His Diary - Mycroft Holmes x Reader
▒▒☂▒▒☂▒▒ Warnings: none! Reader is an American living off Baker Street. Technically related to the following short fics if you're interested: A lesson in sandwiches ~ Repose ~ Mind the Gap
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Sherlock admitted that you “had a bit more capacity for thinking things through,” when you told him all those months ago. Mycroft had given you the same offer he had John Watson even farther in the past. While you had agreed to the terms you had turned right around and told Sherlock of the deal and offered to split the money with him.
Sherlock attributed it to a number of things, practical things, but Mycroft had known from the start that you would act this way. It was largely why he had offered in the first place. This exercise allowed him to see in action your intentions and his own conclusions about you. Data, paperwork, and ideas placed into known flesh and blood. Not predetermined, but well understood.
There were other benefits as well. Continuous, established communication between him and his brother, at least indirectly. An opportunity for Sherlock to feel as if he were the one in charge of what information Mycroft received, and the extent of their meetings.
You knew her as Anthea. You knew it was not her name, all of you did, and when you had first met her after being kidnapped (in a sense) you had not asked for her name. Fear had kept your interaction with her brief, polite until she made a “passive” comment on the chattiness of Americans. A later encounter with Mycroft and Anthea in conjunction had led to John calling her by the name, and so you called her as much yourself.
“It’s not your name, is it? You just, what, used the first thing that came to your head when he asked? Or do you have a given set of names to use?”
You were in the back of the familiar car with Anthea. Since his majesty (as you had joked once and now the moniker had stuck) was often busy, Anthea was sent to fetch you wherever you happened to be when the report was due. She would then take the report, seal it, and you would be dropped off. You supposed this was a bit more personable, although you figured it was also a matter of security.
A twitch, a half smile. She had taken the report and made it disappear (never the same way, at least so far) and you knew your time with her was coming to an end.
“My name is Juno,” she said, and you knew she was teasing you.
“Do you ever get tired, being the one he sends to do-” you gestured widely, tried to think of a better way to say it before settling on, “-this?”
A small noise, almost a laugh. “You should see his diary.”
You blinked, interested and surprised. “He has a diary? You have seen it?”
Anthea blinked at you, then shook her head. “His schedule, American.”
You sat back, disappointed. “Shame. Imagine what sort of things he would write.”
Another half smile, the beginnings of a smirk. “Painfully dull things, I am sorry to say.”
“Sounds like personal experience,” You returned the smile. “Come on, he totally has a diary, doesn’t he?” The idea was so ridiculous.
The car came to a stop. You figured you would not get an answer, but she murmured, “I’ll see what I can do.”
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And so began a fair bit of amusement. In the weeks to follow you would provide your report and ask Anthea if she had anything from “Mycroft’s Diary” to share. You knew there was next to no chance that she would actually say anything truthful, except perhaps something completely harmless and allowed by her boss, but still. It was a bit of fun to hear her reasons for evasions, the rather ridiculous stories she would come up with.
And, finally, the next time she promised that she would actually hand over a personal journal that may or may not belong to his majesty.
When you got into the car you said so easily, “So, dig up anything good about his majesty?” before you had fully settled in.
And came face to face with the one and only Mycroft Holmes. You froze a moment, completely surprised, and perhaps that was exactly the response he had anticipated and desired from you.
“Do sit and bother to be safe,” He said and you found yourself obeying. Sitting, grabbing the seat belt, all of it while your gaze stayed on him.
“So you know about the joke then,” You said.
Perhaps it was too obvious to say, but it was hard to know what was obvious when dealing with Mycroft. What to say seemed lost on you, but for now you focused on what he would ask for next: the report.
“Since you are so interested,” he said and held out a small, plain black notebook.
You were uncertain of the best response and figured this had to be some kind of lesson in the making, but you took what was offered and opened it. And oh, the writing.
Times were given such as “0800” with small notes to the side. Small notes such as “workout,” “meeting,” and occasionally phrases that looked like gibberish but perhaps had different meanings.
Perhaps. You thought you had figured out what the lesson was here. What he was trying to say without saying it directly.
“You made this just to prove a point and get me to quit asking,” you said. “Or did you have Anthea make this all up too?”
His gaze fixed on you. He held out his hand and you gave him the report rather than the journal. You were not done examining it yet.
“I do not have time to waste on your fanciful perception of me.” He tucked the report away.
That got you to get rid of at least a smidgen of your reservations. “It was a joke, Mycroft. You wouldn’t keep a diary, you could keep all that tucked away in your head. Let me guess, you have a mind palace too?”
That earned you a look, almost sharp, but not giving you much else to work with. “You have seen what constitutes a diary.”
“That is the closest you get to self-reflection?”
A pause. “-that I bother to make tangible, yes. I have no need for physical evidence.”
“No way to keep it private once it leaves your mind,” you murmured as you came to the conclusion he was leading you to.
You looked at the journal again and the words. It was mostly full, so you had to give him credit for the work that put into it even if it only amounted to another reminder not to pry into what he kept so carefully locked away.
You looked over it again. “Well now this has to be fake. You track down everything to the hour but leave no time for sleep.”
Your gaze went to him. He reminded you so much of Sherlock in the moment and it occurred to you that the Holmes brothers were so perfect at presenting themselves as machines, when they were anything but.
“You are competent enough to determine as much without that.”
“Wow, ‘competent,’” you echoed, but you realized he was trying to compliment you in his usual attempt at detachment.
And then, a thought occurred, “Do you get enough sleep?”
“You have what you have been asking for.” He hedged.
You shook your head. “You are not a machine, Mycroft Holmes.”
The car came to a stop again. His gaze was still impassive but...there. You had no idea what gave it away, but you got the distinct feeling you had chipped away at something, left some small mark, short as the glimmer was.
“My diary has little room for anything else.”
“Make time,” you said, as if it were so easy. But maybe it was, maybe it had to be done regardless. “Please.”
Silence prevailed as you both were at an impasse. You refused to leave the car, at least until you saw another indication he was receptive to your words.
Then, to your infinite surprise, “Get something, and we shall eat.”
You hadn’t even realized the car had parked so near the deli you often got food from, for you, John, Sherlock...and when he was there, Mycroft.
“And rest?” You pressed.
Another pause. “And rest,” he relented.
