Just call me Reece 26yo but only on the outside (actually 2000) she/her I obsess over different things periodically I paint, write and also run an Etsy Shop for my mother at https://simonettacrochetart.etsy.com
It had been years since you’d last seen Mycroft Holmes, but there he was. Talking to some important man you’d forgotten the name of. The ballroom was nicely decorated, the chandelier reflecting light across the room. The last time you’d seen a chandelier so nice was at a ball hosted by the Holmes family in your youth.
You were standing off to the side, watching Sherlock try to teach Beatrice how to dance, and watching them both awkwardly flail around with their poor motor skills. The adults were dancing beautifully, but you were too young to join in. “Don’t envy them, you’ll have to dance a lot more when you’re older,” you hear a familiar voice behind you. Sherlock’s older brother, Mycroft. It was foolish, really, the crush you had on the teenager. You were only a year older than your best friend, Sherlock, but you were slightly infatuated with his brother Mycroft. You knew it was illogical, he was far too old for you… at least for now.
His piercing blue eyes looked at you as if you were a child that lacked understanding of the world. You admitted to yourself it must be true, because Mycroft was so much wiser. “Perhaps, but it’s not fair. Why can’t I dance now?” you continue, trying to reason with Mycroft. He looked over at the swirling dresses of the women, and how the chandelier made the colours more mesmerising. Mycroft sighed, looking down at you. “Come on,” he said before turning around. You follow, curious as to what his proposition was. You two went to the back terrace, where you could just barely hear the music. He offered this hand to you, “May I have this dance?”
Mycroft was patient, a saint even. He guided you through the steps to the dances you didn’t know. He knew that you would become a Holmes one day, it was inevitable. Additionally, you would have better luck at teaching Sherlock how to properly dance than anyone else. You felt your face flush as he calmly explained things to you. You could listen to his voice forever, just happy to be in his orbit. Unfortunately, the moment ended as soon as it started, when Silas found you both and asked you to come back inside. You and Sherlock then spent the rest of the night watching Mycroft talk to other partygoers his age from the stairs. You treasured that evening.
Now here you were, twelve years later, seeing the same piercing blue eyes across the room, silently willing him to look up and see you. You hadn’t seen Mycroft since Beatrice’s funeral. You and Sherlock had written, until one day he just stopped responding, so you stopped writing. You fiddle with the jewelry around your neck that was caught on your partlet. When another man asked you to dance with him, you did. You let your fan dangle off your glove as you danced with him. You remembered the feeling of the first time you danced this way - with Mycroft Holmes himself.
Meanwhile, Mycroft had noticed you, your dress shimmering under the light. He didn’t believe that you were the same child that had once been shy and would linger with Sherlock, judging everyone. When the song ended, he steeled himself, and walked over to you. He stood the same way he did twelve years ago and asked, “May I have this dance?”
You quietly agree, and the two of you take to dancing. “You’ve grown up,” he says cautiously, testing the waters. “As have you,” you say as he spins you. “How’s Sherlock?” you ask. Mycroft felt a tinge of guilt, knowing it was partially his fault that you no longer knew his brother. It was selfish, and something Mycroft had locked away in the back of his mind. “He’s fine, he fancies himself a sort of detective,” Mycroft says lightheartedly. He didn’t want to think of his separating you from Sherlock.
No, Mycroft had kept tabs on you, from a distance. Despite this being the first time you’d seen him since the funeral of his sister, this wasn’t his first time seeing you. A few years ago he’d caught a glimpse of you. He knew your family wanted to marry you off, and he also knew that your father - for who knows what reason - liked you with Sherlock. Mycroft told himself that it was just a great coincidence that Sherlock’s crimes had landed him in prison, but it wasn’t that simple. Mycroft could’ve gotten Sherlock out of it, or allowed Sherlock to get letters, or told Sherlock that you were still writing to him, unaware of Sherlock’s arrest. He let Sherlock think you had moved on with your life, hoping desperately that you had by now. Perhaps you would be married when he ran into you next, forever closing the door on whatever possibility of you ever becoming a Holmes was.
