#mycroft x reader

[its-me-em28]

[callmefirefly]

So I’ve just finished Young Sherlock (which is 100% my new hyperfixation) and I really, really need some x reader fics that revolve around these three. Sherlock, Moriarty, Mycroft… I’ll take all of them to be honest

[multifandomdiva]

Sudden hostility

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x fem!reader

Summary: You can't quite understand Mycroft's newfound hostility toward you.

Warnings: Mycroft being a misogynistic prick.

Word count: 1,941

Author's note: I fear this is more about Mycroft than Sherlock... but, oh well. Also, props to anyone who can find the slight hunger games reference

Masterlist

When Sherlock suggested courtship, you hesitated. You weren’t sure why—you absolutely adored him and had thought of being courted by him before—but something didn’t sit right. You accepted despite that, assuring yourself it was silly nervousness. The feeling disappeared during those first few weeks of courting.

That is, until Sherlock and you were invited out by Mycroft. At the restaurant, things were cordial so long as Mycroft was engaged by the various patrons he intentionally associated himself with for their social connections.

Then the entrée arrived, and things became tense.

“I don’t expect you to understand the nuances of politics,” Mycroft said to you, dabbing politely at his mouth and mustache, “as anyone in your standing ought to be more concerned about the household. However, I do believe even your opinion is valid on the subject of these upstart ‘women’s rights’ proponents.”

You stared at him, unsure you had heard correctly. He had never insulted you before—and never so directly. Sherlock exchanged a glance with you as you fought to find words. “I suppose that women deserve some say, given that they make up half the population. Their needs matter, too.”

“What would you ever need outside a home?” Mycroft snorted and sipped from his champagne flute.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock warned.

You placed a hand on Sherlock’s sleeve. “Perhaps I should return home.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft mumbled into his glass. “It is your domain.”

You fought hot tears as you rode in the hansom back to your family home. You had known the Holmes brothers for years, and not once had Mycroft ever been hostile or oppositional to you. He had sometimes chafed against your ideas, but sparring over ideologies was different than direct ad hominem attacks.

“Mycroft was inebriated,” Sherlock explained as he walked you to the door.

You knew that wasn’t true. If anything, Mycroft had barely been tipsy. You appreciated Sherlock’s effort, however, and rewarded him with a soft kiss on his lips before entering your family home and crying quietly in your bedroom.

You convinced yourself that Mycroft perhaps had been feeling poorly or combative due to problems in his political life, but all hope of that was dashed when you saw him again and he flung a few choice snide remarks in your direction. Appalled to be treated so unusually by someone you had once considered a friend, you withdrew into yourself, distancing yourself from him.

That seemed only to incentivize him to attack you more savagely each time he saw you.

“Enola will be there,” Sherlock assured you as he helped you into your coat.

“That’s good,” you mumbled. Anxiety coursed through you at being in Mycroft’s presence once again. Dinner was being held at his home, and only family, including you, were expected. Without the safety of a public outing — one where a public spectacle would tarnish Mycroft’s reputation — you were sure to be subjugated to even more ridicule than usual.

You refused to ask Sherlock to keep his brother in check. The last thing you wanted was to cause unnecessary strife between the brothers.

So you straightened your shoulders and proceeded to the dinner in faux high spirits.

Seeing Enola did brighten your evening at first, at least. She was full of brilliant energy that dazzled you whenever you saw her. For someone so young, she was vibrant and overwhelmingly intelligent. You expected nothing less from a Holmes, though she did seem the smartest of the three.

She eased the tension between you and Holmes brothers merely by virtue of being herself. The conversation momentarily turned somber when she brought it to the subject of their absent mother, a topic that easily engaged Mycroft’s displeasure, but it wasn’t long before Mycroft turned his sights on you.

“Perhaps you have some illustrious insights into our mother’s fickle nature,” he began.

“I couldn’t say,” you answered.

“No? Surely you two are similar birds of a feather.”

A frown tugged at your mouth. “In what way?”

“You being a female of the species…with your fickle natures. You chose at your own whims and with complete disregard for any other’s consequence.”

Before you could answer, Enola leaned forward, her young face furrowing. “Excuse me?”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“No? But I’m a ‘female of the species’.”

“Hardly,” he scoffed, and he swept a sharp glance over her, tutting at her less-than-ladylike appearance.

“You can’t talk to her that way!” you scold Mycroft, despite yourself.

