easier…”
The next morning, finding Sherlock in Mycroft’s kitchen was hardly a surprise. His eyes swept over you, eyebrows drawing together in confusion at your state of undress, in nothing but your knickers and Mycroft’s discarded shirt from the night before. You grinned, flicking the kettle on.
“If you’re looking for your brother, he’s still upstairs,” you said.
“Tell me you didn’t,” he said.
“Why? You know the answer,” you replied.
“Even you’re not stupid enough to do that,” he said.
“Oh I promise you I am,” you replied.
“And he wouldn’t-”
“He would.”
You lent back against the counter, crossing your arms over your chest as you looked at him. The arrival of Mycroft only increased your amusement. You liked him being less put together, not even in his waistcoat yet, although Sherlock was looking at him like he was practically indecent. You skipped over to him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
“I’m going to let you two talk this out alone,” you said, “if you need me, I’ll be showering.”
You grinned as you listened to the sound of disgust from Sherlock at whatever he read on Mycroft’s face at your declaration. Yes, you loved your Holmes boys. They were such fun to play with.
You weren’t sure your quitting had stuck though. Oh well, you’d try again later.
Synopsis: You notice how close Lady Smallwood and Mycroft seem to be
Words: 3.1k
Warnings: jealousy
Sometimes you wondered why you bothered coming to your work functions. You always had to dress up in something that inevitably made you look like a baby giraffe learning to walk. You weren’t effortless or elegant, nothing like most of the other people that surrounded you. Clutching a glass of champagne, you tried not to fidget with your long skirt, feeling out of place and uncomfortable.
Keeping to the edge of the room, you watched your colleagues. Behaviour was always something you enjoyed categorising in your mind, watching how people interacted. Adding alcohol was the kind of lubrication in the cogs of socialisation that led to some interesting outcomes. You could keep to the shadows and watch, alleviating the awkward feeling sitting in your chest at these kinds of fancy functions. You felt far more at home as an observer to the events of the night, rather than a participant.
Your eyes snagged on a flash of blonde hair. Lady Smallwood. Working for the government could feel like a boys game, so you’d made specific note of the women surrounding you, the women above you, and the women you could one day be. Lady Smallwood was the height of the hierarchy and the person you aimed to be.
Of course, you wanted to be her for more than one reason.
Your eyes traced over the figure standing beside her, a glass of scotch in hand, haughty tilt to his head. Mycroft Holmes. The figure of your fantasies, and the most out of reach man you could think of. No one had ever suggested you were smart with your heart.
You’d been thrown into his path by his brother and you were still cursing him for that. Snatching you up after a particularly impressive case, you’d been in Mycroft’s office ever since, solving problems and coming up with plans. He’d positioned you almost at his right hand, if he had a right hand, if he could trust someone to be his right hand. Of all his underlings, you had come the closest to fulfilling that role.
That knowledge burned you.
You watched, taking a long drink from your champagne. Lady Smallwood shifted closer to Mycroft, looking up at him with such interest. His flash of a smile made your stomach feel sick.
She had been visiting his office more often than usual. Staying long hours. Whispered conversations. You hadn’t meant to be watching, making note of it, caring about it, but your brain had filed the information away as important. It’s what he had you for, after all. Human behaviour, that was your expertise. You did what he couldn’t. Relate to humans.
Only now it looked as if he’d found a chance to relate to another human. The professional had turned personal. Of course it had. Two high power people, both intelligent, both frequently working side by side. It made sense.
Lady Smallwood’s hand landed on his forearm, squeezing it as she shared a smile with him. The two were like an island, surrounded by the rest of the party but isolated from the others.
You had to tear your gaze away. Scanning the crowd, you didn’t notice the way ice swept over you, lingering, squinting in thought.
At least four couples would be going home together, previously nothing but professional relationships turned sexual under the influence of alcohol. One couple would be breaking up within the next few days. The casual sexual relationship from your own department was not looking good if their hissed conversation was anything to go by.
You had to stop focusing on sex. There could be so many other undercurrents revealed to you. Why were you focusing on sex?
Your eyes turned back to Mycroft and Lady Smallwood. His head was bowed towards her. You watched as he took a sip from his glass of scotch, her eyes falling to his lips. His tongue darted out, dragging along his lower lip. Her chest expanded as she inhaled, eyes following along.
Your stomach churned. It was like being knocked off kilter, the floor underneath your feet rolling. You lent back against the wall behind you, gaze turning to your feet as you tried to push back the pressure in your head.
You knew the signs of two people sleeping together. Even if they hadn’t started yet, you knew that was the road they were on. She wasn’t even hiding it. She was attracted to him. Of course he’d be interested. He wasn’t shutting it down, seemingly not unreceptive to it, almost inviting it with his body language. Why wouldn’t he? She was beautiful and powerful and confident. She was, in so many metrics, the perfect choice for him.
It felt as if the walls were closing in around you. Downing the rest of your champagne, you tried to push it back. Your fingertips were tingling. Looking back, they were still locked in conversation, drawn close to one another, blocking out the rest of the world. If they went home together that night you wouldn’t be surprised.
You forced yourself off the wall, depositing your empty flute with one of the passing catering staff, you turned your back on the room. On swift feet, you ducked through the crowd, making your way to the balcony. You needed air, to get out of the crush. Collecting the skirt of your dress in one fisted hand, getting it out of the way, you burst out into the night air, gasping for breath.
Of course, you missed the way blue eyes tracked your movement, an almost imperceptible shift in familiar features moving from impassive to discontent.
You shouldn’t have come tonight. You’d known what you were going to see, and some small part of you was looking to torture yourself. You’d put yourself in this position. There was no use getting upset now.
Only it hurt. The ache in your chest wasn’t abating. Your lungs couldn’t get enough air. Your stomach was leading a revolt. You kept seeing it over and over in your mind, your imagination showing you the inevitable end.
Your fingers curled around the stone of the balcony, the cold biting into your skin. Your knuckles ached as you gripped it tighter, head bowed, trying to get your breathing under control. Maybe Sherlock was right. Maybe you should try and jettison emotion from your body. Sentiment was not serving you well.
“You’ve seen something unpleasant.”
Your eyes squeezed closed, fingers clenching, wondering if you could fling yourself over the balcony. You might not survive the fall, but at least you wouldn’t have to turn around and face him. Not right now.
“Nothing to concern you,” you said.
