always love it when people ask if the sherlock fandom is “okay” like wtf do you mean are we okay what does okay mean? we’ve preserved through four seasons of benadryl cucumber and martin freeman, shipped johnxsherlock, mycroftxlestrade, and moriartyxmoran (and sebastian ain’t even in the show?). we’ve fallen for the simplest lies and come up with solutions for problems the peasant writers are still pondering. we’ve seen our main character die for two years, seen him take drugs for his flatmate, seen multiple deaths in various ways. the first episode was about suicide. the last one was about a delirious sister and a dead best friend. we’ve walked into hell and found the stairs leading back to earth. we’ve suffered, we’ve lost pieces of ourselves, we’ve collapsed in misery and risen in delight. but nothing, nothing, will ever stop us from being a part of our broken family. heaven can soar away from us without sherlock and we will stare after it, but if sherlock is in hell, we will run into it with outstretched arms, letting out cries of laughter as we rejoice with the members of our fellow fandom.
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.
Benedict's chamber was a mess whirlwind of clothing and personal belongings, a testament to his frantic preparations. Garments lay strewn haphazardly across the floor—some crumpled, others half-folded—If you hadn’t known him to be a young man, you might have mistaken the scene for the excited aftermath of a little girl preparing for her first sleepover. As you leaned against the doorframe with your arms crossed, a playful smirk danced on your lips. "The sun will rise any moment now, Benedict. How long does packing take you?" you berated, shutting the door behind you with a soft click.
He had penned you an urgent letter just days earlier, explaining that his father, along with your father—his uncle—was sending him away to London. He was to take up the position of a porter boy at Oxford due to his chaotic sex life, which was tarnishing his father's reputation.
“Patience, dear cousin,” he replied, finally glancing up from the depths of his trunk, a teasing smirk danced across his lips as he took in your appearance, clearly entertained by the disguise you donned. “I need to ensure I have everything I need before leaving you with all of this.”
“What are you, a woman?” you retorted, an eyebrow arched in feigned indignation. You stepped closer, scooping up discarded items from his bed with a scowl.
“Don’t you look sharp,” he shot back, completely disregarding your jab and he gestured at the tailored suit you wore, complete with a matching top hat that sat jauntily atop your head
“Do not,” you replied, a hint of bashfulness washing over you. Your eyes narrowed as you adjusted your sack coat, then broke into a sheepish grin at the compliment. “Does it really?” you asked, searching his expression for affirmation.
“Absolutely not. It’s hideous, what are you wearing?" he said with unrestrained disdain, his expression a mix of judgment and horror as he motioned toward your sack coat. Offended, you turned away from him, directing your frown at his dressing table while adjusting your coat with an irritated huff. “I think I look rather dashing as a man,” you countered, removing your top hat and placing it carefully on the dressing table, while he stood with arms crossed, disbelief etched across his face.
“You resemble one of those so-called ‘dashing nobles’ who prey on unsuspecting girls at ball dances” he bantered, grimacing at your reflection. Making you bristle with indignation, and retaliated by smacking his arm lightly. He winced but quickly swatted you back playfully. "Just look at yourself," he said, brushing his fingers through his hair with exasperation, gesturing at your wig and the fake mustache you wore. His commentary made you instinctively touch your mustache, shooting him a glare.
“We need to fix this situation. I cannot allow you to sully my name with that ridiculous look," he declared, shaking his head in disapproval. With swift movements, he yanked your wig off, revealing your hair intricately pinned in place. “See how easily that comes off? Goodness, you’d be caught within a day, dear cousin!” he fretted, clearly stressed at your apparent lack of effort in disguising yourself.
“May I remind you that I am helping you here?” you retorted with a scowl, which prompted him to swing his attitude around quickly. He wrapped an arm around you affectionately, turning you to face the mirror atop the dressing table, his chin resting gently on your shoulder.
"I am not taking back my words, but I truly appreciate your efforts on my behalf, dearest cousin,” he said teasingly before planting a gentle kiss on your temple. You sighed, swatting him away in exasperation. “We need to figure out that long hair of yours," he continued with the biggest grin etched on his face. You paled; doubt began to creep into your mind. Is it too late to back down now? A wave of horror washed over you at the thoughts of Benedict shaving your head clean off. Did you really want to proceed with this decision? Yet, deep down, you knew this step was necessary not only for Benedict but for your younger brother, whose disappearance still haunted you.
