Quiet Strength
Summary: Mycroft Holmes x fe!Reader -> You and Mycroft become each other's Quiet Strength.
Disclaimer: dislike to lovers, change of opinions of people, spoilers for Young Sherlock, silas holmes being a psychopath, flangst, hurt/comfort, historical inaccuracies, a little smut at the very very end, relationship growth, forehead kisses, hand holding.
(gif is not mine)
You and Mycroft had never exactly been friends.
In all fairness, you had started out as Sherlock’s friend which had given you a starting point to dislike Mycroft.
He was the older brother. The head of the family. The workaholic. The forcibly responsible one. The one who let his brother stay in prison for three months.
All of which you judged him for. To a certain extent, at least.
But it was throughout the time you spent with him; being the go-between for him and Sherlock to make sure their information stayed up to date as they worked their ‘kidnapped princess’ case, along with the ‘apostles’. That you started to see him.
Despite all of his formalities, and his tight and controlling actions against life, you saw the edges.
They weren’t neat as you had first understood. They weren’t starched and ironed to an empty and flat surface as Sherlock was convinced. Instead, they were…fraying. Whenever he had the time, Mycroft was weaving the edges of himself back together, by hand.
He was bare-knuckled and numb to the burn of his wounds.
To make matters worse, when you looked around to the others, they couldn’t see it. It wasn’t because they refused to, or because they were simply distracted with others. It was because they couldn’t see him. At all.
Mycroft Holmes. Eldest son. Eldest child. Forced to grow up quickly for his family. Who lost his sister. Who felt responsible she had died, despite two parents being there to take care of her. Who felt he had to do things in order to make their lives easier.
Mycroft Holmes. A man who's always been compared to his genius brother. Who has taken it in his stride. Who hasn’t resented Sherlock for it. Who loves him and cares for him.
Mycroft Holmes. Who had no-one in his corner. Who is the quiet strength for the rest of his family, even if they, or he, doesn’t see it. Who hides his hurt when his family’s first opinion of him is that he would betray his family.
That last scenario you were watching unfold right in front of you.
Silas, Bea, Mycroft, Sherlock, Cordelia, James and yourself. All sitting around a dinner table in Constantinople.
After everything you’d experienced with both Holmes brothers, you were mere seconds away from attacking Silas. Wanting to make sure he understood the kind of pain he’d put his family through, the kind of torture he’d put Cordelia through.
You saw the stiffness in Mycroft’s shoulders as Silas addressed him first. Your gaze flicked between Mycroft and his father.
How could someone so monstrous father a man like Mycroft? Or even Sherlock?
“Promise made,” Silas said before slamming his hand down on the table, leaving the glasses rattling. “Promise kept.”
It was the first time, ever, you’d seen Mycroft have a physical reaction to his fear. Most often, he would breathe through it and try to keep his mind on something calming.
But from his reaction and the fear in his eyes, you wondered if this dinner wasn’t the first time Silas had led with such actions.
Loudness, brutality, violence that just showed how much he wanted to hit someone.
As attention quickly turned towards Cordelia as she pleaded with her daughter, you kept your focus on Mycroft. He was in distress. Everyone was, but something inside of you was growing more angry by the minute. Because Mycroft’s distress was killing you, too. So how could it not be hurting anyone else?
Without a word, you reached for Mycroft’s hand under the table. His hands were shaking as he searched for your hand and held onto it, tight.
Maybe you weren’t friends, exactly, but in your quietness you understood him. Saw what he was. Saw who he was.
You agreed with James when he called the entire thing A Greek Tragedy.
“You seem to agree with James?” Silas asked you, a wicked grin on his face whilst anger brewed underneath.
“How could I not?”
“Don’t talk to her,” Mycroft warned his father, his voice low and almost growling.
Under the table, you squeezed his hand gently. I’m okay. It’s okay.
“A not-so-dead daughter, a committed mother, a genius brother who landed himself in jail. His best friend who is just like him, although less prison as far as I’m aware. The eldest son who understood his responsibility but that same responsibility was used against him by the psychotic father.”
Silas laughed. But only for a moment. Slowly, the tips of his fingers pushed the handle of his dinner knife back and forth.