“I can talk to her in any way I deem fit! I am the man of this house.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.

“I’m sorry, can the lady’s fragile constitution not withstand truth?” Mycroft looked at you pointedly.

The muscle in your jaw jumped as you clenched your teeth, your hand tight around your fork. You couldn’t tell if you were going to scream at him or burst into tears, your whole body vibrating with emotion.

“What is your problem?” Enola cried.

“I am merely highlighting the problems inherent in the women of this era—”

Enola slammed her knife into the table, making the glassware rattle. Mycroft stared at her in horror.

“That is imported!”

You pushed yourself away from the table with a mumbled excuse. Hastening from the room, you stopped in the entryway to the house, trembling.

Sherlock’s distinctive tread approached you. Steeling yourself, you tried to put on at the very least a neutral, unaffected expression.

“I apologise for his behaviour,” he said.

Shaking your head, you stared down at the lush carpet runner lining the length of the hallway. “I don’t understand. Why is he so… changed?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Have you asked him?” the question slipped out before you could stop it. “No, don’t do that. I don’t want to cause any more harm.”

“Harm? You’ve done nothing.” his hand moves to rest against your cheek, thumb rubbing against your cheekbone as if to sooth you.

“Clearly I’ve done something.” finally you look up at him, the tiredness evident in your eyes.

“He’s jealous of you and Sherlock,” Enola called from down the hallway.

You stilled. Jealousy? Why hadn’t that occurred to you?

The pieces clicked into place. Of course he was jealous. Mycroft had been the one you were closer to as children, always together, running about in the gardens and spending endless days in the kitchens together. He may not have possessed his younger brother’s nerve to court you — not yet, at least — but he had to have been planning on it, surely. That much you gleaned from a quick catalog of your memories leading up to Sherlock’s overtures. Now that he was no longer a viable candidate, overshadowed yet again by his younger brother, he was lashing out.

You pressed a hand to your mouth. “Sherlock…”

“It isn’t your concern nor your fault,” he answered immediately. “Mycroft will have to adjust, or I will resolve the issue.”

“I don’t want to be the source of—”

“He is acting like a child,” Sherlock looked at you pointedly, holding your chin in his soft grip, “and therefore he is deserving of punishment.”

Enola snorted down the hall.

“But Sherlock…”

“He insulted you. Greater men require less to defend a lady’s honor.”

Passing a hand delicately over your face, you sighed. “This isn’t what I wanted.”

“What’s a little enmity between siblings? Enola and Mycroft already don’t get along.”

“That’s right,” Enola agreed.

“Another sibling shouldn’t be too catastrophic to him.”

“Alright,” you whispered. “But- may I speak with him first?”

“Absolutely.” Sherlock answers reluctantly.

Slowly you re-enter the dining room, careful not to disturb the quiet that has now blanketed the room, emphasised with the soft crackle of burning logs in the fireplace. Mycroft still sits in his chair — the head of the table, the head of the household — yet his body is slumped, the weight of his own thoughts crushing him beneath them. He hasn't heard your steps nor seen your shadow approaching from behind him.

“Would you have done it?” At the sound of your voice Mycroft’s body goes taught and straight, as if a string has just been pulled from his head, like a marionette. He doesn’t turn.

“Done what?” he snaps back.

“If Sherlock hadn’t done so first, would you have asked that we courted each other?”

His head turns at that.

“Yes.”

With that one simple word you are reminded of the hesitation you first felt when Sherlock asked you, all those months ago — of the weary feeling. It was for Mycroft. You two had always been the close ones, your entire childhoods were spent together. Sherlock was always the ‘odd-one-out’ for lack of a better word, while you and Mycroft spent your days in the park, he was hauled up in his room pouring over old cases of newspaper clippings. You had no idea when one was traded for the other, when Mycroft became Sherlock — maybe when Mycroft began spending more time at the library than in the park or when Sherlock realised the importance of things other than solving a case.

“Then-” it seems awful even to ask it, but you do, “Then why didn't you?”

“Because-” he now stands, “because I never stood a chance!”

“A chance against what?” you ask incredulously, “There was never anything in your way!”

“Your father-”

“My father? That is absolutely ridiculous, my father has loved you since you were in diapers — if anything, it is Sherlock he has something against!”

