The case of sentimentality and the government
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!reader
a/n: A.k.a Mycroft Holmes somehow ends up becoming a brother in law. There's a betting pool on Sherlock's love life.
Mycroft Holmes prided himself on his powers of observation.
He prided himself, too, on his restraint. The two went hand in hand, after all, what use was the ability to see through every mask if one lacked the composure to act only when necessary?
And yet, there were moments, particularly at 221B Baker Street, when restraint proved an altogether fragile thing.
He had arrived unannounced, as usual, armed with a file stamped URGENT and a mild air of condescension. Sherlock was, as expected, barefoot and cross-legged on the sofa, violin tossed carelessly on the armrest, dressing gown hanging open over rumpled clothes that may or may not have been yesterday’s.
Not perched nervously on the edge of a chair as Mycroft might have expected any reasonable person to be, but seated comfortably in Sherlock’s armchair, a mug of tea resting on your knee, an expression halfway between indulgence and exasperation fixed upon your face. You looked up when Mycroft entered, polite but entirely unruffled.
“Mr. Holmes,” you greeted him, not specifying which one.
Mycroft returned the greeting smoothly, though his brows flicked upward in mild surprise. “Still here, I see.”
“She lives here,” Sherlock said, without looking up from his microscope. “Or at least she should. Her lease ended two weeks ago and she’s yet to sign a new one.”
“That’s because you said you’d fix the leaky faucet if I stayed,” you replied. “Still waiting.”
Sherlock sniffed, as though the matter were trivial beyond words.
“Domestic bliss,” Mycroft murmured under his breath.
You arched an eyebrow. “He’s intolerable before his tea, you know.”
“I assure you, he’s no better after,” Mycroft said, lips twitching faintly.
It was the faintest of smiles, but Sherlock’s head shot up as though someone had insulted him. “Stop fraternising,” he said. “You’ll encourage her.”
“Encourage me to what?” you asked.
“To think you have allies in this household.”
You smirked into your tea. “I already know I do.”
It was, Mycroft reflected later that evening, a small and rather disquieting thing to realize: Sherlock Holmes had not once told you to leave.
He’d told John to leave, numerous times. He’d told Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, any number of unfortunate Yarders. But not you. You came and went as if 221B belonged to you, and Sherlock never protested.
In fact, he seemed...steadier when you were around.
Mycroft had first noticed it months ago, during a visit when you had only recently begun consulting with Sherlock on some obscure literary forgery case. You’d been merely an observer then: sharp, curious, intelligent enough to keep up with his deductions without being insufferable about it. Sherlock had found you “useful,” which, coming from him, was a term of high praise.
But now? Now you poured his tea without being asked, organized his papers when they got too chaotic even for him, and, this Mycroft found particularly telling - Sherlock let you.
He didn’t snap at you for tidying, didn’t roll his eyes or bark in irritation when you interrupted him mid-thought. He listened when you spoke.
And once, when you’d brushed a stray curl from your forehead, Mycroft had caught him watching you.
That had been weeks ago. He’d dismissed it as idle curiosity, the sort of clinical observation Sherlock applied to everyone. But it kept happening. Every visit, every conversation, every time Mycroft so much as mentioned your name.
The idea of Sherlock Holmes, the man who had once declared love a dangerous chemical defect, developing feelings for a woman, any woman, was almost laughable. Almost.
Still, Mycroft knew better than to rely on assumptions. So he did what he did best.
The first phase of his investigation was subtle. He dropped your name in conversation, just to watch Sherlock’s reaction.
“Your...companion,” Mycroft said one afternoon, settling into John’s old chair as if it were his own. “She seems to tolerate your peculiarities remarkably well.”
Sherlock didn’t look up from his experiment. “She finds them endearing.”
“Endearing,” Mycroft repeated. “You’re certain of that?”
“I observe,” Sherlock said simply. “You should try it sometime.”
“And you?” he asked lightly. “Do you find her peculiarities endearing?”
Sherlock glanced up then, faintly annoyed. “I’m conducting an experiment.”
The glare that followed was proof enough that Mycroft had struck something tender.
Next came observation. Mycroft began scheduling his visits at irregular times, early morning, late night, midday, hoping to catch some revealing domestic tableau.
He was rewarded sooner than expected.
One morning, he arrived at 8:00 a.m. to find you sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing one of Sherlock’s shirts and eating toast from a plate balanced on a stack of books. Sherlock stood over you, gesturing wildly with a pipette, mid-rant about a chemical reaction that had gone “criminally misunderstood by half the scientific community.”
