So, here it is, another part! Still have no clue how long this series will go, this part took forever to write, I kinda just go whenever I have inspiration, so we’ll see.
Synopsis: Greg comes over for a visit and Mycroft notices some changes in you.
Part 1:
Sherlock x teen sister reader, Mycroft x teen sister reader
TW!!! Grief, trauma, panic attacks, teensy self-harm mention (this one
You were already fast asleep on the couch, your favorite fluffy blanket draped on top of you by the time Sherlock said goodbye to John and made his way inside Mycroft’s house.
Mycroft was on one knee next to the couch, his hand absently brushing your hair away from your sweaty forehead.
“Is she alright?” Sherlock approached his brother quietly, not wanting to disturb the scene in front of him.
Mycroft’s mouth twisted as he stood, removing his hand from your head.
“I think so. She really wore herself out today, I hope she didn’t make herself sick.”
Mycroft shook his head, anticipating his brother’s question.
“She’s never run away from me. She has tried to come after me before when I tried to leave for work a few times, about a year ago. I tried to leave her with several of your…friends. Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, even John. She wouldn’t have it.”
Sherlock frowned, “She’s never been particularly clingy with you before.”
Mycroft gave a slightly sardonic smile, “Yes well, there are a lot of things about her that have changed.” He sighed. “I suppose she thought that if she left me alone, the way-“ if Sherlock didn’t know better, he would’ve thought Mycroft almost chocked on the words before continuing, “the way she left you alone before—well, you know—that I would’ve done exactly what you had done. She thought she’d lose us both, I suppose.”
Sherlock stared down at you. You looked so peaceful, so unlike anything he had seen from you since he’d been back. It cut him deeply to think that you actually felt responsible for your brothers’ safety. That was his and Mycroft’s job, to look after you.
“She didn’t blame herself for-“ Sherlock didn’t even want to finish the sentence.
Mycroft turned to look at him, and Sherlock almost recoiled at the look in Mycroft’s eyes. He looked…heartbroken. Almost…vulnerable. Almost.
“Yes. She did. After she got over the shock, and the denial, that’s all she could think about for months on end. She kept asking me what I thought would’ve happened to you if she-“ Mycroft swallowed, “if she hadn’t left you alone that afternoon. If she’d let John leave and remained nearby to make sure you were alright. If she’d been more attentive to your needs, your feelings. I didn’t know what to say to her. I couldn’t tell her that you weren’t actually depressed…” Mycroft trailed off, breaking eye contact with his little brother.
Sherlock was horrified. He now understood Mycroft’s pain, his hesitance to breech this subject. A small, selfish part of Sherlock was now glad that it had been Mycroft, not himself, that had been here to deal with the tsunami of a wake that his death had left behind.
Neither brother spoke for a while. There was nothing left they wanted to say. Not about this.
A knock on the door cracked the still air, and Mycroft stiffened when you flinched awake.
Mycroft rested his hand on your shoulder, “shh, it’s nothing, get some rest alright? Sherlock is here with you.”
Mycroft stood to open the door, surprised to see Lestrade standing there.
“Inspector,” he greeted cordially.
“Sherlock…shared his little secret with me earlier,” Greg said awkwardly. “I thought I would come and see how Y/N is now that…”
Mycroft nodded slightly. He didn’t quite understand the relationship you had with all of Sherlock’s friends, but he was glad you had so many people that cared about you.
“I see, unfortunately she’s resting right-“
Mycroft turned to see you, wrapped up in your blanket, a slight smile gracing your lips.
Lestrade grinned back at you.
“Hey N/N, are you alright?”
Mycroft stepped back while Greg embraced you, glancing sideways when Sherlock stepped up next to him.
“I’m ok,” came your muffled reply.
No one in the room really believed you, but no one was going to speak up about it either.
“What are you doing here?” You asked Greg as he stepped further into the house and shut the door behind him.
“I’m here to see you, of course,” he smiled down at you, and Mycroft was surprised when you smiled back, albeit a bit wearily.
The smile dropped quickly however, and your eyes seemed almost haunted as you choked out your next words.
Greg shook his head quickly, “No, no I haven’t. I found out just after John.”
Your relief made Mycroft feel uncomfortable, and more than a little guilty. He had thought this might happen, that you might form some kind of bond with the ones that had been truly deceived. He had somewhat expected it.
What he hadn’t expected was the twist in his gut that came now. What was it?
It took him a few moments to realize the true meaning of this unfamiliar feeling, and when the realization hit it was like a backhand across the face.
Jealousy. He was jealous.
But why? Why should he care about the bonds you forged with the ‘Baker Street Crowd’, as he thought of them?
The answer was simple, really, but Mycroft didn’t want to believe it.