“There were other men who-”

“How dare you insinuate that of me?” Now it was becoming clear, Mycroft never had any intention of admitting he was late purely of his own fault, “That I entertain the minds of every man I meet? I never even had a caller before Sherlock!”

“If you'd have just waited…” he whispers.

“Waited?” you blood boils at the audacity, and you stride up to him, “How many more days…? How many more months…? How many more years? Were twenty two not enough for you?” your voice softens, taking pity on the solemn face he now wears, “He asked me properly, there were no other prospects.”

The words seem to anger him as his face shifts, and he finally looks at you, “No, he’s my brother, the entitled bastard gets everything, why should he get you?”

“Because for once I was finally being looked at. Because he didn't demand that I make a fool out of myself for his attention. Because I finally had a chance to silence the voices calling me a future spinstress, and for once I decided to be selfish. Because for once I was finally being seen and I liked who he saw. Because I love him!” you all but shout it at him, surprising even yourself at the confession. The tension in the room settles in the silence and when it seems Mycroft has nothing left to say, you turn to leave.

“What about- me?”

Your feet stop beneath you, “No.” a whisper, as he takes slow steps towards you. His body is warm against your back as he leans in, reaching a hand up to stroke your cheek, you recoil away from the touch

“No, you're- you're being mean—”

“I love you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Would you have waited, had you known I was there waiting for you?”

Your confidence overtakes you, “Would you have spared me from the demeaning insults you deem necessary to pellet me with? Or would I have had to find out later, when I had no escape, just what kind of man your emotions mold you into?”

The room grows silent without any rebuttal from Mycroft, unable to configure a pitying response. Slowly you nod, taking the absence of an answer as confirmation.

[marvelwitchergilmore]

In Name Only

Summary: Mycroft Holmes x fe!Reader -> When Mycroft asked you to marry him, he thought it would be in name only. However, as time goes on, the lines between being your friend and being your husband seem to blur.

Disclaimer: Mostly fluff, friends to lovers, domesticity, brother's best friend/best friend's brother, one bed trope, hurt/comfort, Mycroft gets wounded, talks about children, marriage of convenience, happy endings.

When Mycroft asked you, one of Sherlock’s only and oldest friends, to be his wife, he thought it would be in name alone. 

He needed a stable foundation to secure his place in the Foreign Office and, on many occasions, he had heard you say that you needed security away from your family and the older you got the less likely that seemed. 

The ceremony, although slightly shocking, was quick and efficient. Simple vows exchanged, nothing too personal. And nine months later, no child was born. Whether strictly business or love, it wasn’t socially unacceptable. 

“Are you still awake?” Entering his study, you took a look at your husband. He should have gone to bed hours ago. 

Confused, Mycroft looked to the mantle clock and realised the time. “Oh sh…”

With a tired smile, you stepped inside and stood by his side. You felt him relax under your touch. 

“What are you working on?”

Mycroft leaned back. “It’s…not important.”

“You’re still awake at two in the morning. It must hold some consequence.”

He sighed, “It’s for Sherlock. He…needs my help.”

“Legal?”

“More so than the last time.”

You smiled, leaning down to wrap your arms around his shoulders. 

Since you had known the Holmes brothers, Mycroft had always looked out for Sherlock. Even if it meant giving him gray hairs before he was thirty. 

“Think it can wait long enough for you to get some rest?”

He sighed, pushing the papers forward in order to stand from his chair. “I don’t see why not.”

Snuffing out the candles, you took Mycroft by his hand and gently dragged him to bed. 

It wasn’t until a year into your marriage that you both started to share a bed. Nothing other than sleeping, and the odd cuddle, occurred. But it was nice. 

It was nice to know you both had someone.

In the beginning, it had been only a little less than awkward. Maybe if you hadn’t known each other for so long beforehand, it would have been easier. Maybe. 

But, one night when you’d both finally gotten home from saving Sherlock’s neck once again, you’d collapsed onto the master bed. Mycroft had landed beside you and asked you to stay. 

After spending the last three days searching for one family member, he didn’t like the thought of being separated from another, even if just for the night. 

From then on, it just…stuck. 

You both already talked and dined together. Once a week, you’d both go out and have lunch or dinner at a tea shop or restaurant. You were already a friend of the family before marriage so there was no bad blood. 

Sherlock did seem…off for a while when the engagement was announced. But, after a few weeks, he came around to the idea. 

Sharing a bed, just to sleep, didn’t seem too big of a stretch. 