“And where do you come into the picture, Y/n? Where do you fit into our little Greek tragedy?”
This time, you laughed. “I don’t think that’s a question you want answering.”
As Silas chuckled, his voice laced with something inhuman, Cordelia tried to reason with her daughter, again.
Very quickly, things became loud.
Mycroft’s fear made you want to cry. To hug him and tell him he didn’t have to stay. That you could all leave.
But that wasn’t true. No matter how much you wished it was. Because Silas had at least a dozen men carrying weapons, spread out across his property. And Mycroft still had to make his plea on behalf of the British Government.
You watched the fall-out.
Sherlock and Cordeila believing they had been betrayed. Silas’ adoring shock that his son had been the chosen one to keep communications open. James’ shock and surprise at Mycroft’s news. Bea’s hopeful look that she had a buyer and the pay-out could be extraordinary.
“Did you know?” James asked you.
Every word that fell from Mycroft’s mouth seemed more painful than the last. You didn’t answer James, though even if you did you didn’t know what you could say.
Truthfully, you didn’t know. You didn’t know what the British Government had asked of Mycroft. But you had a feeling. Mycroft wanted security in his work and he had easy access to the things the members of the government wanted.
The government saw it as nothing more than a simple trade. Even if that trade came with emotional warfare.
By the time things were wrapping up at the diner table, you practically sneered at Silas as he laid his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. And, whilst Sherlock was calling his own brother Judas, Mycroft removed his hand from your own before taking total leave from the table.
A little over an hour later, you were slipping out of your bedroom and down the hall towards Mycroft’s room. You knocked twice before turning the knob and pushing the door open.
“You awake?”
Mycroft was laying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Well, the lights are on,” you said, mostly to yourself as you closed the door behind you. “So, I’ll take that as a yes.”
Without another word, you walked to the other side of his bed before laying down next to him.
“I’m here,” you told him. “If you want to talk.”
“What’s there to talk about? My father is…well, you saw. And my family thinks I’ve betrayed them.”
“They’ll see sense,” you assured him. “Did they really ask you to betray your family?”
Mycroft nodded, closing his eyes for a moment. “Yes.”
You could figure out the rest of the conversation from there. Mycroft didn’t have much of a choice – there was a chemical weapon about to hit an open market. In a perfect world, men like Silas and his weapons wouldn’t exist.
But the world was far from perfect.
Mycroft made a judgment and took it. Choose the world where he gives his father the opportunity to give one buyer the weapons, and hope to god he can figure something else out before it’s too late.
“He’ll have you followed tomorrow,” you pointed out. “What do you want me to do?”
“Don’t you hate me?”
Reaching between both of you, you took hold of his hand. “I’m on your side, Mycroft. If you want me to follow the ones following you, I’ll do it. If you want me to stay here…I’ll fight you on it, but I’ll stay here if that’s what you need.”
Mycroft turned and looked at you. “You really don’t hate me?”
You shook your head. “No, Mycroft. I don’t. I didn’t have the best impression of you when we first met, but I’m gonna place that blame on myself and Sherlock. You were just his annoying, rule-following, older brother.”
Mycroft nodded, looking back at the ceiling. “People often tell me Sherlock is the better out of the two of us.”
“But then I got to know you,” you said. “Even if you didn’t mean to, you let me see parts of you that I don’t even think your family sees. Let alone, understand.”
“And what parts are those?”
“You’re strong, Mycroft. There’s no doubt about that. But I can also see you’re scared. Almost all the time. You worry for your mother, and your brother. You did worry for your father, before all this went to shit. You keep trying. And when something doesn’t work out, you run yourself into the ground until you find a new solution. Those are the parts I’m talking about. And I wished to god that your family would see it, too.”
Mycroft nodded, unable to speak for a moment. So, he held your hand.
“I’m glad that you’re the one that sees it.”
Taking in his gaze, there were words left unsaid between both of you. But, with a single look, you knew everything you needed to.
Mycroft pulled you into him and held onto you for dear life. And you held onto him just the same.
You were silently thankful that Mycroft couldn’t see your face for the moment, because the tears you’d been holding in all day were threatening to come to the surface.
“Just…promise me something?”