“I’m afraid it must,” Mycroft said. In your peripheral vision you saw him come up beside you, close enough to see but with enough distance to remind you how out of reach he was, “if it garners such a response from you, it must be important.”
“No,” you sighed, “it’s really not.”
Straightening, you smoothed out your skirt again, lifting your chin, you looked at him.
“Sorry, perhaps I’ve drunk too much. I should probably go home. I’ll report back what I've seen tomorrow,” you said.
You went to move past him, to leave the party and return home to wallow. Cool fingers closed around your wrist, halting you before you could go more than a step. His touch burned, a feeling you were unused to. Mycroft wasn’t one to touch others, always keeping that distance. To feel his skin against yours was overwhelming.
“You’ve had a single glass of champagne. You’re not drunk, you’re upset. Your report. Now,” he said.
“Please,” you whispered, “you should return to the party. I’m sure Lady Smallwood is missing your company.”
“Lady Smallwood?” He released you, taking a step back.
“I’ll of course keep that out of my report. Your personal life is yours,” you said.
“Why would Lady Smallwood be in your report?” he asked.
You turned, sweeping your eyes over him, cataloguing all you saw. Confusion was the main thing. Some intrigue. A little distrust.
“It’s okay, Mycroft. Nothing to be ashamed of. We all have needs,” you said even as your stomach threatened to return the measly amount of food you’d eaten that night.
“Are you implying I’m engaging in a sexual relationship with Lady Smallwood?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at you.
“If not now, then soon. It’s fine. It’s not like I’m going to be telling anyone. You don’t have to worry,” you said.
“What gave you the impression that would be something we were engaging in?” he asked, clearly still confused.
“Your physical proximity, your ease with one another, your clear preference for one another in social situations,” you said, “the flirting.”
“I do not flirt,” he said, seeming to stumble on this idea. You sighed.
“Perhaps not, but you enjoy her flirtation. She’s been doing it all evening and you’ve been encouraging it,” you said, looking down at your feet.
His silence spoke volumes. Sighing again, you turned, ready to leave him to his evening of whatever it was posh people did with one another. Getting drunk probably. Not that you could imagine what a drunk Mycroft Holmes would be like. There was a part of you that desperately wanted to see that.
A hand curled over your bare shoulder, stopping you once again. This was worse. His palm was flush against your skin, warm and inviting, and you had to do your best not to lean into it.
“You’ve still failed to tell me what has upset you,” he said.
“Does it matter?” you asked.
“If someone has made you uncomfortable-” he began.
“No,” you cut him off, “nothing like that. Not that it should matter. Caring is a weakness you don’t allow yourself.”
Except for his brother and blondes it seemed.
“My brother entrusted you into my care,” he tried again.
“I’m not a possession, Mycroft Holmes. I’m not an object to be passed from person to person. If someone has upset me, I’m an adult. I can handle it. My own hurt feelings are my problem, not yours,” you snapped, turning, knocking his hand from your shoulder.
“So someone has done something to upset you,” he said.
“Right now the only person I'm upset with is the man standing in front of me,” you said.
“Truth,” he murmured, as if surprised you hadn’t lied.
“Why would I lie to you?” you asked.
“You’ve been obfuscating for the entirety of this conversation,” he replied, clearly frustrated with you.
“I thought nothing got past you,” you said.
“Lie.”
The breath rushed out of your lungs, fast and sharp, almost painful. Because he was right. There was at least one thing you thought might have gotten past him. One thing you might have managed to hide from him. One secret you still had.
The fact you’d fallen for him completely and utterly, like the idiot you were.
“I can always tell when you’re lying,” he said, voice lowering as he stepped towards you. You shivered.
If this was the moment it was revealed to him, if your inability to keep your emotions in check was going to be your downfall, if your envy was to out you to him you were going to scream. You would quit on the spot. You were better than that. Years of hiding it and now, this might be the moment you ruined it all.
“You’re upset because of Lady Smallwood. Something about her interaction with me has caused you hurt,” he said, studying you, presumably looking for the moment his thoughts were confirmed.
“Mycroft,” you said, voice turning to a warning.
“You saw something about her emotional state,” he said.
“Don’t,” you said, on the brink of pleading.
“Ah,” he said.
Embarrassment crashed into you, turning your stomach, making you want to flee. But your feet were stuck to the ground, left staring at him as you burned. The tears pricking at your eyes were the worst of it all. The rest you could handle, but letting him see you cry was something you’d promised you’d never do, not if you were crying because of him.
Your pride was too strong for that.
“You’re jealous,” he said, summing up the exact sinking feeling in your stomach so succinctly.
“You can be a real arse, you know that, Mycroft Holmes?” you said.
His eyebrows drew together, as if your response confused him. Glaring, you did your best not to do something rash like storming off like a child having a tantrum. Your self respect wouldn’t let you. You were better than that.
“Jealousy is a perfectly normal emotion for most people to experience,” he said.
“Don’t mock me,” you snapped.
“I wasn’t,” he said, shaking his head minutely.
“Look, this is going to be awkward for me, but we can move past it. You should return to the party, find Lady Smallwood, and ignore this conversation. I’m a big girl. We don’t have to talk about this,” you said.
“I’m still unsure why you believe I would seek out Lady Smallwood,” he said.
“Was my analysis not in depth enough for you?” you sneered, “I know the rest of the world are idiots compared to you, but the least you could do is not treat me like one when what I’m saying is so obvious even John would notice.”
“I am not interested in having a physical relationship with Lady Smallwood,” he said.
“You encourage her flirting,” you said.
“I didn’t realise that was what she was doing,” he replied.
You stared at him. Mycroft Holmes, the most intelligent man in the country, possibly in the world, hadn’t noticed a woman quite clearly flirting with him. That made about as much sense as a penguin playing chess. His smile was sheepish, almost self deprecating.
“Yes, even I have been known to make a mistake,” he said.
“Rarely,” you said, not sure what else there was to say.
“Quite,” he said.
“Well, now that we’ve covered that, I think I’ll be going home to avoide any more… of this,” you said, gesturing vaguely at the air to encompass all of it.
You were almost at the door when his voice stopped you in your tracks.
“You have no reason to be jealous.”
“Yes, because you have no interest in sleeping with Lady Smallwood. So you said,” you said, still not looking at him.
“Because my interests lie elsewhere,” he said.
You were slow to turn to him. He was looking at you like the answer was obvious, like you were being spectacularly dim, like he’d said everything that had to be said. You stared, trying to work him out, trying to see the unspoken, doing what Sherlock had taught you to do.