You hum noncommittally at Mycroft’s statement. “And you? What do you do now?” you inquire politely. “I work in Her Majesty’s Foreign Office,” Mycroft says, downplaying his role. “I always knew you’d be someone great,” you say before you can stop yourself. You pretend not to notice the blush creeping up Mycroft’s neck as he looks past you, trying to ignore the compliment. “What about you? How have you been?” he asks you, deferring. “I’ve been perfectly fine,” you say indifferently. “You should call on Appleton some time, I know my mother would be happy to see you,” his invite does pique your attention. “She’s back at Appleton?” you question him. “Yes, she’s been discharged,” he pauses before continuing, “there’s a lot you should know.”
“Such as?” you ask him curiously. He felt enamored by your gaze on him, seeing you view him as interesting. Yet, he stepped back when the song ended, coming back to reality. “Come to Appleton with me next Monday, and I’ll explain everything, I just…” Mycroft trailed off before finally saying, “I must go.”
And with that, Mycroft parted from you. He didn’t want to indulge himself in the fantasy that you and him would ever be anything more than the glimpses of you he had, and your childhood infatuation with him. You’d meet Sherlock - or even worse, James - and he’d sweep you off your feet, and that would be that. No, hope was a dangerous thing for Mycroft Holmes. It was a dangerous thing for you too, to imagine that perhaps Mycroft did see you less as an ignorant child and more as a possible confidant. As long as Mycroft Holmes was in your eyeline, you would be in awe of him. Even if it was only a glimpse.
while i was watching young sherlock, i found myself wondering how we did not hear about sherlock being all over the local papers, which lead me to this idea. so here is the first part (if you all want to see more) of a mycroft fanfic with a reader that works for a newspaper. fair warning that this includes two original characters because its basically impossible for a woman to live independently in this time period. please let me know if you want a second chapter of this <3
hustling for the good life, never thought i’d meet you here (m.h.)
Working as an assistant at The Oxford Journal was a wonderful occupation for a woman of her stature. Truly, it was. It was just that her duties expanded beyond an assistant. She was a typist, a copyist, a ghost-writer, and often the reason that the Journal got any stories. She had met her superior, Mr. Gilden, when she still performed at the opera. She had marched into the newsroom with an abundance of evidence that the manager of the opera house was involved in a trafficking scheme that was being covered up by local police. When asked how she found such evidence, she simply replied that she collected it herself. The story of the corrupt Impresario was swiftly published the next morning, and Mr. Gilden offered her a job that same day. From that moment on, she was "Miss. Gilden", supposedly a "distant niece" that helped Mr. Gilden on his stories when he couldn't be bothered (which was always).
Of course, despite her pay being very well, she could not be a journalist by name. Not outwardly, at least. Above all else, she was still a woman. No matter how lively her mind was, she would always be a woman.
"Prima, my dear, how was the trip to campus?"
Prima. Not her name, of course, but she had insisted that Gilden stop calling her "Primadonna" after the first week of her employment.
"Very good, sir," she replied, handing in a report of Oxford's recent happenings. "Princess Shou'an's scrolls have been stolen from the library. I do not believe the news has spread very far. Professor Hodge had only just learned of the break-in when I arrived. I was wondering if I could- well if you would wish for me to… investigate further."
Gilden put down the book he was reading on elephant migration, leaning forward on his tatty old desk, pointing a long finger at her, "You are my best reporter, do you hear me?" he pushed his chair back and rounded the desk, beaming widely at her as he placed his hands on her shoulders, "You go back out there and see what you can gleam, yes? I'll have Wallace do the copies today, God knows he can't write for the life of him."
And so she left for Oxford once more, which is how she ended up subtly following Constable Lestrade of the Oxford City police force all the way to the prime suspect.
"Sherlock Holmes!" Lestrade called out as he raced towards two men, one a porter, and the other a gentleman in a bowler cap. She scribbled the name down.
Suspect- Sherlock Holmes.