You looked up, chewing thoughtfully. “That’s because you’re impossible to understand without subtitles.”
“I’m perfectly comprehensible,” Sherlock said indignantly.
“You just used the phrase ‘molecular misconduct.’”
You smiled. “And ridiculous.”
Mycroft cleared his throat, interrupting the strange little domestic play.
Neither of you looked particularly startled.
“Tea?” you offered pleasantly, as though Mycroft visiting unannounced at breakfast were the most natural thing in the world.
Sherlock glared at his brother. “I told you not before noon.”
“Then I’ll stay until noon,” Mycroft replied, making himself comfortable.
Sherlock made a noise of despair that sounded suspiciously like a growl. You giggled. Mycroft filed that sound away for later analysis.
By his third or fourth visit, the evidence had become overwhelming.
Sherlock was, in the clearest possible terms, smitten.
He hadn’t said anything of the sort, of course. He would probably deny it even under duress. But Mycroft could see it in the tiny, unconscious gestures: the way Sherlock leaned toward you when you spoke; the way his tone softened when addressing you; the way he seemed faintly restless when you left the room, like a man deprived of oxygen.
There were smaller tells, too. A spare cup left beside the teapot. An extra scarf draped over the chair. The faintest traces of your handwriting on his case notes: clean, elegant, rationalizing his chaos.
The final piece of evidence, however, came unexpectedly.
It was raining that evening. Mycroft had stopped by to deliver a file, this one truly of national importance, which meant Sherlock would refuse it on principle. He stepped into the flat, shaking water from his umbrella, and stopped dead.
Sherlock sat on the sofa, coat discarded, eyes half-closed, head resting against your shoulder.
You were reading aloud from a book, voice low and calm, one hand absently combing through his hair.
For several long seconds, Mycroft simply stood there, too stunned to speak. Then you looked up and met his gaze.
“Good evening, Mr. Holmes,” you said softly. “He’s had a long day.”
“I can see that,” Mycroft said faintly.
Sherlock didn’t stir. He seemed utterly, blissfully unaware of the intrusion.
Mycroft cleared his throat. “Should I...”
“Come back tomorrow,” you said gently. “He’ll be more bearable then.”
It was a command delivered with such quiet authority that Mycroft, a man unaccustomed to being dismissed, found himself obeying without argument.
He left the file on the table, nodded once, and retreated into the rain.
From that night on, he became obsessed with proving, scientifically, empirically, that his brother was in love.
He asked Mrs. Hudson.
“Oh, those two?” she said cheerfully. “About time, if you ask me.”
He asked John, who smirked and muttered something about “domestic arrangements.”
He even asked Lestrade, who rolled his eyes. “We’re all just waiting for the wedding invite, mate.”
Everywhere he turned, people confirmed what he already suspected: that Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath and perpetual cynic, had been quietly, inexorably undone by the simple act of sharing space with you.
It was unthinkable. It was ridiculous.
It was...rather endearing, actually.
The hilarity began when Mycroft tried to intervene.
He started with subtle nudges: offering you government positions (“far better suited to your intelligence”), sending Sherlock cases that required partnership (“she might find it educational”), even once inviting you both to a formal dinner under false pretenses.
That last one had been his mistake.
Because halfway through the evening, Sherlock had leaned toward you, whispering something that made you laugh. Really laugh, head tilted back, hand brushing his sleeve, and Mycroft had realized, with a deep sense of dread, that he was witnessing something irreversible.
The great Sherlock Holmes had fallen in love, and there was nothing, nothing, his older brother could do about it.
The next time Mycroft visited Baker Street, he didn’t bother bringing a file.
Sherlock was sprawled across the sofa, of course, but now his head was in your lap, your fingers lazily carding through his hair as you read from one of his case reports. You both looked up when Mycroft entered, twin expressions of polite irritation.
He sighed. “I see I’m interrupting.”
“You usually are,” Sherlock said.
“Would it be too much to ask for some decorum?”
“From you, yes,” you replied pleasantly.
Mycroft’s mouth twitched. He sat down anyway.
“Tell me, how exactly does one manage to tolerate my brother on a daily basis?”
You smiled faintly. “The same way you do, I suppose.”
“I assure you, I barely manage.”
“Then we have that in common.”
