Summary: You swore you didn't do anything to betray your husband, but then what about all the evidence?
For years, your marriage to Mycroft Holmes had been steady, tender, and extraordinary.
You had worked so hard to build a life far away from the world.
Mycroft had once told you that your honesty was the greatest thing you had ever given him. You believed him.
Then the evidence appeared.
Anonymous intelligence files. Bank transfers. Secret meetings.
A burner phone found in your jewellery box.
Emails between you and a known foreign agent. Every document airtight and convincing. Enough to accuse you of espionage. Enough to destroy everything.
You were taken into a private facility.
No officers, no interrogators, no observers. Just your husband.
The room was silent.
A single lamp lit the table where you sat with your cuffs resting heavily against the cold surface.
Hours had passed without a sound. No guards. No analysts. Only the weight of accusations hanging over you like a storm.
The door opened.
Mycroft stepped in.
He carried a file thick enough to crush you.
His face was controlled, but cracked around the edges. The tension in his jaw was unlike anything you had seen in the years you had been married to him.
He sat across from you, opened the file and spoke without greeting.
“Explain this,” he said, pushing a photograph across the table.
It showed you meeting with a known foreign agent in a dark alley. You felt sick.
“Mycroft, that is not me.”
His eyes lifted to yours, colder than you had ever known them.
“It is your coat. Your posture. Your hair pinned in your usual manner.”
“It is not me,” you repeated, voice cracking.
He slid a bank statement next.
Large sums wired to an offshore account under your maiden name.
“Mycroft, listen to me.”
“No. You will listen,” he snapped.
The sharpness in his voice sliced through you. He never raised his voice. Not with strangers. Not with staff. Certainly not with you.
Your chest tightened with panic.
“Mycroft, I never touched those accounts, I swear it.”
“And how precisely am I meant to believe that?” He leaned forward, hands pressed flat on the table, voice strained. “Tell me why there are encrypted emails from you to a foreign operative. Tell me why there is a burner phone with your fingerprint on it. Tell me why all of this evidence paints you as a traitor.”
“Because someone is framing me,” you whispered.
“Who? Your past is not as dead as you would like to believe. Perhaps one of the delightful men you once swindled has returned for a favour.”
You flinched hard.
“You know I left that life behind.”
His voice came down, quiet and devastating.
“Did you?”
Tears blurred your vision.
“Mycroft, I love you. I would never betray you. I would never betray this country.”
He closed his eyes. For a moment, he looked almost pained. Then he forced himself back into composure.
“Everything here says otherwise.”
You felt your heart fracture. This was not anger. This was hurt wrapped in logic.
“Mycroft, please. Look at me. Do you honestly believe I could do this?”
For the first time, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. But before he could speak, the door burst open.
Sherlock walked in holding a coffee cup.
“You absolute idiots. Honestly, this is embarrassing for both of you.”
Mycroft’s expression iced over.
“Sherlock, this is classified.”
“Yes, classified stupidity. I had to intervene.”
Sherlock grabbed the folders from the table and started sorting through them with a dramatic flourish.
“Right, first of all, that photograph. Not her. Shadow length is wrong for the timestamp. Also, the woman is two centimetres taller.”
He tossed it aside and grabbed the bank statements.
“These transfers? Fabricated. The formatting is from an older banking software. Mycroft, you should have spotted that.”
Mycroft stiffened. “Sherlock-”
“Do not interrupt me while I am saving your marriage.”
Sherlock moved to the emails. “These were written by someone mimicking her style poorly. The comma placement is wrong, and she never uses the Oxford comma. Also, the encryption key was generated using an outdated algorithm. Very amateur.”
He then pulled out the burner phone.
“And this delightful object. Look at the dust. It is from the north side of your flat. Except she never sets things down on that shelf because she hates the colour of the wallpaper behind it.” Sherlock gave a self-satisfied shrug. “Obvious.”
You blinked.
“How did you even know that?”
“Mycroft never shuts up about you,” Sherlock replied without looking up. “It is actually quite nauseating.”
Mycroft shot him a murderous glare.
Sherlock continued.
“So, the culprit is clearly someone from her past. I already found him. I sent Lestrade an address, and now he is making the arrest.” He dusted off his hands as if finishing a simple chore. “You are welcome.”
Silence filled the room.
Sherlock stared between the two of you. Then he sighed loudly.
“Well? One of you apologise and the other one cry or kiss or whatever it is you two do. I am bored.”
He simply stood up and left.
The door clicked closed.
Mycroft did not speak immediately. He stared at the evidence strewn across the table, each piece now exposed as a lie. Slowly, he looked at you.
Your eyes were red. His eyes were filled with something else, regret.
“My love,” he whispered. “I am so sorry.”
The apology hit you harder than the accusations. You broke, sobs shaking your shoulders.
He stood, walked around the table and knelt beside you.
Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman of Whitehall, knelt at your feet and took your shaking hands.