She had learned in her time at the Journal that the quickest and most efficient way to gain information was to eavesdrop. So she settled upon listening outside the cracked window nearest to the men. It took her a moment to get there from where she had been tailing the police, but when she did she leaned in to listen.
"-reprimanded by your chief officer, who happens to be my bridge partner, and is, as you know, a stickler for due process," she did not recognize the voice as one of the two officers she had been following, and he spoke too confidently to be a porter. The man with the bowler hat, she concluded, had been the speaker.
She was momentarily disappointed as he had seemed to scare the constable off with his talk of chief officers, but was enlightened again when the porter spoke, asking the other man to help him get into the library after ensuring that he had been wrongly accused. The connection between them was established when Sherlock thanked him, saying, "I am in your debt, brother dear. James is sulking in his room, but he will meet us there."
"You have been in my debt for as long as I can remember, brother dear," the other man said, sounding aggravated.
She scribbled in her notes.
Gentleman- Suspect's brother. Works for the foreign office. Strained relationship?
James - ???
Her next stop, it seems, would be the library. Though, she knew she would be unable to get in. It had been closed off since early that morning. No, it would be useless to follow them there. She would do better to find James. The next step was simple, wait outside the staircase for a sulking, perhaps aggravated man, and follow him instead. Then, at least, she could put a face to the name.
James was a handsome man, who did indeed look sulky, but also was in quite the rush as he followed the same corridor the other two men had taken. James was distinctly not a porter, but presumably a student. Though, he was not in uniform.
Unable to get past the police outside the library entrance, she waited behind a pillar. Soon, a collection of people exited the library, including Bowler Hat Holmes, Professor Bucephalus Hodge, his assistant, and Constable Lestrade. No Sherlock and no James.
"I do hope that the Princess' judgment is correct, Mycroft. On your head be it if it is not," Hodge told the gentleman. She edited her notes.
Gentleman Mycroft Holmes- Suspect's brother. Works for the foreign office. Strained relationship?
Mycroft? Her brow furrowed at the unusual name. No more unusual than Sherlock, she supposed. Their parents must be eccentric.
To-do: Search archives for Holmes family.
"I must get to my meeting," Hodge grumbled, "I will meet you back here for the gala, Holmes."
The gala. For the new science building. She would need to attend that anyhow, the added bonus of Mr Mycroft Holmes' being there was simply a welcome surprise. She looked up from her notebook as Hodge and his assistant were walking away, leaving Mycroft in the sunny courtyard. He was still for a moment, before turning to look at her, as if he could sense eyes upon him. Her breath hitched as he met her gaze, looking puzzled. He was truly a very handsome man and her face went hot. She cocked her head at him innocently, batting her lashes. He visibly swallowed, giving a polite and strained smile before shaking his head slightly and taking his leave.
The interaction lingered in her head long after he left. The feeling she had when he looked at her was like nothing she had ever felt before. It unsettled her so much that she had to close her notebook and take a solitary walk around the campus' gardens. When she returned, she went straight into the gala, where she showed the doorman the invitation that had been sent to Mr Gilden. People were only just beginning to file inside. Mycroft Holmes stood near the front of the room next to Hodge's assistant, and he did a double take when he saw her.
She watched him like a hawk as she sat down at a small table in the corner of the room with a few other journalists, all decidedly male, much to her exasperation. They thought she may have been lost, and laughed as she explained she was here in place of her employer.
"Gilden has a woman reporting back to him?" one guffawed.
The others laughed, and she merely gave a humorless smile in return. "Our papers are selling very well, sir," she replied, electing not to choose a fight.
Her explanation was not enough for them. "I thought he may be going soft but I did not think he was mad!" another man jested.
She was unable to school the expression on her face into one of indifference as they insulted Mr. Gilden. A strange man he may be, but a good one he most certainly was.
"Mr. Gilden is the very best of men," she glared at them. She looked down at the man's name card. "You're here for a student magazine, Mr Lloyd. I would not be belittling serious publications until you manage to find a seat in one."