“I’m meant to see Lestrade today,” Mycroft told you when you’d both finally woken up. 

Rubbing your eye, you turned your head to look at your husband. Mycroft had a strange ability to look devilishly handsome, even in the morning.

“And?”

“I have a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach…”

“Sherlock?”

Mycroft nodded. “I do worry about him.”

Reaching up, you laid a gentle hand on the side of his face. “He’s your brother. And, he does often find himself in precarious situations.”

“But if he’s on Lestrade’s radar…”

You rubbed your eye, again. “Then…hope for the best. Prepare for the worst.”

Mycroft nodded. “You’re right.”

“I know.”

“Are you alright?”

You rubbed your eye for a third time. “I think there’s something in my eye.”

“Let me see.”

Leaning closer, Mycroft gently brushed his thumb under your eye. “There’s an eyelash. Hold steady.”

“Ow.”

“That didn’t hurt.”

“It’s not your eye.”

“Stay still…there.” Mycroft leaned up a little. “Better?”

“Much. Thank you.”

Mycroft smiled, his own hand resting on your face gently. His eyes traced over your own, before he felt his breath catch in his chest for a moment. 

Just as his eyes dropped to your lips and started to wonder the same thing he’d been wondering for weeks – what would it be like to kiss you? – there was a knock on the bedroom door. 

Like most mornings, you both put distance between yourselves and went about your day. You met him at the bottom of the stairs before he left for work, fixed his tie and kissed his cheek. 

The entire way to work was spent with thoughts of you. Even on your wedding day, you didn’t share a kiss. A pillar candle inside the room had fallen from the table when the officiant stepped back, distracting both yourselves and everyone else from the final piece of your marriage agreement. 

The kiss. 

Mycroft couldn’t lie to himself; though you were his wife, you were his friend. And he was yours. Although no verbal agreement had been made, there was an unspoken understanding that the marriage was strictly business. If either one of you were to fall in love with someone else, it would have to be kept secret until you could both find the least messiest way out of the marriage. 

But that was three years ago. 

Since then, you’d saved both his and Sherlock’s neck countless times. He’d been there for you, even when you tried to push everyone away. You had made sure he took care of himself, in the time he forgot he was human. He had made sure to take care of you, even when you said you could do it yourself. 

“I hate to pester but when am I going to get grandchildren?” Cordelia asked you. 

You and Mycroft exchanged a glance before he took the lead of the conversation. Every Sunday, you both took a trip to Appleton Manor to visit Cordelia. And, every Sunday, the conversation always landed near or around the topic of children. 

It was unusual to be married three years and not have a child. Most couples you both knew were on their third child by now. 

“I know you both said you’re waiting for the right time, but Mycroft. You’re more than secure at your job, and Y/n…children-”

Reaching out, you held her hand. “I know. I know. But…we’re just taking our time, right Mycroft?”

He nodded with a reassuring smile. “Yes, dear.”

Mycroft couldn’t lie to himself. He did often find himself wondering what it would be like to have children, especially with you. But, again, you were friends. Marriage in name, alone. 

You couldn’t lie to yourself, either. You had found yourself thinking what it would be like to actually have children, especially with Mycroft. You were an only child, growing up. Sherlock had become not only a friend, but a brother of sorts, when you were kids. 

And Cordelia wasn’t the only mother-in-law asking for grandchildren. Your mother had been waiting longer than three years to see you married with children. 

The thought both excited and terrified you at the same time. Because, for as much as you were married, yourself and Mycroft had never…crossed that line. With all technicalities, you hadn’t even kissed each other. 

By that logic, children were…a long shot in the dark. 

“Well, whenever you decide to have children, there is an empty room at the top of the hall for a nursery.”

Yourself and Mycroft smiled at Cordelia before you both realised what she had said. 

“Let me show you.”

Less than five minutes later, yourself and Mycroft were opening the door to an old bedroom. It was the nursery Mycroft had stayed in as a baby. After Bea grew up, the nursery became a collection room for old trinkets and sheets. 

Except, as you both stood looking inside, it was…freshly painted. 

The cot had a fresh coat of wood-stain and wax, the mattress was new, as were the sheets and curtains. Old wooden toys had been refurbished to look like new. 

It was…perfect. 