“I’m not particularly interested in hearing you tell me about another woman,” you said, “I’m drawing that line in the sand right now.”
“I thought we were still talking about you,” he said.
When you breathed in, it was shaky, unsure of yourself. He was still watching you like it was obvious. You shook your head as you took a step towards him.
“I’m always stunned by the inability of people to see what is staring them in the face,” Mycroft said, “but then, I suppose tonight has shown me to be no better.”
“Do you want to let the rest of the class in on what you’ve already worked out?” you asked.
“You can work it out. Apply yourself,” he said, sardonic in every meaning of the word.
“Mycroft, if you’re going to be purposefully difficult, I’m going to leave,” you replied.
He closed the gap between the two of you in two short strides. You looked up into his face, trying to tamp down the feeling in your chest. The flutter of your heart was making it difficult.
“I’m not one given over to talking about my feelings,” he said.
“Too sentimental,” you said, knowing how he thought.
“I am making an exception for you,” he said, “you have no reason to be jealous as the only person I am interested in is you.”
You felt your breath catch, staring up into his face. His expression wasn’t open or easy, you weren’t sure it ever would be. But there was a small smile flirting with the corners of his mouth, amused as you couldn’t find words.
“You hid that well,” you said.
“As did you,” he said.
“You didn’t know?” It seemed inconceivable even as it had been what you’d been aiming for.
“I can see it now.” His fingers came up, brushing over the apple of your cheek, “yes, I can see it so clearly now.”
“Mycroft,” you sighed, a soft whisper on your lips.
“So glaringly obvious,” he murmured.
He was drawing closer, so slowly it felt like torture. The heat spreading over your skin was becoming unbearable and you found yourself looking at his lips. They were pulling up in a small smile, one that felt so much more intimate than anything you’d seen from him before. His fingers curled, knuckles brushing the skin of your cheek again.
“Mycroft,” you whispered again, not able to keep the yearning from your voice.
His breath ghosted over your face, so close. Your eyes slipped closed, not sure you could handle it. You wanted it so badly.
The first brush of lips was soft, a question. You surged forward, not able to help yourself, kissing him like he was the water on offer as you were dying of thirst. His hand on your cheek tilted your head up, sure as he kissed you deeper, taking control, guiding you the way he wanted you.
Your arms wound around him, your chest pressing to his, the heat of him searing you. He tasted of scotch and fire, lighting you up in ways you didn’t know were possible. He was so confident, almost arrogant, as he kissed you breathless. You melted against him.
He was slow to draw back from you, taking his time. You whimpered, an embarrassing sound if not for the way you felt molten in his arms. His fingers were gentle as they tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, lingering on your jaw, tilting your chin up towards him.
“Is my position clear?” he asked.
His face had softened, almost fond as he gazed down on you. Your smile felt uncontrollable, widening when his eyes dipped down to it.
“Do it again,” you commanded.
“What?” His eyes flicked back to yours.
“Do. It. Again,” you said, fingers curling around his tie, pulling him in.
Synopsis: To watch you charm is delight and torture in equal measure.
Words: 1.5k
Warnings: Jealousy, possessiveness
You were glowing. Head tipped back, laughing, the long line of your throat on display. In the light, your skin looked soft, the cinched waist of your dress highlighting your figure to great effect. You were charming.
He was not the only one to notice.
Mycroft’s fingers tightened around his glass, keeping half an eye on you. It was the first time he’d allowed you to join him at a work function, a long day leading him to wanting you by his side that night. A small comfort he didn’t usually indulge in.
He shouldn’t have that night.
You were lovely. He knew that. Obviously he knew that. It was one of the joys of having you in his life. But now the men he worked with, the idiots he was forced to surround himself with, were like a moth to a flame with you. Surrounding you, looking for your attention, you were the new shiny toy for them to try and snatch up.
If only they knew you had higher tastes than they could ever fulfill. You were something special, and you deserved someone special. Hence, you were his. He was exceptional, and that was exactly the kind of man you deserved. The rest were fools to even try.
Your laughter was bright, capturing his attention. He turned away from the conversation, not caring that it was rude. Lord Montgomery was looking rather proud of himself, smug, as you laughed. Your hand was resting on his forearm, a fleeting touch, but it made his jaw clench. You lent forward and he felt his glare harden.
The shape of your lips as they formed words were a piece of art. He found himself watching as he eased to the edge of the room, finding a refill for his scotch. Your head tipped to the side, eyelashes fluttering as Lord Grosvenor gesticulated wildly enough his drink sloshed over the side of the glass. Drunk, if Mycroft wasn’t mistaken. Your chin dipped, a false show of modesty, but the slight curl to your lips let him know you found him ridiculous, not charming.
You found him charming. He was certain of that. Your cheeks flushed and your pupils dilated, and he’d felt your pulse increase. You would shift closer to him, touch him, smile at him like he’d hung the moon.
He would hang the moon for you.
A large hand closed over your shoulder. He watched you stiffen, the softness in your face slipping for a moment before you readjusted it back onto your charming mask. Lord Rudolph was a brute of a man, flushed skin, shirt buttons straining, huffing for breath. His loud voice carried, expecting people to listen to him by way of the respect he expected to be shown as one of the upper class. Your smile was dazzling as you turned to him.
You were resplendent, the height of women, the perfect pair to him. And you weren’t even looking to him, so surrounded by male attention he wasn’t even registering. That would not do. Those men needed to realise they didn’t even come close in the competition to your heart. He had already won.
And they were still trying. He was watching them attempt to hold your attention, to steal it away, to own it themselves. And you were giving it to them. You were bestowing it like it was a gift to be given out freely for any bumbling oaf who might want a piece of it. That wouldn’t do at all.
His touch was light on the small of your back, your warmth bleeding through to his hand. There was no stiffening in your spine or an inhalation of breath. You lent back into his touch, slow to look up at him, your smile warming under his gaze.
“I see you’ve all met my wife,” he said to the gathered men.
Your soft exhale was full of amusement. Your weight shifted, closer to him, ensuring the two of you were seen as a single unit, a closed circuit with no break, a grouping no one could infiltrate.
“I wasn’t aware you were married, Holmes,” Lord Rudolph said, voice gruff.
“A well kept secret,” he replied, lifting his chin, daring him to argue.
“You’ve got quite the jewel there,” Lord Montgomery said.
“I know,” he said.