Mr Lloyd was, as it so happens, not at all happy with her assessment. His smile fell, and his embarrassment was only exacerbated by the other men at the table, who laughed heartily. His expression turned into one of rage.
"What would a cunt like you know about real reporting?" he hissed.
"Grant, mate-" the man next to him put a placating arm on his shoulder.
Her face split into a grin. She had bested him. "More than you, I'd wager, my good sir, considering I am being paid for it."
His sweaty palms balled up into fists, the redness in his face extending all the way to his neck. "Why I should-"
"What is the matter, gentlemen?" a familiar voice cut into their lively conversation. She turned her head, and stood before her was Mycroft Holmes, with a concerned furrow between his brow. He nodded at her, "And ladies, of course."
"Nofing-" Lloyd growled.
"This lovely man is calling me a cunt, Mr. Holmes," she smiled, a pleasing flush spread across her cheeks with excitement.
Mycroft looked scandalized at her language, and turned to Lloyd, "Sir!" he said firmly, "I must ask you to leave."
"I'm not going nowhere!"
"You should work on your grammar, Mr. Lloyd, or you may never graduate," she added.
"Mr Holmes," the man whose hand was on Lloyd's arm spoke up, "It will not happen again, I promise. He only needs a moment to calm down."
Mycroft looked unconvinced, but even she knew that forcing this man out of the gala would cause a scene.
"Miss Gilden," Mycroft spoke. He must have read her name card. "Would you like to stand up with me? It will allow you a better view."
Who knew that being called a cunt would have such advantages?
"That would be lovely, Mr Holmes." she nodded. She noticed the tips of his ears turning a bit pink as he held out an arm for her to take. She did so, feeling the expensive fabric of his evening coat under her fingers as he led her away. "Thank you, sir. That was very good of you. Though you must know I could have handled myself."
"It would have been wrong to leave you among such company," Mycroft answered quietly. His tone was both gentle and firm, and she had a fleeting thought that she could listen to such a melody forever. He was silent for a moment as they came to a halt and she let go of his arm, before asking, "How is it that you know my name?"
"You are Sherlock's brother, are you not?" she answered.
"I am," he nodded, turning to face her, "You know Sherlock?"
"I have heard of him," she shrugged, cringing internally at her lack of a better excuse. He saw right through her, raising a brow.
She sighed, "I have been… looking into the disappearance of Princess Shou'an's scrolls."
"You were eavesdropping on my brother and I's conversation in the hall," he countered. "And then you followed us to the library."
"Correction," she held up a finger, "I followed James to the library."
"You know Mr. Moriarty?"
She opened her notebook.
James- ??? James Moriarty-
"I suppose not," Mycroft grumbled, watching her write. He scanned the page. "Search the archives for Holmes fam- What is this?" he demanded.
She looked up at him, pursing her lips slightly,unrepentant, "Well, it seems pretty self explanatory sir."
"Self-?" he scoffed and looked down at the notes again, "Our relationship is not strained," he objected.
"My apologies, I must have missed your making up after you told him he was indebted to you his whole life."
Mycroft was appalled, "You are…" he put his hand on his hip, "Rude."
"I am not rude," she mimicked his movement, her hand resting on her side. "If I was rude, I would have lied to you, Mr Holmes. I am investigating a crime in which your brother is the prime suspect, it is only natural I look into your family."
"Sherlock is innocent," he convicted, "You can put that in your paper."
"I will, if it is the truth-"
They were interrupted by the beginning of Hodge's speech. She watched as Mycroft took a deep, agitated breath and turned away.
The speech itself was boring, lots of patting himself on the back, she thought. What was not at all boring was Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty barging through the wall and declaring that a bomb was set to explode within the next thirty seconds. The reaction from the room was what one would imagine after such an announcement. People raced towards the door, clambering over one another. She, however, kept an eye on Sherlock and James, who were lingering behind, having come from the fireplace itself. Nothing could have prepared her for Mycroft Holmes grabbing her by the arm and dragging her outside himself.