_______
"What have you done?" you exclaimed, your voice a mix of shock and frustration as you clutched the remnants of your once long hair, now drastically shortened. Benedict stood behind you with an infuriatingly serene smile, the scissors gleaming in the soft light as he set them down on the dressing table. A swift kick of hus shoe sent loose strands of hair fluttering away.
"You promised you’d only take a little off! Now I look just like you!" you hissed, fury bubbling inside you. In a flash, you snatched the scissor, clenching the scissor tightly in your palm. But he was quick to dodge, ducking to the side with a chuckle, the laughter ringing through the chaos that enveloped you both.
"Please! Not my face! I still need to look perfect for my wedding, cousin!" he teased, evading your advance as you chased him around the small, cluttered room, scissor poised as if they were a weapon.
Once the playful chaos subsided, you faced him with a glare that could have melted steel. He merely met your gaze with a wide grin, the kind that only made you scowl more deeply. "I look like an absolute muppet," you muttered, casting a glance at the mirror on the dressing table where your new appearance was reflected back at you. You brushed your short hair back, the feeling unfamiliar yet oddly liberating—it wasn’t all that bad.
"Quit being a child," he chided playfully, stepping behind you and resting a reassuring hand on your shoulder. You scowled at him once more, the annoyance fighting for control within you. But then his tone shifted, a seriousness taking over as he continued, "Aren’t you doing this for Colin?" The mirth in the room dissipated, leaving only the weight of his words hanging between you.
"You can do this."
"I know," you both locked eyes in the mirror, the reflection revealing not just your physical change but the turmoil within.
"This is your only chance to find out what really happened to him," Benedict urged, his grip on your shoulder tightening with sincerity, making you look down at the floor. A wave of doubt washed over you—could you truly go through with it? Deep down, doubt began to gnaw at your confidence—could you really do this? But this opportunity was a rare gift, a chance to not only uncover the truth but to escape your mother’s grip.
"I know," you repeat, the gravity of the moment settling in as his hand slid down from your shoulder to caress your arm before giving it a gentle pat. He stepped back, allowing you some much-needed space.
Looking back into the mirror one last time, you took in your transformed self, the long locks exchanged for a choppy style, your fake mustache awkwardly skewed above your lip. A heavy sigh escaped your lips as you ruffled your hair once more, seeking comfort in the familiar gesture. Straightening your back, you turned away from the mirror, determination slowly replacing uncertainty.
"Let us do this,"
_________
"Cousin dearest," he began, a mix of gratitude and longing in his voice, "I truly appreciate your help with all of this." The weight of his words hung in the air as you stood on the uneven, rocky ground, the cool evening breeze tousling your hair. His trunk lay nestled beside him. You were a fair distance from his family's estate, deliberately choosing this secluded spot to ensure that none of his father’s watchful employees caught wind of his departure. As you both stood there, waiting for the carriage’s arrival.
"I seriously doubt that, any woman you’ve fancied has never gotten along with me," you scoffed, a teasing glint in your eye, which drew a hearty laugh from him. He recalled a particularly chaotic encounter when a previous dalliance had mistaken your easy camaraderie for flirtation, resulting in a nearly disastrous confrontation. You gave him a knowing look, remembering how you barely managed to pacify the situation before it escalated into something worse, saving her from a rather awkward fate.
"Those women were different," he insisted, his expression softening as he gazed into the distance. "I vow this time—I've truly found her, the girl worth all my trouble." His voice was earnest, brimming with hope, making you sigh in resignation before you allowed a smile to break through. With a playful nudge to his shoulder, you watched him wince dramatically as if your light touch was more than he could bear.
"You’d better treat her right, then," you warned, your tone a blend of sincerity and jest as you tucked your hands into your trouser pockets, grounding yourself in the moment. Just as he opened his mouth to respond, the distant rumble of wheels on cobblestone interrupted, announcing the arrival of his carriage.
"Well..." he began, glancing over at the road where the carriage approached, his charming smile lighting up his face once more as he grabbed his trunk. "Good luck, dearest cousin," he said, wrapping his arms around you in a warm embrace. You melted into the hug, breathing in the familiar scent of him—something like cologne and sweat. His hand gently caressed your back, a gesture that spoke volumes of your closeness, and he pulled away reluctantly.