You gazed up at him, smiling when his eyes met yours. You were entirely too lovely, the most beautiful sight he could lay eyes on. He wasn’t used to noticing beauty, focusing on more important things, but your face had always drawn his eye. Especially when you looked at him with that expression. The one that made his blood heat beneath his skin.
“Lucky man,” Lord Grosvenor said, nudging Lord Montgomery with his elbow, sharing a knowing look.
Ah yes, so called locker room talk. That was why he had kept you from these men for so long, not wanting your name in their mouths as they engaged in the puerile male bonding ritual. He’d heard the words they had used before, the laughter, the stories. There was no part of him that wanted you involved in their attempts at one upmanship in the game of being the most piggish of the lot. Your name should never be allowed on their tongues.
“Indeed,” he said, voice dripping with derision.
You laughed, delighted as your arm curled around his waist, a show of affection that usually made him feel uncomfortable. This time though, all he felt was smug as your body brushed against his. The obvious message you were sending those men. The way you curled yourself around him, propriety and submissive mixed together in a way that said you were his, and his completely.
These men had no idea how he was yours too. Men such as them could never understand the devotion he could have for a woman, the way his world revolved around you, the way you brought him to his knees. He hadn’t thought it was possible but you’d waltzed into his life and did it as if it was nothing. Like it was easy. Like anyone could do it and you were just the first to bother.
Maybe you were the first to bother.
“Darling, Lord Rudolph was just telling me about his racehorse,” you said, leaning into his side, “it’s just fascinating.”
Only he could tell your voice was dripping with sarcasm. Oh, how he adored you.
“Is this a subtle hint that you’d like a racehorse?” he asked.
“Oh,” you laughed, “no. I’m sure it’s entirely too complicated for me.”
That could never be true. As if any of the boarish oafs in front of you could understand something more than you. Your intellect far surpassed the majority of the people in the room. It had to, if he was going to share a life with you.
“I’m afraid I need a moment with my wife, gentlemen,” he said to the group.
With the hand on the small of your back, he guided you away without argument. He’d always admired how you picked your battles with him, choosing to become stubborn when it best served you. Avoiding the uppercrusts of the British aristocracy was not a battle you had any interest in fighting him on.
He guided you out of the room, collecting your coat for you. Helping you into it, his fingers brushed over where your shoulder met your neck, watching the small shiver that went through you. It was gratifying to know you desired him still. That you were attracted to him.
“Are you taking me home?” you asked.
“I thought we both might appreciate removing ourselves from the inanity of this night,” he said.
“You want to go home,” you summarised.
“I do,” he said.
“With me,” you said.
“Yes.”
Your smirk was telling.
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Mycroft?” you said, stepping closer to him, your arm coming to rest over his shoulder.
“Jealousy is an emotion for those who feel inferior. I have no use for it,” he said.
“Of course.” You were still smirking like you could see into his soul, “although perhaps you could refresh my memory. When was our wedding, husband?”
“We shall be married one day. I don’t see the significance in waiting to affirm you as my wife,” he said.
“And people say you’re not romantic,” you said.
He was ready to argue but you were leaning closer, a chaste kiss placed on his lips. He chased you as you drew back, capturing you in another kiss, this time searing. You were breathless when he released you, lips kiss swollen, chest heaving, pupils dilated. A picture of desire, and one he coveted.
“Come, wife. I’m taking you home,” he said.
“I love you,” you said as he swept you out of the building, into the cool night air, voice so fond it made his heart ache.
“You own my heart,” was his response.
The way you looked at him was like he was every single one of your dreams come to life. If only you knew that you were more than he could ever have dreamed of. He hadn’t known to dream about you.
Synopsis: You don't like the way some of Lars' fans talk about him.
Words: 2.4k
Warnings: smut, possessiveness, jealousy, marking, semi-public sex
AN: Another one for the Ghost Boy series. I'm taking a break after this one so I'll see you all when I'm back.
“Ohmigod, I can see him,”
You stood outside the fire station, waiting to get the moment the Ghostbusters emerged on camera. They were about to make a statement about the latest threat to New York City, one you’d written for Gary. It was always a toss up whether he would say what you wrote, but if you could live stream it, at least more people would see it.
“How is he hotter in person?”
There was a crowd around you, a group of young women standing close to you. You had to shift if the live was going to be worth it. But the crowd had packed itself pretty close and you didn’t think you were going to be able to find another spot. You sighed, lowering the phone.
“I know he’s a total nerd but I bet he’s a beast in the bedroom.”
Familiar eyes swept over the crowd from the side of the door. Lars was looking for you. That much was clear. You took the opportunity to watch him without him being aware of you. You did have to admit he was looking particularly handsome.
“No, he looks like he’d be really tender. Like it would be really emotional.”
His eyes snagged on you and you saw the way he brightened. He stood straighter and it almost looked as if he was going to take a step towards you. You smirked at him, a little wink making his cheeks flush, just enough for you to notice. He hated being in front of the camera and you knew he was only there today because you’d asked. The amount of power you wielded was intoxicating.
“I don’t care what he’s like. All I know is I want to climb that fine specimen of a man like a tree.”
Your teeth clenched. It would be stupid to complain about the comments from the women near you. You’d asked Lars to be there because of women like them, the kind who appreciated every time he was on the socials. That didn’t mean you liked hearing the way they spoke about your boyfriend.
You’d both agreed to keep it quiet at this point. Not that it was something to announce on the company’s social media. And Lars didn’t have social media of his own. But you knew you’d gained a few followers from the hopes of seeing Lars on there. They’d been disappointed, not wanting the speculation that was sometimes in the comment sections.
“I just want to run my fingers through his hair. It looks so soft.”
Gary stepped out of the door to a loud cheer. You raised the phone again, hoping the women would quieten down as he spoke. Lars straightened again, his eyes going to the other man, a barely contained curl of his upper lip just visible. Next lesson with him might be working on his poker face when in public.
“The first thing I want to say is that ghost got busted,” Gary said to wild cheers.
The women beside you were still whispering amongst themselves and you had to lower the phone. There was no chance you were going to be getting a clean shot. Rather than tune in to Gary reading from the speech you’d written, you turned your attention on Lars, standing in the background, hands clasped behind his back. With the sun shining down, he was so stupidly handsome.
“Do you think he’ll stick around when that guy is done talking?” one of the women asked, loud enough to interrupt your appreciation.
“If he does I’m definitely going to go shoot my shot,” another of them said.