The bomb went off as soon as she stepped foot outside, and Mycroft's arm was around her waist as he once again tugged her farther out into the sunlight. He rounded upon her.
"Are you mad?" he demanded rather loudly, "You could have gotten yourself blown up!"
"I was making sure your brother and his companion made it out!" she argued.
"No, I was making sure my brother made it out!" he pointed inwards at his chest. "You should have been trying to escape!"
"You care an awful lot about my safety for someone who thought I was so rude," she rolled her eyes.
"I- what? Well I do not want you maimed for being rude-"
"There he is," she pointed to Sherlock and James, who were only just now hobbling out of the burning building, "Your brother. He looks hurt." Mycroft's head turned so fast she was surprised he did not break his neck. "You go tend to him, I need to return to my employer. Do stop by for an interview, if you'd like, Mr Holmes."
She walked back into the newsroom covered in soot and sweat. Wallace gasped when he saw her. "Miss Prima!" his thick Scottish accent wrapped around his words, "What happened to you?"
"A bomb, Wallace," she laughed. "There was a fucking bomb at the gala."
He ran over to her, knocking over a large stack of papers. She laughed, "You fix those," she said, "I need to see Gilden. I'll tell you everything later. The pub, maybe?"
She related the entirety of the day to Mr Gilden, who listened intently.
"I'll tell you what, Prima," he sighed, "You go get yourself cleaned up, and I will get this gala story written."
"Very well, thank you sir," she smiled, giving a curtsy before taking her leave of his office.
She told Wallace the entirety of the story, down to Mycroft's lovely cheekbones, as they walked down to the pub. He listened intently, the good friend he was, as she detailed how vexing he was over their first round of drinks. The topic shifted, and soon Wallace had gotten up and started conversing with another man at the bar. She was quite content to sit with herself while he mingled until she saw the face of the man he was talking to. She scrambled out of her seat and approached them. Wallace's companion looked at her as she approached.
"You were at the gala," he grinned down at her as she stood between them.
"Wallace, this is our savior," she told her friend, "James Moriarty."
He gave a dramatic bow, "At your service, madame."
She laughed. "Where is your companion?"
James huffed, "Would you believe me if I told you he is being personally thanked for his service by Princess Shou'an?"
"Really?" she questioned, "You were not afforded the same sentiment?"
"I am but a lowly Irishman," James said with an exaggerated British accent.
The next few hours were spent in lively conversation. James told them about the bomb in the library and how they found it, and did not mind when she asked if she could write down the details in her notebook. He even walked with them as Wallace saw her back to the small room she had in Mr. Gilden's lodgings at the Journal. She had her own idea of what the two men were getting up to afterwards, but she said nothing on the subject.
She woke the next morning and went about her usual routine. She was reading over the gala article that Gilden had written in that day's paper when the doorbell rang, and a very panicked, flustered looking Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway.
"she holds the record for the most days spent in space by a woman!" this "she was part of the only all female space walk!" that, she's on the list of people who have spent the most time in space, period. she's spent more time in space than any of her crewmates - one of whom hasn't been into space at all. her time in space is only three days less than what all of her crewmates have combined. she has had as many spacewalks as all of her crewmates combined. she's not there because she's the best female nasa astronaut they could find and they wanted the diversity quota or whatever, she's there because she's part of the most qualified and experienced nasa personnel they could send up there
the reason I casually say charlie kirk's wife had him killed is not necessarily because I believe it, but because nothing stops the right from spouting random conspiracy theories about political enemies, so i'll say whatever the hell I want when one of their idols dies. also it's funny. the entire charlie kirk death is inherently funny. he was in the middle of answering a question related to mass shootings when he died.
the "came back wrong" trope except like... they didnt. like this mad scientists wife died, and so he studied necromancy, brought her back, and she came back and it all worked. like she came back exactly the same as she was before with literally no difference. but the scientist guy is like "oh no... what have i done.... shes Different now!!!! she came back Wrong!!!!" and shes just like. chilling. reading a book. cooking dinner. shes just so so normal but in the guys mind hes like "oh shes soooo weird" but shes just normal
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