"Once again, thank you, cousin," he said, the gratitude in his eyes making you roll yours playfully.
"Go now, before I change my mind and tell Uncle on you," you teased, watching his face break into a playful grin as he saluted you, his cheeky demeanor momentarily returning. He made a beeline to the carriage, where the coachman lent him a hand as he climbed inside.
"Goodbye, dearest cousin! I’ll send you plenty of photographs from the wedding, along with glimpses of my beautiful wife!" he shouted, his head poking out of the quarter window as the carriage began to roll away, the sound of its wheels echoing down the path.
You couldn’t help but smile, waving your hand as the carriage faded into the distance. "Take care, cousin dearest. I look forward to it," you called out, as the carriage shrank into a mere silhouette against the setting sun, you tucked your hands deep into your trouser pockets again and turned and began walking back to the Bridgertons’ household, the warmth of the encounter lingering in your heart. At least one of you was stepping into happiness.
________
Your back was turned to the door when you heard the unmistakable creak of Benedict's chamber being opened. You felt no urge to glance behind you already knowing who it was by the heavy, deliberate footsteps. You were far too anxious to face him in fear of him finding out you weren't his son and getting the two of you in much more trouble.
"Tu as déjà fait tes valises, Benedict." His voice cut through the air, frigid and unyielding. Edmund was a man whose presence seemed to drain warmth from any room. Your interactions with him had been minimal, confined to rare family gatherings overshadowed by silence and formality. He was always preoccupied with his work, a fact Benedict often lamented, It was why Benedict sought solace in the arms of others, hungry for the affection his father never provided.
Have you packed out yet, Benedict?
"Oui, papa," you managed to respond, your voice barely above a whisper as anxiety gnawed at your insides. As your nail dug into your finger, you barely registered the sharp sting of pain and the warm bead of blood that formed from pressing so hard. Your gaze was drawn to the window, where rain began to patter softly against the glass, mirroring the turmoil inside you.
"Bien, la calèche est arrivée. La sœur de votre cousine sera là pour votre trajet jusqu'à Londres. Ainsi, je sais que vous ne ferez rien de stupide." His words dripped with disinterest as he said them, the finality of his tone echoing in the small room. With a slight shove, he closed the door behind him, leaving you alone in the dimly lit room. He remained oblivious, convinced that you were indeed Benedict—no inkling of doubt clouded his judgment. It was a striking reflection of how infrequently he interacted with his son. A conflicted wave washed over you, relief that he hadn’t picked up on your act, mixed with frustration at how little he truly knew his own flesh and blood. But you buried those feelings deep, for Benedict’s sake.
Good, the carriage is here, your cousin’s sister will be there for your ride to london so i’ll know that you will not do anything stupid.
_______
You sat cross-legged on the plush seat of the carriage, the rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the cobblestones echoing in the air around you. Beside you, your sister Eloise maintained a pensive silence, her gaze fixed out the window as the landscape blurred by. You couldn't tell if she had pieced together the truth about you, or if she was simply disheartened by Benedict’s actions.
The tension in your chest tightened like a vice as you wrestled with a mix of anxiety and guilt. Eloise had been your steadfast companion, practically raising you through the tumult caused by your brother’s disappearance and your mother’s decline. You could hardly bear the thought of disappointing her, yet here you were, hiding a secret of monumental significance. The weight of the bandage wrapped around your chest constricted more with each passing moment, and you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, the silence pressing down like a heavy fog.
You adjusted your beret, pulling it down further in an attempt to hide your eyes. Maybe if you made yourself smaller, she wouldn’t pick up on anything amiss.
“You’re unusually quiet,” Eloise finally spoke, her soft tone catching you off guard. You jumped slightly at the sound of her voice, and she added with a small chuckle, “And jumpy.” her attempt to lift the tension only serving to make your heart pound harder.
With a quiet sigh of anxiety, you let out a breath; perhaps you were overthinking things—she didn’t suspect a thing, and your mind was just playing tricks on you. You adjusted yourself again and finally found the courage to respond, “I’m just nervous.” The slight tremor in your voice betrayed you. You cursed yourself for not sounding more like Benedict—confident and self-assured, he thrived on making others uneasy rather than being the one who felt uneasy.
“It’s not that bad being a porter,” she reassured you gently, a hint of warmth in her voice. The grimace that spread across your face at her words was involuntary; the real fear lurked behind her obliviousness to your true identity. You pinched the bridge of your nose, a feeble attempt to regain composure.