Sherlock’s eyes flicked between you, narrowing slightly. “Don’t form an alliance.”
“We already have,” you and Mycroft said in unison.
Mycroft stayed longer than usual that evening, if only to observe the odd domestic rhythm that had formed in his brother’s life. You argued cheerfully over tea strength, corrected each other’s deductions mid-sentence, and bickered with an ease that would have been alarming if it weren’t so.. human.
When he finally rose to leave, Mycroft paused at the door.
“She’s good for you, you know,” he said quietly.
Sherlock looked up from where you’d just kissed his temple. “I’m aware.”
Mycroft smiled faintly, stepping out into the night. “We’ll see.”
By the time he reached his car, he found himself chuckling, something he hadn’t done in years.
For once, Sherlock Holmes had been completely predictable.
The engagement itself was not especially romantic. Sherlock had never been one for declarations. He had been pacing the sitting room.
He stopped mid-step. Turned to you.
You blinked. “Would I what?”
He said it like he was asking you to hand him a microscope slide. Calm. Analytical. The faintest trace of calculation under his voice.
You stared for a moment, half convinced he was joking, but the look in his eyes was unmistakably serious.
He crossed the distance between you in three strides and took your hands. “Statistically, we’re already cohabitating. I know your morning routine better than my own, you know exactly how to redirect me when I spiral into obsession, and our compatibility rate, based on five measurable factors, is abnormally high. It’s the most logical course of action.”
You tried not to laugh. “That’s your proposal?”
“I could add sentiment if you require it,” he said, already frowning at himself.
You sighed. “Sherlock, I don’t require sentiment.”
He tilted his head, searching your face for any sign of jest. There was none. Slowly, the line of his mouth softened.
Mostly because you knew that if you did, your life would descend into chaos before you’d even chosen a date. Sherlock, ever the dramatist in the guise of a logician, insisted that it would be “an experiment in discretion.”
He said this with a perfectly straight face, as though he hadn’t once disguised himself as a drunken priest to break into a morgue.
You made him promise, cross his heart, swear on the Stradivarius, that he wouldn’t breathe a word to John, Mrs. Hudson, or (God forbid) Mycroft.
The first person to suspect was, inevitably, Mycroft.
He noticed immediately that something was off: Sherlock was...smiling. Not broadly, not like a man possessed, but in small, secret bursts that appeared whenever his phone buzzed. He began humming while working. Humming. He took showers more frequently. He even, on one particularly alarming day, wore a clean shirt without being prompted.
Mycroft’s instincts went into overdrive.
He arrived unannounced at Baker Street one morning under the guise of a “routine check-in,” and was promptly greeted by Sherlock, who was attempting to shove a small velvet box under a pile of newspapers.
“Good morning, brother mine,” Mycroft said smoothly. “You look unusually…put-together.”
“Observation,” Sherlock snapped. “Would you like a medal?”
“I already have several.”
Mycroft’s gaze flicked to the newspaper pile. “What are you hiding under there?”
“Nothing,” Mycroft repeated. “How very specific.”
Sherlock glared. “You’re insufferable.”
“Quite. But tell me, does your newfound enthusiasm for personal hygiene have anything to do with your lovely companion?”
The silence that followed was all the confirmation Mycroft required.
Within twenty-four hours, Mycroft had placed a discreet phone call to John Watson.
“Dr. Watson,” Mycroft began, sounding far too casual, “have you noticed anything unusual about my brother recently?”
John snorted. “Define ‘unusual.’”
“You’ll have to narrow it down again.”
Mycroft’s tone sharpened. “Has he, by any chance, mentioned the Miss he currently lives with in connection with…matrimony?”
John nearly choked on his tea. “What...marriage? Sherlock? No. Absolutely not. He’s allergic to commitment.”
“Indeed. And yet he’s been behaving rather like a man concealing an impending wedding.”
There was a pause. “You’re serious?”
John was quiet for several seconds. Then, slowly: “What’s the bet?”
It began as a joke between the two of them. A friendly wager, nothing more. But word spread faster than either anticipated. Within a week, Mrs. Hudson had heard. Then Lestrade. Then Molly. By the following Friday, half of Scotland Yard was in on it.
Someone even started a spreadsheet.
The betting pool grew to include such categories as:
“Whether Sherlock will forget the rings”
“If Mycroft will end up officiating”
“Number of days before the marriage collapses into scandal”
It became an underground phenomenon. Detectives whispered about it over coffee. Molly took bets in exchange for lab access. Even Anderson placed a fiver on “Sherlock ruins it by analysing her during the vows.”