You pressed your lips togethers. There was reading it on a screen and then there was listening to a group of women talk about hitting on your boyfriend. You weren’t usually a jealous person, but you’d never been with someone who got so much attention from other women. And looking at them, some of them were stupidly pretty.
He caught your eye again. You wrinkled your nose at him, watching the way a slow smile spread over his face. He could be so stoic sometimes it was gratifying to watch him with his heart on his sleeve when it came to you.
“Ohmigod, he’s totally smiling at me.”
“Duh, you’re like so pretty. I bet he wants you to come talk to him afterwards.”
“Ohmigod, no way, I can’t.”
“If you don’t I will.”
And there was the kicker. You rolled your eyes, looking down at your phone. The response online to the speech was going well, a few people live tweeting about it from fan accounts. When you looked up, the smile had slipped from Lars’ face, instead watching you with more interest than he should have. You pointed over to Gary, waiting for his attention to shift.
Good boy.
The tension kept ratcheting up the longer you listened to the women beside you. Giggling and laughing, they were obviously trying to get Lars’ attention. Flicking hair and batted eyelashes. Your jaw was clenching and you were just counting down the seconds that you could get Lars alone.
“Thanks guys,” Gary said, folding the paper you’d given him, shoving it in his pocket with an affable smile.
He turned, reentering the fire station. Lars lingered, his wandering back towards you. You flinched as the girl immediately to your right screamed his name. His attention shifted, eyebrows drawing together in confusion. The women surged forward, surrounding him before you could even take a step. With a small sigh, you waited long enough to see Lars shrug them off before entering the firehouse himself, almost scared of them. Their disappointment shouldn’t have made you feel better, and yet when you slipped inside there was a sense of smugness within you.
He was loitering in the entrance, watching for your return. You didn’t bother saying anything, grabbing his hand and dragging him away. He went with you willingly, not questioning you as you took the stairs down towards the containment unit.
“Are we filming something, love?” he asked.
“Not unless you’re looking for a scandal,” you replied.
You pushed him against the wall beside the stairs. The way he was looking at you was bemused, like he couldn’t figure out what you were doing but was more than willing to participate. Keeping him pinned there, you pushed up onto your tiptoes, lips grazing against his. You nipped at his lower lip before drawing back.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Proving a point,” you replied.
Not to those silly little girls. Mainly to yourself. And to him a little bit. But mostly to yourself.
Your hands slid up his body, fingers delving into his hair. You tugged him down, kissing him roughly. His hands were warm as they closed over your hips, holding on tight enough that he might be leaving bruises to be found later. He groaned into your mouth as you tugged on his hair, pulling it harder than you ever had before. You knew you were being a touch too rough with him but you wanted to leave your mark.
Your lips trailed down, finding that spot behind his jaw that was soft and vulnerable. You dragged your teeth over it, feeling the rumble in his chest as he moaned. Your tongue soothed over his skin. With the fingers still in his blond hair, you tugged his head to the side. Your lips took their time trailing down his neck until you came to his pulse point.
Your teeth sunk in. He yelped but didn’t push you away. You sucked at his skin, wanting to bruise him, to see your mark left on him. You wanted those girls to see he wasn’t available for their fantasies since he was too busy fulfilling yours.
“Fuck, love,” he groaned, but his hands were tight on you and you could feel his interest growing against your hip.
Your hands skimmed down his body, not bothering to take your time. You wanted him, no two ways about it. And you were going to have him.
Deft fingers found their way through buttons, seeking out warm skin to touch and taste. Your tongue was tasting the salt on his skin as he groaned, leaning back against the wall as if he needed it to hold him up. It was once your hands had slipped past the waistband of his trousers that he seemed to remember where he was.
“Love, they’re all just upstairs,” he said.
“So?” you asked, lips brushing over the beautifully developing bruise on his pale skin.
“Someone could walk in on us,” he said.
“Do you want me to stop?”
Your hand curled around his length, hot and heavy in your hand.
“No,” he hissed.
“Then be good and quiet and I’ll make sure it’s worth it,” you said.
He nodded his head, enthusiastic as you began to slowly drag your hand along his length. Pushing up, you kissed him again, wanting the taste of him on your tongue. He whined into your mouth as your hand continued to work him, feeling all the ways he was growing in your touch. Twisting your wrist, you massaged his tip, feeling his hips thrust into your hand.
“You like that, huh, ghost boy,” you said, drawing back so you could watch the way his face contorted in pleasure.
“Yeah,” he sighed, “fuck.”
You were being almost lazy about it, taking your time as you worked him over. The feeling of him in your hand, the weight of him, it was one you’d never grow tired of. His cheeks were flushing, a pretty pink colour, eyes blowing wide, the blue a thin ring surrounding his dark pupils. He was watching you from under hooded lids, lips parted as his breathing came heavier.
“Don’t want anyone else like this, do you?” you asked, increasing your pace.
“No,” he groaned, head falling forward, seeking you out.
His lips were desperate when they met yours, hands grasping you, holding on as you stroked him. Large hands on your ass, tugging you closer while your hand was on him, hips pressing into your touch.
“No one else makes you feel this good,” you told him, right as you did that thing that always made his eyes roll to the back of his head.
“No,” he agreed, “no one else.”
The weight of him in your hands, soft skin and hard length smeared with pre-cum, thumb swirling over the head. All of it was heady when mingled with the power you had over him in that moment. You paused a moment, listening to the sound of people moving upstairs. His tiny whine was addictive.
You were slow to start up again, hips rutting into your hand, your lips finding a place on his throat. He was doing so well, keeping quiet, the flush on his skin and his heavy breathing the only indication he was growing close. Your tongue licked a long strip up his throat, tasting the salt on his skin and your teeth nipped at him. His fingers were digging into your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he tried to keep quiet.
You could tell when he began to get close, the small noises in your ear growing more desperate hips more insistent as he pumped into your hand. Pulling him into a kiss, you did that thing again, feeling his whole body shudder. Warmth spilled over your hand, hips stuttering, your name a soft groan in your ear.
Pulling your hand out of his trousers, you licked his cum from your skin. The way he watched your tongue was gratifying in its own way. You grinned up at him, feeling so much better.
“Fuck, darling,” he said when he caught his breath again, “I don’t know what came over you but I’m loving it.”
“Those girls…” You shook your head, “I know it’s silly but something about listening to them talk about you…”
“I thought you liked that women found me attractive. That it was good for the business,” he said, doing up his belt.