“Of course you’d say that—you’re the one who suggested it to Uncle, and he’s the one who told Father,” you responded, making an effort to mimic Benedict’s accent, the inflection rolling off your tongue awkwardly. You caught Eloise’s startled expression in your peripheral vision—her surprise at your knowledge flickering across her face before it morphed into confusion, her lips pursing and brow furrowing in thought.
“How did you—” she began, only to pause as realization dawned. As she muttered your name, the air suddenly thick with questions.
Of course, you knew it was her idea that led to this punishment—Benedict becoming a porter boy at Oxford. You had overheard her private conversation with your father that fateful night, her voice earnest and passionate as she pleaded on Benedict’s behalf. You could still visualize the way she grasped your father’s arm, her desperation palpable.
“Papa, you must convince Uncle that kicking Benedict out won’t help the family name,” Eloise had insisted, her eyes wide with determination. Your heart had twisted at the injustice of their discussions—Benedict, a good child caught in the turmoil of childhood mischief, didn’t deserve to be pushed out into the cold.
You had pressed your back against the wall, eavesdropping on their urgent debate. The risk of getting caught paled in comparison to the worry over your cousin’s fate.
“Eloise, this is Benedict and my brother’s issue. I cannot interfere,” Pierre replied, his tone weary but firm.
"She won't be happy with this, Papa, you know her," her voice had cracked slightly, betraying her concern for you as well.
“A porter boy it is. I will do my best to persuade my brother, but there are no guarantees,” your father gave in, the weight of his decision sealing Benedict’s future fate. Relief washed over you then—a porter boy was a reprieve from being cast adrift on the streets without support.
And now here you were, taking Benedict’s place as a porter boy, thrust into this role because he had unexpectedly decided to flee with a woman and marry her—despite having only just met her. Your mind churned with disbelief; love of his life, my arse.
Once again, silence enveloped the carriage, feeling heavier than before. You couldn’t fathom how Eloise remained oblivious to the deception unfolding in front of her. The thought made your stomach twist with unease.
“I’m sorry she couldn’t join us,” Eloise began once more, her voice tinged with melancholy as you felt beads of perspiration form on your brow. You quickly slid open the quarter window curtain, letting in a rush of cool air that brushed against your flushed skin.
"I thought she’d be here for you, given how close you two are... I didn’t even get the chance to speak to her before we left for London. She’s been avoiding me,” she confessed, her fan flapping idly in her hands as a glimmer of sadness crossed her features.
The guilt swelled inside you; she’s right here, Sister, you thought—Benedict was the one who had fled, leaving behind the chaos. You clasped your hands tightly together, leaning forward, the carriage’s movements sending waves of anxiety crashing over you. How long would this ride last? You felt like you might burst, overcome with emotion and secrets threatening to spill from your lips.
You pressed your lips shut, too afraid to utter a word, fearing betrayal would cling to each syllable. A soft sigh escaped Eloise’s lips beside you, but she fell silent once more, and you sat in the suffocating quiet, the unspoken truths hanging heavy between you.
__________
Days slipped by, and at long last, the two of you arrived at the sprawling grounds of the prestigious University of Oxford. The magnificent buildings loomed before you, their grand architecture casting a shadow of awe that made you fully grasp why Benedict was so flustered by his punishment as a porter. This place was vast and filled with an air of dignity, and Benedict, with his towering ego, could hardly bear the thought of being reduced to a mere errand boy amidst such esteemed halls. He would rather roam the streets penniless than endure the humiliation of such a role.
You, on the other hand, were far from an egotistical man—you weren’t even a man. You had come to this respected place in search of clues about your missing brother; The weight of humility didn’t bother you, not bothering you in the slightest. However, your sister, who still remained blissfully unaware of your true identity, does.
The confines of the trains and carriages during your journey had taken a toll on your body, leaving your muscles stiff and your feet itching to be free. The moment the carriage finally came to a halt, you wasted no time, springing out with eagerness and leaving your sister behind. The huff of her exasperation echoed in your ears, prompting you to wince and turn back to assist her. “Sorry, cousin dear, I was itching to get out of there,” you said, your attempt of mimicking Benedict’s accent spilling out rather awkwardly, making her narrow her eyes in question.