Through it all, neither you nor Sherlock seemed remotely aware.
Until, one day, John knocked on the door and found Sherlock standing by the window, muttering to himself.
“Something wrong?” John asked, peering around the flat.
Sherlock turned, looking vaguely harried. “People are behaving strangely.”
John tried not to laugh. “Stranger than usual?”
“Mrs. Hudson winked at me. Twice.”
“She asked whether I’d booked a honeymoon suite. I haven’t even told her about the...”
John raised a brow. “Engagement?”
“Oh, no,” John said, grinning. “You didn’t.”
“You didn’t think you could keep that a secret, did you?”
Sherlock blinked. “How did you...”
John shrugged. “Lestrade’s running odds. Molly’s in charge of officiating bets. Mrs. Hudson’s been stockpiling confetti.”
Sherlock’s face went from confusion to outrage in half a second. “Who told them?”
“Who do you think told them?”
You came home later that day to find Sherlock in full battle mode, coat on, scarf flying, muttering something about “betrayal most fraternal.”
“Mycroft,” you guessed immediately.
He pointed at you, eyes wide. “How did you...”
“Because it’s always Mycroft.”
He groaned, collapsing onto the sofa like a man struck down by treachery. “He’s orchestrated a betting ring.”
You leaned against the doorframe. “It’s also very funny.”
He sat up, scandalised. “Funny? They’re commodifying our personal lives.”
You gave him a look so pointed that even he faltered.
“All right,” he admitted grudgingly. “Occasionally dramatic.”
You smiled. “We could always mess with them, you know.”
Sherlock blinked. “Mess with them?”
“Feed them fake clues. Confuse the timeline. Make Mycroft think he’s wrong.”
For the first time that day, Sherlock’s expression brightened with genuine delight. “Excellent. Weaponised deception.”
“I was thinking more like psychological warfare,” you said.
From that moment, the two of you launched what would later be referred to by Mrs. Hudson as The Great Wedding Debacle of Baker Street.
You began leaving false clues around the flat: a bridal magazine tucked under the microscope, a half-written guest list on the mantelpiece, a mysterious envelope marked “Registry Office: Confidential.”
Sherlock made a great show of answering phone calls with, “Yes, yes, the venue is secured,” and once even took to humming the Wedding March when he knew Mycroft’s surveillance bugs would pick it up.
You both wore smug, unreadable smiles whenever John asked pointed questions.
Mycroft, of course, retaliated with equal cunning. He sent anonymous letters addressed to “Mrs. Holmes” arranged for florists to deliver bouquets to the flat, and once had a tailor show up insisting he’d been commissioned for “Mr. Holmes’s wedding attire.”
Sherlock nearly combusted.
The chaos peaked one fateful evening when Mycroft invited you both to dinner “purely for family purposes.”
You’d dressed simply, suspecting a trap. Sherlock, on the other hand, turned up in an immaculate suit and promptly announced, “We’re not getting married.”
Mycroft steepled his fingers. “No?”
“No,” Sherlock said firmly. “Therefore, you may tell your little network of gamblers to cease their activities immediately.”
Mycroft smiled faintly. “Of course.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That was too easy.”
Because at that very moment, the restaurant doors opened, and in walked Lestrade, John, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson, all cheering, “Surprise engagement party!”
Sherlock went perfectly still.
You buried your face in your hands.
Mycroft’s smile was pure satisfaction.
It took half an hour and two bottles of wine before anyone stopped laughing. Sherlock sulked magnificently, muttering about “idiots” and “gross violations of privacy.”
You, meanwhile, sat back and enjoyed yourself, watching as John and Lestrade debated who technically won the bet. (“I said they were engaged, not that they’d admit it,” John argued.)
When the laughter died down, Mycroft leaned toward you. “So, how long have you two truly been engaged?”
You smiled sweetly. “That’s classified.”
Mycroft raised a brow. “You do realise you’re marrying into the most surveilled family in Britain?”
Sherlock groaned. “Don’t say ‘I do.’ That phrase is cursed.”
The funniest part, of course, was that despite all the chaos, all the betting, the taunting, the failed attempts at secrecy, you and Sherlock did end up getting married in secret.
A quiet civil ceremony. No guests. No flowers. Just the two of you in front of an impatient registrar and a pen that kept running out of ink.