“Sure but this was in person and they were planning on shooting their shots and they kept talking about what you’re like in bed and I don’t know. It just hit different,” you said.
“Were you jealous?”
Large hands cupped your cheeks, pulling you back towards him. He looked down at you, quirking one eyebrow up but the satisfied look on his face ruining the entire effect.
“Maybe a little,” you admitted, “but you’re mine. And I know no one knows but I guess I don’t like it when they hit on you.”
“They try and hit on me online,” he said.
“Yeah but you’re not the one reading the comments. I am. So it’s fine,” you said, “it just got to me today, I guess.”
He lent down, lips findings yours in a soft kiss. You could feel it, the way he loved you, just from how careful he was being with you. Drawing back, he pushed some hair behind your ear.
“You’re the only one for me, love,” he said.
“I know, ghost boy,” you replied, “I was just being silly.”
“Well, any time you decide to be silly, my body is willing and ready for you to work it out on,” he said.
You laughed, falling forward until your face was buried in his chest and his arms were around you. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his own puff of laughter warming you up from the inside out.
“We should probably get back to work,” you mumbled, muffled in the material of his shirt.
“Must we?” he asked.
“You don’t want to go run some tests on the latest ghost?” you asked.
You knew his answer before he said it. He’d been talking about getting his hands on the latest ghost the entire night before. He threaded his fingers through yours, tugging you towards the stairs.
“This might be the best day ever,” he said to you over his shoulder.
You laughed again, letting him drag you to the car so you could return to the lab. Your heart had returned to normal and it was easier to shrug off the comments from those girls. As if he would ever want them when you made him this happy.
saw that you were asking for lars request so here my like idea, like oldest Spengler Daughter (she’s an adult trust chat) like needs to move out of the firehouse and get her own place and lars like offered his place until she finds a permanent place but eventually without even knowing they kinda just become roommates until one of them confesses is when that becomes official? if you can’t write for this i understand it’s just an idea
Here you go Anon!
“I can’t stay there anymore,” you said, stabbing at the buttons on the computer in front of you, “I love my family but they’re driving me crazy.”
Lars looked up. He’d only been half listening as you talked, focused on extracting the ghosts from his collection of items. You weren’t looking at him either, your glare levelled at the screen even as you sighed. He had to admit, you certainly looked frazzled, dark circles under your eyes and a weary set to your shoulders.
“Well, if you need, you can stay with me until you find your own place,” he offered.
He should have thought about it before letting the words come out of his mouth. You perked up, finally looking at him over the top of the computer screen. The hope in your eyes made his lips pull up into a smile and he realised he’d let you move in with him despite knowing it might kill him. He could already see the torture he was in for and yet he thought it might be worth it if you kept smiling like that.
He hated being in love with you when you could never love him back.
“You’d really let me do that?” you asked.
“Sure.” He shrugged like it was no big deal.
“Oh my god,” you squealed, jumping up from your chair, “thank you thank you thank you.”
You flung your arms around his body and he knew you had no idea the turmoil it caused him. On the one hand, feeling you there in his arms was like heaven, on the other, it was like being Tantalus, so close to what he wanted but forever out of reach.
“I’ll help you move this weekend if you want,” he said, sounding gruffer than usual.
“You are the best man I know, Lars Pinfield,” you said.
He wore that compliment for the rest of the day.
On Saturday morning he pulled up out the front of the fire house in his beat up Toyota, trepidation in his heart. It was easy enough to walk in as a member of the team. You were in the kitchen, feet kicking as you sat at the bench while Gary was busy cooking up something that smelt sugary. You brightened when you saw him, perking up.
“You’re here,” you said. Gary turned, raising his eyebrows at him.
“I said I would be,” he replied.
“You sticking around for pancakes?” Gary asked, “they’re chocolate chip.”
His stomach grumbled.
“Please stay,” you said, reaching out a hand to him, tugging on it until he was taking a seat in stool beside you.
“Do you have much to bring down to my car?” he asked.
“Nah, us Spenglers travel light,” you replied, flashing him a bright smile, “the joys of constantly moving.”
“Can you get your sister?” Gary asked.
“PHOEBE!” you shouted towards the staircase.
Lars winced, pressing a hand to the ear closest to you.
“Well, I could have done that,” Gary said, not even slightly phased by it. Then again, he’d been living with you long enough to grow used to it.
“Sorry,” you said to him.
He shrugged it off, fingers twisting together on the bench in front of him. You placed your hands over his, your skin warm against his and butterflies bursting in flight in his stomach. You weren’t even looking at him, already in conversation with Gary about the latest capture. It was hard to know if you were aware of the effect you had on him, but he guessed not.
If the chaos of the pancake brunch was anything to go by, he could understand why you’d been desperate to move out. It was lovely and warm but loud and frantic and while there was so much love it was also overwhelming. Good in small doses but all the time he could see why you needed a break.
The actual process of moving your things into his car took one trip, a couple of boxes, a few bags, not much at all really. You were bright, chattering to him about the book you’d stayed up too late reading the night before and the explosion that came from Phoebe’s room at 2am. He enjoyed the patter, the rhythm of your speech, the way you were so invested in everything you talked about.
And then you were in his flat, looking at all the things he owned. You’d put your bags down on his second hand couch, looking at the photos he had up. He bit back the impulse to ask what you thought about it, wanting to hear what you were thinking and yet equally terrified to hear what you were thinking too. You’d softened, picking up a picture of him with his mother and sister from his last trip home for the holidays, your smile so pretty.
“I’ve uh… I’ve set up the spare room for you. It’s only a pull out couch because I used to use it as a workshop but the door closes so you’ll have your privacy,” he said.
“You’re the best,” you said, turning your attention back on him, “I promise I’ll be out of your hair soon.”
He wanted to tell you not to hurry on his account. But then he thought about all the ways living with you was going to wreck him and he couldn’t bring himself to say it.
Despite your promises, you were still there three months later.
You were on the old couch in nothing but an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of shorts when he rose one Sunday morning. Running his hand through his hair, he paused in the doorway of his room. The thoughts running through his head were not appropriate but he couldn’t stop staring at all the skin on display, your legs stretching out over the cushions. You were scrolling through your phone, a cup of tea clutched in one hand, the steam rising towards your parted lips.
“Morning,” he muttered, shuffling past you.