“It’s no trouble, Benedict,” she replied, her tone sharp yet laced with concern as she hopped down with your help. She stepped aside, allowing the coachman to retrieve your heavy trunks from the carriage and set them on the ground before he turned to leave. Unease pricked at you as you felt her gaze linger. “Are you feeling alright?” Her voice was filled with worry as she glanced at you. Instinctively, you moved out of her line of sight, only to feel the intensity of her gaze follow you.
“I am well, sist—cousin,” you coughed, hiding the fact that you almost slipped and called her sister. You adjusted your sack coat, feeling yourself sweat under her scrutiny.
“Ah, Mrs. Bridgerton,” a gravelly voice called out, and you sighed inwardly, relieved to be interrupted by a stranger.
“Please, Mister Smudger, it’s only ‘miss’ for I am not married yet,” your sister corrected swiftly, her face brightening as she approached the older gentleman with spectacles that sat atop his nose, a smile gracing her lips as you followed behind her, feeling the awkwardness of the moment dissipate slightly.
While they conversed, the sound of another set of carriages rolling to a stop at the university’s entrance drew your attention. You could hear the low murmur of two men talking even before you caught sight of them.
“Sadly, none of the founding colleges would take you. So—”
"I suppose I'll have to endure the clumsy modernity of 1458 then?" the man near the quarter window quipped. Intrigued, you squinted towards the sound, straining for a glimpse, but your sister’s voice snapped you back to the present as she beckoned you over. As you turned away, the remnants of their conversation faded into the background of the courtyard.
You approached, trying to compose yourself. “Benedict Bridgerton at your service, sire," you said, extending your hand toward Smudger, only for him to place an apron in your palm. You stared at it before looking at him in utter disbelief.
"You're in great hands, Bridgerton," Smudger said, his smile unwavering as he attempted to pat your shoulder, but you instinctively dodged away, resulting in his hand connecting with nothing but empty air. Eliciting a discreet cough from Eloise, who swiftly smacked your arm as punishment for your rejection.
"I have my doubts," you replied, managing to maintain a small, polite smile while ignoring your sister's warning look.
Footsteps approached from behind, and you turned to see a tall figure standing near your sister. "Ah, Smudger," the newcomer greeted with amiable familiarity. Your sister gasped softly, her eyes widening as she recognized him.
"Mr. Holmes," Smudger replied, and instinctively, you stepped aside, tucking your hands behind your back. You had little desire to engage with strangers; your mind was set on settling in and finding answers.
"Sherlock Holmes?" Smudger called, acknowledging a young man standing next to the gentleman with a mustache.
"That’ll be me, sir," Sherlock replied, his demeanor composed as he approached. You noticed how he glanced at you for a brief moment before shifting his gaze away, while the man with the mustache turned to your sister, causing your eyes to narrow in protective suspicion.
"Eloise," the man with the mustache greeted with an air of familiarity, prompting Sherlock's brow to furrow in confusion at the familiarity between them.
"Mycroft, it’s a pleasure to see you here," Eloise answered softly, and upon hearing his name, you felt the flicker of intrigue mix with your protectiveness. "And I see you have brought your.." Her voice trailed off, leaving silence that was broken by Mycroft.
"My brother, Sherlock. Sherlock, meet Eloise... a friend of mine.” The way Mycroft stressed the word “friend” made you squint your eyes at him.
“And who might this young man be?” Mycroft asked, his piercing eyes fixed squarely on you now. The intensity of his stare made you bristle, and you shot him a disapproving look—why did it feel like there was more beneath the surface of this friendship than mere camaraderie between these two? before you shrugged the thought aside happily; you were grinning ear to ear that he didn't even notice off in your disguise while your sister beside you glanced at you in confusion at your sudden shift of mood.
"My cousin—" Eloise began, but you quickly cut her off, thrusting your hand forward to shake Mycroft's eagerly, feeling Eloise’s exasperation cut through the air.
"Benedict Bridgerton," you introduced yourself—or rather your cousin’s, and he grasped your hand firmly. The moment you completed the handshake, you turned to offer the same to Sherlock. “Pleasure to meet you,”
"The pleasure is all mine," Sherlock replied, his British accent smooth. As you withdrew your hand, you felt the lingering gaze of his keen eyes upon you. What’s with him? you thought.