“Anything,” Mycroft said in an outward breath.
“Be safe tomorrow?” You asked him. “Don’t try and…fight someone if they’re gonna kill you. Don’t die on me, Mycroft. Not at the hands of your father. Not at the hands of anyone.”
Mycroft moved a little so he could see your face. Soaking in the moment, Mycroft laid a gentle hand against your cheek and, for a moment, your eyes fluttered shut as you melted into his touch.
Laying your own hand on the back of his, you opened your eyes to see Mycroft memorising you. Your face, your touch, your voice, your presence.
“I don’t think we have much control over the hands of time,” Mycroft told you. “But, if it’s in our control? I promise.”
Letting out a breath, you leaned further into his touch. “Thank you.”
Pulling his palm to your lips, you pressed a long kiss to his palm. Then his wrist. Finally, you reached up and wrapped your arms around him. In return, he held you just as tight and buried his face into the crook of your neck.
His moustache tickled a little as he pressed a feather-light kiss to your skin.
In the morning, just before he was followed out of his father’s complex, and just before he walked past the rest of his family who believed he had betrayed them, you pulled him back.
“Wait.”
“I’ll be okay,” Mycroft assured you. “I made you a promise, remember?”
Gently, he tucked your hair behind your ear before tilting your chin up so you would look at him.
“Don’t say anything,” you said, keeping your hands flat on his chest. “When you come back, if you want to talk about it, we can. But, just for now, don’t say anything.”
“About what?”
“This.”
Leaning up, you kissed him.
It was…new. But meaningful. Not exactly a good-bye kiss, but one for good luck. One that told him that the thoughts he’d been having last night as you laid beside him, fast asleep and both of you fully clothed, weren’t just his own.
For a moment, he kissed you back. Not long after that, you pulled away, rolling your lips to memories the brief taste of him.
“Keep your promise?”
Mycroft nodded, leaning in once more. Only, this time, he pressed his lips to your forehead. His fingers ran through your hair as he did so; a quiet, comforting gesture.
“Always.”
Waiting for him to come back had dragged. Between the curious looks you were receiving from James who desperately wanted to ask – the only thing that was holding him back was the clear worry he could see in your face. And the clear hurt and anger on Sherlock and Cordelia’s face.
You just wanted him to be okay.
And, thankfully, he was.
Long after the dust had settled, both figuratively and literally (a hidden mine blew up), you were all heading back to London.
On the train, neither you or Mycroft spoke. But you held hands. And, when you grew tired, you laid your head on his shoulder. When he grew tired, he laid his own against yours.
When the day finally came that you all returned to Appleton Manor, you stayed close to Mycroft.
Bea was growing closer to James – something else only you seemed to notice. But she was still struggling with the comprehension that her father had lied to her, for her entire life.
Learning who her family was, and who she could trust, would be a long road.
It would be a long road for them all.
In the quiet moments, where Mycroft excused himself and pretended everything was okay, you would follow him. A simple reach of his hand, or a gentle hand against his shoulder soon opened the gate to you hugging him.
Mycroft, for as long as you had known him, had never really been the physically affectionate type. So, when he reciprocated your touch, your hug, your hold, without reservation, you were glad.
Even more so when he sought you out for that very thing.
If you were standing in the kitchen, early in the morning or late at night, making a snack or a drink. You would feel his hands tenderly grip your waist or your hips. Mere moments later, his head would be on your shoulder, or his lips would press soft kisses against your exposed neck.
Sometimes it would go further than that. But, the most common outcome was Mycroft just standing there, holding you against his chest, without a word.
“I must return to London,” he told you one afternoon. “There’s…there’s a lot of work waiting for me. After everything…”
You nodded. “I understand. If you’re not sick of me already-”
Mycroft chuckled, reaching out for you. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
You hummed, letting him pull you closer before you wrapped your arms over his shoulders and around his neck. “Beg to differ.”
He chuckled, again, pulling you in at the waist.
“But, if you’re not, would you mind me coming with you? I’ve got a bit of business to tend to in the city.”
Mycroft raised a brow. “Oh? Something I might like to know?”
“Not yet. It’s not fully thought out yet.”