“O-Of course, I would expect your mother would want to be close, too, whilst you were recovering. And London is no place to recover in peace. But I understand if-”

You were on the brink of tears. “Cordelia, this is…”

“Mother, this is truely…”

“I’m lost for words.”

“You can just say if this was a bad idea-”

You shook your head, quickly. “No. No, no, no. Of course, not. No. I just…it’s a lot to take in. Thank you, Cordelia.”

“Yes, mother. Thank you.”

“You both like it?”

You nodded. “It’s wonderful.”

Cordelia took a breath. “Oh, thank goodness. Of course, nothing has to happen now. But, I wanted you to both know that there is a place here, for all of you, always.”

The carriage ride back home was quiet. Filled to the brims with a silence that was almost suffocating.

“So…”

“So…”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “We never broached the topic of children, did we?”

“No…we didn’t.”

“Do you, rather, I guess, would you– would you like– to– unless there’s someone– I suppose, unless you have someone else—”

Reaching out, you took his hand. “Mycroft.”

Almost selfishly, it eased you to know that he was dealing with the issue as well as you. Awkwardly, whilst trying to remain normal.

“Please tell me you know what I’m trying to say.”

A small chuckle left you. “I think I do.”

“Dear lord,” Mycroft lifted a hand to his brow. “One would think this kind of conversation would be easier.”

“Yes, I suppose so. If one wasn’t married only in name.”

“Plenty of couples are only married in name, surly.”

You nodded. “But how many are just friends? Friends who might want children?”

“I don’t know. I don’t…know.”

Mycroft laid his head back and looked at you. 

“How about we take this one step at a time?”

“I think we’ve skipped the first few.”

You nodded. “And maybe that is something we have to retrace before we…commit to children.”

“You’re right.”

“I know.”

Mycroft smiled, squeezing your hand. “Retrace. One step at a time?”

You nodded. “I think I can agree to that.”

Despite everything seemingly going back to normal, there was a fresh awkwardness around yourself and Mycroft. Some conversations would die away, others simply would start off too awkwardly for either one of you to stick around long enough.

However, it would only take a few weeks for all of that to change forever. 

First, there was a government gala where one particular member of parliament decided that you were to be his date, electing to ignore the fact you were someone else’s wife. 

It wasn’t the first time you had heard Mycroft call you his wife, but it was the first time it seemed to truly mean something more than just a name coming from his lips. 

Then Sherlock found himself in a spot of danger, which just so happened to pull you into that spot, too. Thankfully, you were unharmed, but Mycroft wasn’t so lucky. 

With a slash across his jacket, a heavy log of wood thrown to bash his rib cage and a grazing bullet left him with: a smattering of scars across his back, a growing purple bruise across his side and chest, and a burn-like scar. 

“I really do think you should see a doctor, Mycroft.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

You looked across his bare back and chest with sadness. Despite the new scars, you couldn’t help but let your fingers trace over healed ones. They were miniscule in comparison, and decades old. 

“I’m okay,” Mycroft said, his voice gentle. “Look at me?”

With a gentle finger, he pushed your chin up until you looked him in the eyes. 

“I’m okay,” he repeated. 

“You’re still bleeding.”

“All that matters to me, is that you are alive and well.”

“At what cost?”

“A couple of scars that will heal.” 

Reaching up, you went to lay a hand on his arm where you usually would. Only, there was now a fresh scar. 

“It’s okay,” Mycroft quickly took your hand, kissed it, and held it close to his chest. “It’s okay.”

Taking a deep breath, you tried to still your tears. 

“Don’t cry, darling.” Mycroft held you closer, wiping away the falling tears. 

“When I heard the shot…Mycroft…I thought…”

“I know. I know. For a moment, I did, too. But everything’s okay. We’re both safe.”

Reaching up, you wrapped your arms over Mycroft’s shoulders and neck, being careful to not disturb his clean wound. Meanwhile, his own arms wrapped around your waist securely. 

The final push came a few days later. 

Until then, your days had been filled with soft and quiet moments that you shared with Mycroft. You kept his wounds clean and made sure they were healing, eventually he told you where the other scars came from. 

Most were from being a child – climbing trees, rolling down twig-covered hills, and the like. But a few – only a few – were from more…serious incidents. 

“My father got angry one evening. I don’t even remember what it was over, but I got in the way. I know he didn’t mean it but…”

Leaning down, carefully, you placed a single kiss against the scar. 

“You’re not your father, Mycroft. You’re not him.”