“Ahem, this is yours, sir,” Smudger interrupted, raising an apron toward Sherlock, who stared at th apron as if it were an artifact from a foreign country. Sherlock scrutinized the apron, before glancing back up at the old man in front of him.
“Mmm, come on,” Smudger encouraged, flapping the apron in the air as if it were a prize. Reluctantly, Sherlock took hold of the garment, turning swiftly to converse with his older brother. "Mycroft," he began as he looked at the sky for a moment in disbelief, like it might give him an answer before looking at his brother.
"Yes?" Mycroft answered, his tone light and somewhat amused as he observed his brother's bemusement.
"Why is the head porter proffering an apron?" Sherlock queried, his brow knitting together as he flapped the crisp, blue fabric in the air.
Mycroft merely tilted his head slightly, a playful smirk gracing his lips. “You’re a smart boy. Work it out,” he replied, his tone oozing with a mix of teasing and challenge. You stood beside your sister, sharing a moment of quiet amusement as her wide grin mirrored your own.
“I’m to be a porter, not a student?” Sherlock retorted, a dramatic delight painted across his features. As he held the apron aloft with one hand, he shot his brother a pointed look, as if trying to peer into his older brother's mind.
“Oh, no. You’ve got to work your way up to be a porter,” Smudger interjected, prompting Sherlock to look at Mycroft with another feigned delight. “You’re a scout, you and Bridgerton,” Smudger continued, feigning casual as he engaged in conversation with a random man behind Sherlock.
“A scout?” Sherlock echoed, his voice dripping with mock enthusiasm as he glanced back at Mycroft, searching for a semblance of reassurance.
"A scout? I thought father opted me to be a porter boy?" you interject sharply, your head whipping toward your sister, for clarification. She simply smiled back at you, while the lack of explanation from her left you frowning.
“And what does a scout do?” Sherlock inquired, momentarily breaking his gaze from Mycroft to glance at you.
“Whatever I tell him to do,” Smudger replied with a confident swagger that made you roll your eyes dramatically.
This left Sherlock looking back at his brother with yet another expression of feign thrilled. “I’m here to serve and not to learn?” Mycroft, however, was unfazed, tapping his polished top hat with his cane while a knowing smile danced on his lips.
“Oh, no, no. You’ll learn, all right,” Smudger chimed, his voice dripping with condescension as he leaned in behind Sherlock and nudged his elbow lightly, hat tucked snugly into his coat. Sherlock shot him a sideways glance.
“Come along, boys, the shitters aren’t going to clean themselves, are they?”His condescending tone made you and Sherlock exchange exasperated glances, your expressions reflecting a shared disbelief, before both eyes darted back toward your own siblings, who seemed to be enjoying the spectacle far too much.
“Mycroft?” Sherlock called plaintively, the disbelief evident in his voice, and Mycroft turned away, turning toward your sister with arm outstretched to her.
"Eloise," you chimed in, the thought of scrubbing a filthy toilet making your skin crawl. No wonder Benedict had been so eager to escape. God, he probably doesn’t even know, you thought bitterly, scowling at the absurdity of the situation.
“Bon appétit, hmm?” Mycroft quipped, a cryptic grin plastered on his face. You weren’t sure if that remark was aimed at you or his brother besides you, which only elevated the stink eye you shot him in return. His only response was a bemused tip of his hat as he escorted your sister toward his carriage.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock called after him again, an incredulous tone lingering in his voice.
“Eloise, father will hear about this!” you shouted, annoyance creeping into your words as you watched your sister—cousin—who simply waved her hand as Mycroft guided her away. What in the bloody hell? You could sense that she was keeping things with Mycroft, and that realization only fueled your discontent.
Behind you, Smudger cleared his throat obnoxiously behind you, drawing your attention back as Sherlock stared at Mycroft's retreating figure.
With a forced act of delight, Sherlock turned to the head porter and said, “The shitters, Sir?” and you felt a mental groan rise up at the ridiculousness of it all.
It's really so sad that even deep inside, pretty much on the brink of death, Sherlock doesn't realise how much Mycroft would cry.
Can you guys fucking imagine tho? If Sherlock really died? His brother would probably blame himself for it, no matter the cause of Sherlock's death. Like I'm so glad they actually planned Reichenbach together cuz man wouldn't have survived those 3 years before Sherlock came back.
Mycroft was literally ready to die for him! He was concerned for him from day 1 and it's just really sad that Sherlock couldn't see it.