Mycroft knew that was a lie. Not from you, but to the world. You had thought it, whatever it was, out. There were just a few more steps to take and you needed to clear your path before you could safely step on them.
“Okay,” Mycroft kissed you. “But I am curious.”
“You will be the first to know.”
“Will I?”
You nodded. “You’ll be the only one in London. Geographically speaking, nobody here will know until I come back.”
Mycroft chuckled, letting his hands slide down towards your arse. Slowly, you leaned your hips into his whilst he tried to kiss you.
“You. Are a pain.”
You chuckled, kissing him. “You love it.”
“You drive me mad, woman.”
“You love it.”
A small growl left his throat as he kissed you. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
The next day, when you finally reached London, you and Mycroft went your separate ways. Whilst he headed towards his office, you headed towards a for-sale sign that wasn’t too far from Bow Street.
“Darling?”
From the rafter office, you peered over the wooden balcony, both of you completely unaware of the new nickname Mycroft had used and you had answered to. “Up here! Come on!”
A little- no. A lot confused, Mycroft looked around the dusty, sheet-covered office.
“When the boy said to meet you here, I thought he was mistaken but apparently-” Mycroft got to the top just in time to watch you tear another sheet away, proudly, to reveal a sturdy desk. “Not.”
“This is to be our new office.”
“Our?”
“Myself, Sherlock and James.” You were almost beaming with excitement. “We’ve been throwing around the idea for a while. A private investigation agency. Sherlock and James have the experience, and so do I.”
“How did you even find out about this place?”
“It’s great, isn’t it?! Got it for a steal, too.” You were rushing about, pulling sheets off items in order to check their condition. “I’ve had feelers out for a property for a while. I figured I’d be turning it into a tea-shop, or a library or a charity house. But, this one? This place is perfect for what we need.”
“This one?”
You nodded. “There’s an old building just past Fleet Street. I suppose in a couple of months I should have a functioning Charity House for women, mothers and children. My father always said if I was going to invest my time in something, it should be useful. So…here we are.”
Mycroft looked around whilst you mapped out your vision for the place. It was almost fully furnished, save for a few touches that would make it seem less…dreary.
Lighter curtains in the back would help. So would printed letters on the front of the window, a slightly more welcoming seating area to the right hand side, which was hidden a little due to the position of the storage closet.
With an open space on the ground floor, there was a perfect opportunity for Cordelia to make some of her cordials. That way, a business was growing and women who didn’t want to seem overly suspicious could simply say they had popped in to buy a few items.
By the time you turned back to Mycroft, he didn’t seem as in shock as he had done when he first walked inside. Instead, he looked…proud.
“So, what do you think?”
“I think making sure Sherlock and James are still attached to the hip might cause more trouble than my stress can handle.”
You chuckled, climbing the stairs to reach him, as he smiled.
“But…I think it’s brilliant. This is brilliant. You’re brilliant, Y/n.”
“Thank you. Now, all I have to do is tell those two.”
“They don’t know yet?!”
You shrugged. “The idea, yes. That I have been looking for a building, no. But, now I can break the news.”
“Good lord, help us all.”
Laughing, you hurried over to Mycroft’s side and wrapped your arms around him. “So, how was work?”
“Boring. Even more so without you there to pester me.”
“I’m sure I’ll be back there soon,” you said.
“Is that a threat? Or a promise?”
You shrugged. “It can be both.”
Mycroft just hummed before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your lips. Melting into him, you felt his fingers fan through your hair as you let him back you up towards the desk.
A small gasp escaped you as you finally hit the desk.
“Sorry-”
“Don’t be,” you said. “Keep going.”
Pulling his down to your lips by his tie, Mycroft helped you scoot further back onto the desk.
It was amongst the growing darkness of the office, and the empty street outside, that you and Mycroft fell deeper with each other. For however much he was straight-laced, tight and controlled; when it came to you, he was a man untamed.
With your thighs still trembling from the two orgasms he had served you, you begged for him to thrust harder and deeper for the third. His grunts and moans of pleasure as he felt you clamp and pulse around him only drove him on.
Leaving you dripping, Mycroft’s arms cradled your body as you held onto him for dear life.
“Good lord.”
“Holy fuck.”