That night, you held each other until you fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. But that wasn’t the case a few nights later. 

“Can’t sleep?”

Mycroft looked over at you from his space on the sofa, “What? Oh, sorry. No, I guess not.”

With a tired smile, you closed the door behind you and took a seat beside him. On instinct, he lifted his arm and held you by his side. 

“How are your wounds?”

“A little sore, but healing thanks to you.”

“Good.” Looking up at him, he seemed…pensive. “Mycroft? What are you thinking about?”

Suddenly, he turned to you. “We’re married, yes?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

“We’re husband and wife.”

You nodded, again. “That’s usually what happens when people get married.”

“Do you think of me as your husband?”

You chuckled, nervously. “Why are you asking?” Then your stomach dropped. “Mycroft-” You sat up. “Have you…” You tried to steady your voice. “Have you found someone?”

Mycroft sat up, too. “No. I just…I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking a lot, actually, and…I think- no. I know…I want to be married. Specifically, to you.”

“We already are.”

“Not just in name,” he quickly added. 

“Oh.” 

You fell quiet as you looked at him. He was waiting for a response, but your reaction told him that your brain had come to a halt. 

“It’s not just because of these last few days. Well, I suppose it gave me the push I needed but...I don’t want to pressure you into anything. I just– and this isn’t about being intimate…I’d like for us to try and be more than just friends.” Mycroft took a strained breath. “I’m really hoping I haven’t read into things wrongly, or made assumptions–”

“No. You haven’t. I just…”

The longer you looked at Mycroft, the more you wanted to invent a time machine to go back to when he first offered to marry you, and hit yourself over the head. Entering into a contractual marriage with the one guy you’d secretly been crushing on, from afar, probably wasn’t the best premise to avoid catching feelings for your husband. 

Mycroft’s breathing seemed strained. Like he was secretly wishing to turn back time, himself. 

But for the wrong reasons. 

Because he wasn’t wrong. 

He didn't make assumptions. 

For as long as he had been thinking about your marriage being more than you both agreed, you’d been thinking about it a lot longer. 

Mycroft seemed confused, and a little concerned, when you reached for him. Unable to think of what to say, your mind landed on one simple thing that could express what you were trying to find the words to say. 

Simply, you kissed him. 

It was a little awkward, at first. Uncertain, testing, searching. After a moment, Mycroft finally moved. 

His hand came to hold your face, gently, as he deepened the kiss a little. Leaning forward, pressing a little harder, your mouth parted just a little. 

With a slight of hand, it wasn’t long before you found yourself straddled across your husband’s lap. 

It wasn’t the first time you’d been dressed in a nightgown and dressing robe in front of Mycroft, but it was the first time he had touched you. Just small and sensitive touches – a skimming of his palm over your clothing, the tender cupping of his hand, a squeeze of your hip. 

A small noise came from the back of your throat as he seemed to shift a little under you. 

“Is-is everything alright?”

Trying to catch your breath, you nodded. “Yes. It’s just…new.”

Mycroft swallowed. “We should probably slow down.”

“Probably,” you agreed, your fingers gently tracing his jaw line. 

It was the logical thing to do. After all, it was past midnight and, despite his injuries, Mycroft was well enough to travel. You’d both promised Cordelia you would go and see her. 

But there was something in his kiss that felt…magnetic. Pulling away from his kiss was harder than leaning closer and kissing him, again. 

So, you did exactly that. 

Not that either of you were complaining. 

Being married for three years granted you both more than a little leeway in terms of intimacy. 

And Cordelia certainly noticed the change in both of you when you arrived at Appleton Manor two hours later than scheduled. 

“We got caught in…traffic! Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Traffic. There were so many carriages in the city this weekend. It was ram-packed.”

Cordelia smiled. “Mycroft, darling, perhaps you could fetch me my shawl. It’s just in the drawing room.”

“Of course, mother. I’ll be right back.”

The second Mycroft disappeared, Cordelia took you by your arm. “You two are terrible liars. But, I’ll forgive you. I suppose nearly dying gives you both a second lease on life. And a second honeymoon.”

“Cordelia!”

“Oh, please. Before Silas turned out to be a raging psychopath, we were the same. When we were a lot younger. But, I won’t embarrass you further. I just wanted to say…it rather suits you. Being in love. Showing it.”