“I should have trusted you. I should have remembered who you are rather than what the evidence suggested.”
“You hurt me,” you whispered.
“And I will spend the rest of my life making amends for it.”
You leaned forward, forehead touching his.
His hands cupped your cheeks gently.
“I love you, nothing will ever change that.”
You let out a trembling breath. “I love you too.”
He helped you stand and pulled you into his arms. You clung to him as though he could anchor the world.
In truth, he always had.
In the hallway outside, Sherlock’s voice echoed.
“Finally. Took you long enough.”
You both ignored him.
Mycroft pressed a kiss to your temple and held you close, a silent vow settling between you. This would not break you.
It would not even dent you.
If anything, it proved something Mycroft had never admitted aloud.
Something along the lines of how Sherlock doesn't listen to Mycroft so he has to call his wife the only other person able to convince him other than John. She convinces him and they solve a case together. A bit of insight between their relationship.
Thank you.. have a great day...🥳😇🤩
The Holmes Men
Pairing: Mycroft Holmes x Reader / Sherlock Holmes & Reader
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There’s the soft thump of your sneakers as you enter 221B Baker Street, lips pressed in a thin line — dragged out of bed on your day off, and it shows. From your untamed hair to the irritation in each step as you climb up the stairs.
“Oh, no,” Sherlock mutters under his breath, eyes widening a fraction as he turns to Mycroft, “Brother, tell me you didn’t.”
Warm, creamy vanilla touched with amber and tonka bean — akin to the scent of freshly baked sweet bread wafts into the room before they could see you.
“I did,” Mycroft answers, entirely unbothered.
“Has it ever occurred to you both that you’re both insufferable?” you huffed, stepping into the flat, arms crossed. Your gaze lands squarely on Sherlock, “Especially you,”
“I’ve often been told,” Sherlock replies, without missing a beat. Mycroft, your dear husband, feigns offense, “Me?”
“Yes, you, I love you dearly, but sometimes I do so wish to strangle you and your timing,” you sigh, as you sit on the couch, turning back to Sherlock, “Mycroft says you’re refusing to take his case.”
🕵️ ──────── 🔎 ─────────🧩
For a moment, Sherlock turned to Mycroft, giving him a look which his brother dismissed, and sighed before he addressed the matter at hand.
“There are far more important cases than whatever game my brother is playing. I don’t work for the government — and I certainly don’t dance to its tune.” Sherlock said flatly.
“He was asking quite nicely, from what I’ve heard,” you remark, having been discreetly called in the midst of their discussion, “And Mycroft rarely asks anything of you. Wouldn’t you like to be useful for once?”
“Did you bring her here just to guilt-trip me?” Sherlock asked, with a look of incredulous disdain.
“Yes, I thought I’d try a more effective method,” Mycroft said smoothly, legs crossed as he leaned back on John’s chair, “You listen to her, yet I’m your brother.”
“Did you even hear him out?” you asked Sherlock, who immediately answered, “Yes, of course I did,”
“Then summarize it for me,” you tilt your head, unconvinced, waiting for him to speak.
“Something about a government official, blackmail, lost files, a scandal that could —” Sherlock paused.
“—undermine national security,” Mycroft finished for him.
“That’s a no then,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose, as Sherlock gazed out the window. “It’s dull. Predictable. Not worth my time.”
“Stopping someone from possibly destabilizing this country is dull?” you point out, making him see it in a different light as Sherlock turned to you sharply, and Mycroft’s lips twitched upward to a smile.
“You do realize my brother weaponizes your charm?” Sherlock asks.
“Of course, he does,” you answer dryly, “I let him.”
“Quite effective if I do say so myself,” Mycroft smiles.
“Now, will you take the case, or must I resort to other methods of coercion?” you glance at Sherlock, as he arches an eyebrow, “You wouldn’t,”
There was that look on your face, ‘try me’, and he sighed.
“Fine, but you’re coming with me.”
“Not allowed, dear brother,” Mycroft cuts in at that, as you also said, “No, thank you, it’s my day off and you want me gallivanting around London?”
“That’s my only condition in accepting your case, brother,” Sherlocked smirked as Mycroft scowled, and you groaned.
“If she returns with so much as a hair out of place, little brother,” Mycroft stands, and steps close enough that his shadow falls over Sherlock, “We’ll have words.”
“Oh, don’t worry, brother, I won’t let anything happen to her,” Sherlock said, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and turned to you, “Shall we, dear sister?”
“Could you wait for me downstairs?” you ask Sherlock, wanting to speak to Mycroft alone, and he lingers before giving you the space, “You.”
“Me?” Mycroft asks, as you stand and wrap your arms around his waist, and say, “I’ll call your office, make up for your day off.”
“Good, because I was planning to stay in bed all day— and you’ve gone and ruined it,” you tease, your voice softening as you rest your forehead against his, “I’ll see you at home?”
“Yes, love, home,” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, holding you just a little bit longer, “Be careful.”