As hard as the last two years had been, as uncomfortable as he was in his position as caretaker…
He would truly miss the way you ran to him for every problem, the way that you looked at him like he was Superman, capable of solving every trouble and pain that shook your whole world.
He didn’t want that to go away. He didn’t want you to form a bond with Lestrade, or with John, heck, even with Sherlock, that would rival the one that you had with him.
He hated feeling this way, thinking this way. It was selfish. It was wrong.
You had grown up so much closer to Sherlock, and he hadn’t cared for so long.
But now that he knew what it was like, to be so close to you, to be the big brother that you wanted to comfort you…
He didn’t think he could go back to the way things had been like before.
Your voice snapped Mycroft out of his reverie, and he had to swallow his annoyance at Lestrade’s response.
“Hey, I’m here for as long as you need me,” he turned to look at Mycroft, “as long as it’s ok with your brother.”
Mycroft bit back this response when he saw the pleading look on your face when you turned to him. He forced a polite,
‘As long as you need me,’ turned out to be the rest of the afternoon, and after mere minutes of watching you and Lestrade catch up, Mycroft disappeared into his office under the excuse of getting some work done. He hated the way you seemed to be getting alone with Lestrade, especially right after you had just run away from him to be with John.
He was noticing a pattern.
You were beginning to gravitate towards the people who had shared in your pain, the people who had also been lied to. The people whose grief had been real. It was probably good for you.
But that also meant that you were gravitating away from him. The liar. The faker.
Would you ever look at him the same way again? That look of complete and utter trust, the one he had slowly become dependent on over the last two years. He needed you. He needed you to need him.
He hated feeling this way.
You finally told Lestrade that you would be fine if he left, once it was close to dinner time. He said his goodbyes, and finally left to join his wife for dinner, with a promise of, “I’ll see you later.”
Something about Lestrade’s visit seemed to have energized you, which made Mycroft nervous, especially after your tiring excursion with John.
So when you asked Mycroft if you could make dinner tonight, something you’d not done in over two years, he was hesitant to say the least.
“Are you sure you’re not tired? You’ve had quite a day.”
You nodded resolutely, “I’m fine. Please Mycroft?”
You were as stubborn as Sherlock when you made your mind up, and Mycroft figured he would win no brownie points with you by arguing. So he relented.
“Would you like any help?”
You shook your head firmly, “I can do it.”
Mycroft didn’t stray far from the kitchen, ready at a moment’s notice for you to call out to him for help.
In fact, you seemed to be completely capable, even enjoying yourself, alone in the kitchen.
He wanted you to get better, he really, really did, but he didn’t want that to mean that you completely pulled away from him. And he felt now like that was what was happening.
Not that he’d ever admit how he felt. Not to anyone. Even himself.
After dinner, you insisted on cleaning up, and Mycroft was truly amazed at your new energy level. He supposed that’s what he deserved for underestimating you.
After dinner and cleanup, you headed towards the stairs leading to your room.
Mycroft stepped forwards, “Are you going to bed? Would you like help?” With your lower energy level, due to your usual lack of sleep and irregular eating habits, he was shocked you were still standing, much less ready to walk up stairs.
You didn’t even meet his eye as you shook your head firmly, “I’m fine. Tell Sherlock I said goodnight. Is he going back to Baker Street?”
Mycroft was taken aback, “I—I’m not sure. Do you want him to?”
You shrugged, still not meeting Mycroft’s eye.
“He can do whatever he wants.”
You walked up the stairs without another word.
Sherlock frowned at his older brother.
“You’re worried because she doesn’t have separation anxiety?”
Mycroft sighed, “I’m worried because of her complete change in personality. It doesn’t make sense, and it isn’t healthy.”
Sherlock shrugged. “And what she was doing before was healthy? Maybe this is a good thing, maybe it means she’s healing.”
Mycroft shook his head, “Or maybe it means she doesn’t trust us enough to tell us how she really feels..”
“That doesn’t make sense. I’ve seen her with you,” Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably, “I’ve never seen anyone trust someone as much as she does you.”
Mycroft hung his head, something that shocked Sherlock.
“That was before she knew how much I’ve lied to her.”
Sherlock decided to head back to Baker Street that night, despite Mycroft’s protests.
“What if she wakes up again and needs you?”
“She was fine tonight, Mycroft. You need to let her be fine.”
Though Mycroft would never admit it, that comment had stung. Was he really so desperate for his little sister’s company that he refused to let her be alright?
No, no that wasn’t it. He knew his little sister, had spent the past two years getting to know her better than she knew herself.
He wasn’t accepting this new side of you, not because he didn’t want to, but because he knew it couldn’t last. Not yet, anyway.
This kind of improvement would take time, and a lot more work than had been accomplished in the few days that Sherlock had been back.
You still needed your big brother.
And he was going to be there for you.