When you returned home, hand in hand, Sherlock grinned. “No one will ever suspect a thing.”
You didn’t have the heart to tell him that Mycroft had already sent a wedding gift, a silver-framed photo of 221B with a card that read:
Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes.
You were twenty-seven minutes behind schedule.
John found out three days later when Sherlock slipped and referred to you as “my wife.”
Sherlock blinked. “Slip of the tongue.”
Sherlock sighed. “And there goes the experiment in secrecy.”
“Utter failure,” you said.
And so it was that the world’s greatest detective, man of logic, enemy of sentiment, champion of intellect, learned one final, humbling truth:
You can solve any mystery in the world,
but you cannot, no matter how brilliant you are,
hide a secret from your family.
The proper marriage quarrel began with a gunshot.
Not a new one, those were old, faded, scabbed over in the plaster, but the memory of it was enough to start the argument.
You had been leaning against the mantel, reading quietly, when your eyes drifted up to the wall where the familiar bullet holes spelled out the word V.R. in a rather triumphant scrawl. The wallpaper around it, once an elegant Victorian pattern, had gone dull with soot and age. A corner was peeling. The entire flat smelled faintly of dust and chemicals, as if it had been exhaling genius and gunpowder for years.
And you had simply had enough.
“Sherlock,” you said, voice deceptively calm, “I’m calling a contractor.”
He looked up from his microscope, clearly suspicious. “For what?”
“For this place. The wallpaper’s older than you, the floorboards squeak, and there are holes in the wall from where you decided to express yourself with live ammunition.”
Sherlock frowned, genuinely puzzled. “Those are historic.”
He gave a sharp sigh. “They’re artistic.”
“Artistic,” you repeated. “It looks like we live in a condemned museum.”
He turned back to his microscope, dismissing you. “If you feel compelled to redecorate, please do it somewhere else. This flat is perfectly suited to my work.”
“It’s structured chaos. Any interference would destroy my equilibrium.”
Your patience cracked. “Your equilibrium involves broken furniture, mismatched paint, and literal bullet holes!”
He waved a hand. “And it functions flawlessly. Don’t tamper with perfection.”
You stared at him, incredulous. “Sherlock, I’m not tampering. I’m fixing things.”
You closed your book. “You can’t keep living in this self-created ruin.”
“Fine,” you said, setting your voice with the kind of finality he usually reserves for solving a case. “Then you can stay here while I don’t.”
That got his attention. His head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
“I’ll go stay somewhere else while the repairs are done. Or, if you’re so opposed to the idea of fresh paint, maybe I’ll just move somewhere else entirely.”
Sherlock straightened slowly, his expression tightening. “You’re overreacting.”
“I’m breathing dust,” you said flatly. “There’s a difference.”
“Then stay with John and Mary for a few days.”
“No,” you said, crossing your arms. “Because if I go there, you’ll follow, and they already have enough to deal with. They’ve got a baby, Sherlock. They don’t need you brooding in their kitchen.”
He bristled. “I don’t brood.”
“You loom,” you corrected. “It’s worse.”
Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not leaving.”
“Where would you even go?”
“Somewhere you’d never set foot,” you said, grabbing your coat. “So I can actually get a few days’ peace.”
The look on Mycroft Holmes’ face when you appeared at the Diogenes Club was one for the ages.
He had been mid-conversation with a diplomat and didn’t even blink at your arrival, simply adjusted his umbrella, gestured for you to step outside, and then said, “You realise this is a place for silence, not refuge.”
“Good,” you said. “I’m tired of noise.”
He studied you for a beat, and something like amusement flickered in his eyes. “I presume my brother has done something intolerable.”
“His definition of livable differs from mine.”
Mycroft sighed, as though the sentence alone told him everything. “I see. You’ll have one of the guest suites, then. Mrs. Grant will arrange it. I ask only that you refrain from conducting experiments in the bathtub.”
You blinked. “Why would I...oh. Right. Him.”
True to his word, Mycroft had a guest room prepared within the hour. It was silent, immaculate, and, unlike Baker Street, smelled faintly of cedar instead of formaldehyde. No chemical stains. No bullet casings. No half-disassembled toaster bombs sitting on the counter. Just peace.
Sherlock, meanwhile, was losing his mind.
He discovered your absence precisely seven hours after you’d left, once he realised that the tea wasn’t made, the flat was too quiet, and the violin felt like too sharp a sound against the silence.
