Summary: The reader has just exited an abusive relationship and is now being stalked. Your friend Mycroft has lost his temper with your ex.
You had made it very clear that your relationship with [ex’s name] was over. And even when he continued to persist and beg for you to get back together, you figured that realization would sink in if you just left him alone.
Well, it had been four months since the breakup, and it seems things had only gotten worse.
Aggressive sticky notes with cute thumb-tacks on your door had turned into threats stabbed up against your door with a kitchen knife.
The potted plants that you kept on your windowsill had been shattered mercilessly, the blood from his hands still strewn over your driveway amongst the broke ceramic.
Messages to every single one of your social media accounts. You gave up trying to block him; he’d come back with a new account every time.
“Mycroft, what if the news gets a hold of it?” You’d taken to confiding in the only half-friend you had. “I can’t let the press figure out I have a stalker.”
“Certainly not,” He added, “A fundamental female member of a Government being hunted down by a misunderstood ex-boyfriend . . . The press would butcher you.”
“Thanks for the encouragement,” You sighed sarcastically, leaning over Mycroft’s coffee table, observing the draft for a bill that was scheduled to be put on the Parliament floor in a few days. Beside it was the ways that you and Mycroft could try and prevent it from passing.
“I could make him disappear at your word,”
“Mycroft, problems can’t just be solved like that!” You insisted, looking up from the bill draft in shock.
“Well, I beg to differ but alright.” Said the British Government, “I’m just telling you that I can call Anthea right now and I promise you will never hear from the man again.” Somehow, the death-threatening retained the trademark poshness and civility of his voice.
“He hasn’t hurt me yet, it’s just empty threats.” You settled him down, “And frankly, the press catching wind of my ex’s murder certainly wouldn’t be a good look for me.”
“As you wish,” Mycroft complied, “Now, we have a Brexit deal to stop.”
“[Ex ] [Ex Middle Name] [Ex Surname].” The man spun around with a shriek; if there was one thing he didn’t want to hear when he was standing alone in the centre of an abandoned warehouse, it was his full name echoing ambiently through the shadows from a voice he did not know. “You live on 3100 Cornelius Street, and you live alone. Both of your parents are dead, and you do not have a significant other because you are too caught up with one [y/n] [s/n].”
“Who the hell are you?” [Ex] screamed. He’d expected to see you waiting for him here with an apology and a kiss. His text from you had offered him a location, a time, and a kiss emoji; it didn’t explain the strange male voice from the dark corners of the lonely warehouse.
What he did not know was that the text was sent from [y/n]’s cyber-savvy friend called Anthea, who had taken the liberty of hacking into her iCloud to invite their target out to this place.
“However, digging deeper, I finally understand why you cling so closely to her.” The voice continued, “You think because she’s a part of the federal government, it will save you from the mounting tax evasion charges that I now have against you? You really are stupid.”
“Who. Are. you?” [Ex] repeated, his voice trembling and raising octaves at a time. Mycroft Holmes revealed himself, the hollowed click of his umbrella a steady, haunting tapping that surrounded the warehouse.
“I am someone who is very. . . concerned about [Y/n].”
“Are you their boyfriend?”
“My relationship with them doesn’t matter.” Mycroft took a few daring steps towards the quivering man. “All you need to know is that given a proper reason, I can make you disappear.”
Mycroft never yelled; when he was angry, the politeness would disappear from his voice, and in its place, there would be a cold and frighteningly low note of warning. That was what [ex] was hearing now.
He opened his mouth to try and offer a defence; to futile try and convince Mycroft that he was anything but a snivelling, conniving coward.
“Don’t reply,” Mycroft flicked the top of his umbrella off with a nonchalant movement of his wrist, a rapier sword pressing right up against [ex]’s rapidly palpitating chest. “Just look frightening and scuttle.”
“To another job well done,” Mycroft raised his glass, clicking it against yours and watching the television with a congratulatory smirk and he tipped the flute back. Both of you had gathered at his home to celebrate the recent deal that you had successfully prevented (to both of your benefits.) And frankly, that easily permitted champagne and those little store-bought cakes.
“Yeah, really good job Mycroft.” You cheered, your grin not faltering a bit. “Though before we both get hopelessly drunk, I have one question.”
“Anything, dear.”
“[Ex],” You mentioned casually, sipping some of your champagne. “I can’t help but notice that it’s been four days since I’ve heard from him.”
“Well, he must have finally got the message.”
“You’re not even good at hiding it,” You chuckled, “Hmm, did he get a chat from you or from Anthea?”
“I felt obligated to,” A smirk cracked across his face, “The man was evading taxes. You know I simply cannot tolerate such behaviour.”
A/N: If anybody caught the Brexit deal reference, applause to you. I really want a political drama w/ Mycroft (like House of Cards-style except it’s the Parliament) because I’m a huge political nerd and I would binge-watch that show like I binge-watch the news.