To Mycroft’s surprise, the night passed without incident, and so did the next morning. You let Mycroft cook you pancakes, but you seemed particularly silent that morning, not even asking him if Sherlock was going to be there that day.
Eventually Mycroft decided to leave you to your own devices, and he went to his office to get some work done.
A few hours went by uninterrupted, until Mycroft realized it was nearing lunchtime. He was desperate to keep you on your eating schedule, especially while this energy of yours lasted and you seemed to have no objections to food, so he shut down his work computer and left his office to find you.
He expected to find you on the couch, watching something or perhaps reading.
What he didn’t expect was to find you sitting on the floor next to the stairs, your back against the wall and your knees pulled up against your chest. He rushed to your side, and your head jerked up when you saw him standing next to you.
“Mycroft…” the croak in your voice, along with the tears sliding down your cheeks, struck Mycroft right in the gut. How long had you been sitting there like this, while he was busy not paying attention to you?
“Sweetheart…” Mycroft kneeled on the floor in front of you, tilting your head up so that you’d look at him, “what happened?”
Despite his efforts, you tilted your eyes down to avoid his gaze.
“I-I was just trying to go up to my room…but I guess my crazy day yesterday finally caught up-caught up to me because I just-just fell down and I couldn’t find-find the strength to get back up.”
Mycroft began looking you over worriedly.
“Are you ok? Are you hurt?”
You put your hand against his chest and pushed him to arms length, “Mycroft, no, it’s ok. I’m fine.”
He sighed, “Why didn’t you call for me?”
You shook your head, still desperately avoiding his searching gaze.
Mycroft sighed again, “You’re sitting on the floor because you can’t stand.” He brushed your hair away from your face, “You know it’s ok to need help, right?”
Your lip started quivering, and you finally lifted your gaze to meet Mycroft’s. He forced himself to keep eye contact, despite nearly flinching from the look in your eyes. It wasn’t that broken-glass look he had seen so often, but you looked so…
Sad. But more than that, you looked alone.
You broke eye contact, casting your eyes towards the floor and leaning against Mycroft’s shoulder.
“I can’t need help all the time.”
“Yes I do!” You sat up suddenly, looking up at your brother. “You haven’t gone to work in-in two years, Mycroft! And don’t think I don’t notice how tired you get, I know I’ve-I’ve kept you up with my stupid nightmares.” You were crying now, and yelling, and Mycroft was at a loss for what to do. Every time he thought he had you figured out, every time he was sure you couldn’t surprise him anymore with your emotions, you peeled back another layer and he was lost again. He wished he could understand your feelings, he had tried so many times, but it just wasn’t him.
“Please don’t say that.” Mycroft’s voice was soft and even. “I chose this. I want to be here for you.”
You shook your head, “But it can’t always be like this. Sherlock’s here now, I should-“
“Should what?” Mycroft raised his voice, “should magically get better? That isn’t how it works. We all want things to go back to how they were, but these things take time. You have to be patient.” He sighed, “where did this desperation come from anyway?”
“When Greg and I were catching up…he was talking about some of the cases he’s been on recently. It made me realize…that’s what Sherlock wants to be doing. That’s what you want to be doing. Your work. You shouldn’t have to spend all your time looking after me, you-you guys have lives too. I’ve been selfish.” You looked up. “I’m sorry Mycroft. I’m trying to do better.”
Mycroft felt like he’d just swallowed glass. He tried to swallow, tried to breathe, tried to speak, all of it just left him with a scratchy lump in his throat, and nothing would work properly. You stared up at him, blinking slowly, waiting for his response.
“Don’t…” Mycroft cleared his throat. “Don’t say that. Don’t every say anything like that again, do you understand?”
You were confused, “I only meant-“
“No!” Mycroft regretted his tone when you flinched in his arms, and he softened. “No. This isn’t your fault. I know you’re trying your hardest, but I would stay home with you for the rest of my life if I thought that I could help you in any way. You are more important to me than anything, especially work. And Sherlock feels the same way, I know he does.”
You pondered this for several seconds, before meekly asking, “Are you angry with me for running away?”
Mycroft sighed, “No. I’m not. I was very worried, but I’m not angry. I know why you left.”
You sniffled, “I’m not sure I know why I left. I was angry, but…I don’t ever want to leave you like that again. Even though you-you lied…you’re by brother, and I trust you.” You smiled weakly at him, and he felt his spirits lift. “I really, really trust you. And I’m sorry.”
He shook his head, “You don’t have to apologize. But thank you.”
Mycroft slowly got to his feet, lifting you in his arms. “I think you should get some rest. You look exhausted.”
You leaned against his chest as he carried you upstairs, and when he laid you on your bed you reached out and grabbed his hand.
“Mycroft? Will you stay with me?”
Mycroft smiled down at you.