You looked up, hair tumbling over your shoulders, a smile ready for him. In his own pyjama pants and the old t-shirt from his university days, he felt self conscious. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him so dressed down, but when you were splayed on the couch looking like you’d stepped right out of his dreams it was hard not to feel self conscious.
“Your tea is steeping,” you said, not even looking up, “hey, what do you think about Queens?”
“For what?” he asked.
“As a neighbourhood to live in,” you replied, “because there’s this place that feels like it’s too good to be true.”
“It probably is then,” he said with a small shrug.
“Yeah,” you sighed.
“Rats and awful neighbours and mold,” he said, tipping sugar into the hot mug.
“And the commute to work,” you groaned.
“Best to just stay here,” he said.
“I promise, I really will get out of your hair soon,” you said.
It was like an ongoing joke between the two of you now. You shifted your legs so he could sit on the other end of the sofa and then immediately placed your feet into his lap. He froze, not quite sure what to do. You still weren’t even looking at him, so easy and free around him. It baffled his mind that you didn’t feel the tension. But of course you didn’t. You weren’t in love with him.
“Do you have any plans today?” you asked, eyes finally flicking up to him.
“Going into the lab?” he said, more of a question than a statement.
“Oh come on, it’s the weekend, Pinfield, let’s do something fun,” you said.
“Such as?”
His hand came down, landing on your ankle, soft skin warm against the palm of his hand. You grinned, slow and lazy, raising the mug to your lips. He felt his breath catch, wondering if you knew exactly how temping you were. He doubted it, and yet there was a twinkle in your eye that meant he couldn’t be sure.
“We could go have a picnic in the park,” you suggested.
He looked to the window, rain lashing the glass. When he turned back, your smile had turned indulgent.
“Alright, maybe not in the park. But we could have one inside,” you said.
“You really want to have a picnic?” he asked.
“You can’t work 24/7. Have some fun with me, Lars.”
Oh god, you were dangerous when you looked at him like that. All hopeful and mischievous and naughty. Like you were convincing him to do something he shouldn’t do. But like he would enjoy it if he agreed. You lent towards him, waiting for his answer.
“And what would we eat on this picnic?” he asked, shifting closer.
“All kinds. I’ll make you a cake,” you offered.
“A cake? Well, how can I say no to that,” he said.
“You can’t,” you replied, sliding closer.
His hand was slipping further up your leg, feeling more skin and you were only pushing into his touch. It was a specific form of torture, being given what he wanted and yet not what he wanted at all.
“I better get on it if I have to make a cake for lunch,” you said.
Your legs slipped from under his hand as you stood and he felt bereft. Then he cursed himself, trying to get his head screwed back on. He didn’t even notice as you slipped into the bathroom, face buried in his cup of tea to avoid staring at you.
Perhaps that’s why he didn’t bother looking out as he crossed the living room. The door for the bathroom was flung open and a warm body ran into his. Catching you around the waist, he found himself stumbling back, tripping over his own feet and landing with a hard oof on the ground. Your weight pressed down on him and he blinked, wondering if he’d hit his head hard enough to begin hallucinating. It certainly felt like he might be with every curve of your body pressed against his.
“Shit, Lars, are you okay?”
You lifted off him, sitting just enough to look down at him. His eyes slammed shut the moment he realised you were in nothing but a towel, clasping in your hand to keep it from falling open and giving him the kind of eyeful that would sustain his fantasies for a good long while. A warm hand cupped his cheek and he let out a pained moan. You had no idea what you were doing to him.
“Lars, please say something so I know I didn’t kill you.” You sounded worried, more worried than you should have.
“I’m okay,” he muttered.
He squinted his eyes open, finding your face still way too close, able to count the freckles that dusted your nose and the eyelashes that framed your beautiful eyes. Your lips pulled up into a smile and he watched a stray water droplet slide over the curve of your shoulder before landing on his shirt, darkening the material. The scent of your soap clung to your skin and he was close enough to be enveloped in it, his head spinning.
Just the feeling of you on top of him was waking him up better than the planned shower would. Or rather, a certain part of his anatomy was waking up.
He pushed you off his body, eyes widening and shame curling in his stomach. He left you there on the floor, not looking back as he locked himself away in the bathroom. Almost hyperventilating, he sunk onto the closed toilet, burying his head in his hands.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” you called.
“Fine,” he called back, strangled and desperate, needing you to leave him alone. He could still feel the ghost of your body pressing against his.
You must have sensed it because you left him alone, not trying to check in again. He sat there long enough for his prick to lose interest before having the coldest shower of his life. Not looking for a repeat of earlier, he climbed back into his pyjamas before slinking into his room to get dressed properly. Jeans and t-shirt. Nice enough. Casual enough. You might not even make fun of him for it.
The first weekend you’d been in his home he’d come out in the clothes he would normally wear to work, tie included. You’d teased him about it but with the kind of fond smile that meant he didn’t care so much. At some point he’d slipped back into how he acted usually at home, despite your continued presence. It was nice. Too nice. It was the highway to heartbreak.
“I’m making chocolate. I hope that’s okay. Everyone loves chocolate cake, right?”
He hadn’t realised you were in the kitchen, back in what looked suspiciously like one of his jumpers and another pair of shorts. You were really killing him. You must know exactly what it was doing to him. You had to. It was beyond a coincidence.
“Chocolate is good,” he replied.
“Good,” you said, smiling at him with a radiance he found spellbinding.
He sat on the couch again, laptop balanced on his knees, trying to ignore the sound of you in the kitchen. If he didn’t he’d just end up watching you and he was aware enough to know that would be considered a level of creepy that was unacceptable. Although then maybe you’d move out sooner and he could go back to not being on edge all the time.
And ruin any chance he might have with you. Which he was growing more certain was nonexistent anyway. But it was the principle of the thing.
“Hey, can you get this for me? I’m not tall enough.”
You were looking at something on the top shelf of the kitchen, both hands on your hips, a smudge of flour on your cheek. He wanted to wipe it off, fingers itching to touch the apple of your cheek.
“Sure.”
Stretching up, he grasped the baking soda, t-shirt riding up as he did. Settling back, he turned to hand it to you, noticing the way your eyes flicked away from him, teeth sunk into your bottom lip. His breath caught, wondering what it would be like to do the same to you, to bite down on that full lower lip, to tug on it, to listen to your breath hitch as he did. Shaking his head, he placed the baking soda down on the counter.
“I’m going to run to the shops,” he said, needing a moment of escape. Clearly the day was doing something to him, “do you need anything?”