At first, he assumed you were bluffing. You’d be back. People always came back once they’d cooled off.
By the second day, he’d called your phone six times. Then twelve. By the third day, he called John.
“She’s not here, Sherlock,” John said, exasperated. “And even if she was, I’m not getting involved.”
Sherlock groaned. “She’s being unreasonable.”
John sighed audibly. “Just let her paint a wall, mate.”
“I can’t. It would disrupt my cognitive environment.”
“Well,” John said dryly, “seems your environment disrupted her.”
It was Mycroft who texted him next.
She’s perfectly quiet. I rather prefer her company to yours.
Sherlock’s response came instantly.
You cannot keep her there!
She is not a possession, dear brother.
You’re doing this to annoy me.
Sherlock called him. Immediately.
Mycroft answered with that same smooth, unflappable tone. “Good evening.”
“What have you done?” Sherlock demanded.
“I provided accommodation for a guest in distress.”
“She is not in distress!”
“She came to my house. That qualifies.”
“She’s trying to manipulate me.”
“I suspect she’s trying to live without asbestos.”
Mycroft sighed theatrically. “I would, but she seems rather determined. And I must say, I admire her conviction.”
There was a long silence.
Finally, Sherlock said darkly, “You’re enjoying this.”
The next few days were pure torture for everyone.
Sherlock called Mycroft at least five times a day. When Mycroft stopped answering, he sent text after text:
You’re poisoning her against me.
She’ll get bored there.
Tell her the new wallpaper will cause migraines.
You’ve replaced me with a silence-loving conspirator.
Fine. I’ll repair ONE wall.
No, I take that back. I’ll do it myself.
Tell her I’m miserable.
To which Mycroft replied, after hours of blessed quiet:
You’re the only man I know who treats emotional blackmail like a scientific method.
So she’s read them? Sherlock shot back.
That night, you received a text directly from Sherlock:
You’re staying with him on purpose.
You smiled faintly and typed back:
At Mycroft’s, life continued with peculiar ease. He was mostly gone, out to meetings, government briefings, or secretive errands, but the rare times you crossed paths, he was polite to the point of clinical detachment.
You shared breakfast in silence, occasionally broken by the clink of a spoon. Once, when you sneezed, he looked mildly alarmed and offered a handkerchief as though it were state property.
“I see why Sherlock avoids you,” you said one evening.
“I see why he doesn’t avoid you,” Mycroft replied without looking up from his paper.
That, oddly enough, was the closest thing to a compliment you’d ever get from him.
By the end of the week, Sherlock appeared in person.
He strode past the butler like a man storming enemy territory and found you in the library, reading quietly by the window.
He didn’t say hello. He simply stood there, coat flaring dramatically, and announced, “I’ll allow the repairs.”
“Approve,” he corrected quickly. “Endure.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You’ll move out for a week?”
He hesitated. “A week seems…long.”
He looked vaguely horrified.
You shrugged. “I like it here. Mycroft doesn’t talk much.”
From behind Sherlock, a dry voice murmured, “It’s one of my more redeeming qualities.”
Sherlock groaned. “This is psychological warfare.”
You smiled serenely. “So is living with you.”
He looked at you for a long, frustrated moment, then finally sighed, shoulders sagging. “Fine. A week. I’ll go to John’s. But if you paint the walls beige, I’m filing for divorce preemptively.”
The contractors arrived two days later.
Sherlock texted you hourly updates about how “John’s baby has no concept of personal space” and “Mary confiscated my Stradivarius.”
When the flat was finally finished, new wallpaper, repaired plaster, not a bullet hole in sight, you invited him home.
He walked in, paused, and just stared.
“It’s…” he began, at a loss for words.
He circled the room, as if testing the air. “It’s too quiet.”
“Then shoot the wall again,” you said dryly. “But this time, you’ll fix it yourself.”
He smirked faintly. “Compromise, then.”
You folded your arms. “Meaning?”
“I’ll refrain from shooting the wall if you leave my experiments in the kitchen alone.”
You smiled and reached for his hand. “I told you chaos can coexist with order.”
He squeezed your fingers, eyes softening just a little. “Only if it’s yours.”
From somewhere in the distance, Mycroft’s phone buzzed with a new message.
Yes, Mycroft texted back. And I expect you’ve learned your lesson.
You already did, dear brother.
For once, Sherlock didn’t argue with him.