“Fresh strawberries, if they have any,” you replied.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
“You manage it and I’ll let you lick the spoon.” You winked at him.
Shrugging into a waterproof coat, he grabbed his umbrella and keys and left you to your baking in the flat. The cold air was like slap in the face, waking him up from the dreamy quality that had come over his home. He didn’t know what it was about you, but it made him lose sense of himself, drifting into you like a blackhole, wanting more than he could ever rightly expect to receive. You weren’t his to want.
And yet…
The shop was mostly empty, leaving him to his thoughts as he stalked the aisles. He had to stop focusing on you, had to get over his crush or else he might be buried by it. Just because you were beautiful and funny and so smart, he had no right to think of you the way he did. He had to stop or it would destroy him.
Returning back to the flat, the smell coming from inside was enough to make his mouth water. He shucked off the cart and hung it up, leaving the umbrella by the door to dry. You brightened as he slid a punnet of strawberries across the counter.
“You’re amazing,” you said and for a moment he thought you might fling your arms around him again.
That might undo him.
“You’ve set up a whole picnic in here,” he said, looking over the living space.
A blanket was spread over the floor, cushions scattered over it, the coffee table pushed to the side. The twinkle lights you’d strung up one weekend just until you moved out were on, reflecting in the window where the sky outside was darkening. A storm was on the way.
“We said we were having an indoor picnic,” you replied, “so I got us ready for an indoor picnic.”
“Right,” he said.
“And I’ve even got the food ready. The cake will be a bit longer and then it has to cool before I can ice it, but we can eat now.”
You moved around the counter on bare feet, your smile enticing as you stepped onto the blanket. He followed, knowing he always would when you were looking at him that way. He was so far gone for you.
You sat down, patting the spot next to you for him to join you. He was slow to lower himself beside you, worried about being close enough to touch.
“I got peanut butter cups from my secret stash for you,” you said.
His heart squeezed painfully.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Are you okay? You seem off,” you said, shuffling closer.
“Fine,” he replied, tightly.
“Have a peanut butter cup.”
Your fingers pressed one to his mouth and he couldn’t say no. Your fingertips brushed his lips and his eyes squeezed closed. And then warm breath puffed against his mouth and his eyes blinked open and you were right there.
“What are you…” he tried to ask.
“Hang on a moment,” you murmured.
Your lips brushed his and he felt the need to pinch himself. He didn’t let himself touch you, worried this was some kind of hallucination from wishing too hard. You drew back and he let himself look at you. There was such trepidation in your expression, worry like you’d done something wrong.
What was he going to do other than reach out and pull you back to him and kiss you like his life depended on it?
You climbed into his lap, knees falling either side of his hips. His hands were on the bare skin of your thighs, fingers digging in as your tongue licked into his mouth, tasting of chocolate and sugar and everything good in the world. He groaned, and your fingers had tangled in his hair and you were everywhere and everything and every dream come true.
“Lars,” you moaned into his mouth and he could hear you say his name over and over again, on repeat, for the rest of his life.
“Wanted this for so long,” you mumbled, pressing open mouthed kisses down the column of his neck.
His head fell back and all he could do was feel the soft skin under his palms and the warmth of your mouth on his neck and the press of your curves against him. He didn’t know what to do with himself with a lapful of you.
“Fuck,” he groaned as you sucked on his skin, teeth nipping at his pulse point.
“Tell me you want this too,” you said into his skin.
“I’ve wanted this since the moment we met,” he said, head tipping back to give you more room.
You kissed him again, and he could only submit to you, thankful he got to be on the receiving end of your kisses. Your fingers tugged on his hair and he groaned, hands sliding up your legs, around your hips, to press into your spine. Your body was held tight against his, and he could just drown in you.
An alarm went off and then he was cold, lap empty of you as you were walking to the kitchen, lips kiss stung and warm skin begging for his hands again. He watched the sway of your hips, trying to cool off but not able to when you looked so delicious. You bent at the waist, pulling the cake out of the oven, and he felt dirty watching you and yet not able to stop himself. You turned, catching him and a slow smile spread over your face.
“Are you checking me out?” you asked, putting the cake down on the cooling rack.
“Yes.” He had no interest in lying.
“Naughty boy,” you said and he liked the sound of it on your tongue.
You lowered yourself into his lap again, arms twining around his neck as his curled around your waist. He loved the feeling of your weight on top of him, a lapful of you like heaven.
“Have you really wanted this since we met?” you asked, not drawing closer to kiss him again much to his disappointment.
“Of course,” he said, “you’re the girl of my dreams.”
“Stop,” you said, shoving at his chest, “really?”
“I think if I wrote a list of everything I’d want in my perfect woman, you’d have all of them,” he said.
“You think you’re so smooth, don’t you,” you laughed.
“I’m just trying to be honest,” he said,
“I can’t believe you offered to let me stay with you,” you said, “I mean, if you already felt this way it must have sucked for you. Just this morning…”
“Why do you think I locked myself in the bathroom for so long,” he replied.
“Were you jerking off?” A delighted laugh fell from your lips even as his cheeks flushed.
“No!” You seemed to find joy in his embarrassment, “not that time.”
“Naughty boy,” you murmured again, leaning forward to kiss him, your tongue in his mouth.
“What about you?” he asked when he came up for air, “I’ve spilled my secrets.”
“Oh I jerk off to thoughts of you all the time,” you said.
He liked the thought of that a lot.
“Do you remember that day in the lab where you looked over my shoulder and corrected my math?” you asked.
“Which time?”
“Asshole.” You swatted at his chest again.
“I do,” he replied, softening at your smile.
“I’ve been falling for you ever since,” you said, “you were so smart. It made me tingly all over.”
“You like when I show off my intelligence?” he asked.
“It’s pretty sexy,” you said.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, leaning up to kiss you again.
He was never going to grow tired of your taste.
“Stop looking for a new place,” he mumbled into your mouth, wanting you on tap all day every day.
“Seriously?” You drew back, refusing to let him kiss you again.
“You already live here. Let’s be honest, this is your home,” he said, “you moved in and I don’t want you to move out.”
“That’s moving pretty fast,” you said.
“We did things backwards. Who cares? Stay. Please. Say you’ll stay.” He knew he was begging but the thought of not having you there made the entire flat feel less like home.
thank you for keeping the lars fandom alive!! i look forward to all your works, you’re an amazing writer who encapsulates both him and the reader perfectly! <3