In your head, nothing had really gone any differently. But, perhaps, there was an atmosphere. Less secret looks, more open ones. A few more noticeable, lingering touches. 

Before you knew it, things were changing. Even more so than they already had.

[rosalieisonline]

this is an entirely self-indulgent smut-filled atrocity that i can only pray to god never gets linked back to me after i saw mycroft tell that guy to "turn around" with that gentle tone of voice and now im losing my mind hes all i can think about. anywho please like or comment if you enjoy it makes my whole day,

cw: dom/sub undertones, ys!mycroft and his bratty wife that bullies him, mycroft being a soft dom because that goddamn scene in the finale has made itself a home in my brain like a parasitical worm, cunnilingus (fem receiving), PinV, mustache mentions because apparently thats a thing im ok with, young sherlock mycroft in all his max irons glory, not proofread we die like silas, mdni go do your homework please

"My dear husband," she smiled warmly as she waltzed into the room, "Here you are yet again, overworking yourself."

"And here you are distracting me," he tried to sound annoyed but he could not push down the smile that graced his handsome face. "As you so often do."

She settled herself atop his desk, skillfully untying her dressing gown and discarding it on the mahogany. "I would not have to stoop to such lows if you would not neglect me," she countered swiftly.

"Neglect you?" Mycroft let out a small laugh, standing in front of where she was perched on his desk and leering over her, "Would you call the lovely morning I gave you neglect?"

"Given the fact that it ended, and I have spent nearly an entire day without your touch, I would argue yes very much so- oh-"

She was interrupted by his lips on her neck, his mustache scraping against the soft skin. "You would argue about anything," he murmured in between kisses.

"Perhaps," she exhaled contentedly, leaning her head back to allow him more access. "But it is late, we should get to bed, sir. We can quarrel there."

"Perhaps," he mimicked, "Or perhaps you will stay here and do as you are told for once, yes?"

"Hmm…" she pondered for a moment, "Perh-"

He kissed her, his hands twisting around her waist and pulling her to his chest, "Have I ever told you how peculiarly difficult you are?" he grumbled against her mouth as he pushed her soft chemise up her legs.

"You have mentioned it, yes," she gasped softly as he pushed the fabric up over her hips and spread her thighs open. "But when you say so in these circumstances it leads me to believe you quite enjoy it."

"Is that so?" he tugged her to the edge of the desk and pushed his thigh between hers. "What leads you to that conclusion?"

"Perhaps it is just conjecture dear, but you seem rather eager," she was quick enough with her hands to palm the arousal through his trousers, but she was quickly grabbed by the wrist and forced away.

"Behave yourself, won't you?" he implored with his usual warning tone.

She giggled, pulling at his tie until it unraveled and did the same with his waistcoat, discarding it onto his chair. "And where is the fun in that Mr. Holmes?"

"You always do this," he observed, "But you fall apart so easily. It is as if you enjoy being tamed." He pulled her closer, so her cunt was pressed tight against his thigh as he rocked her hips slightly. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she bit down on her lip slightly. "See?" he gloated quietly down at her, pulling her lip out from under her teeth. "Just as I predicted, dearest."

She only pushed herself up on her hands and kissed him again, his hand cupping her face while the other journeyed up to her breast. She moaned into his mouth, eliciting a pleased sound from his working lips as they ventured down her neck. She was once again able to get four buttons of his shirt undone before he pulled her hand away, placing a gentle kiss to her palm before setting it back on the desk. He pushed her chemise down just enough to cover her

"Stay," he commanded gently. She whined, but did as she was bid. He smiled, "Very good."

She sighed petulantly as he pulled away, pulling out the drawer of his desk and taking the keys from them. He quickly made his way to the oak door and locked it, checking the handle to be certain before returning to her. "There we are," he put the keys back in their rightful place and gathered his many papers into one neat stack, tucking them away in a drawer.

"Could you go any slower, darling?" she grumbled.

"Should you like me to?" he smiled.

"No!"

He chuckled and dusted off the desk before taking her dressing gown from behind her and folding it.

"What are you doing?" she demanded impatiently.

"Ensuring your comfort, flower," he manhandled her till she was laying back longways on the newly cleared desk, her hips propped up on her folded nightwear.

"Oh," she flushed as she pushed herself up on her forearms, "Well, I suppose that is reasonable."

"We are of one mind then," Mycroft leaned in beside her, pressing a soft kiss to her lips before resuming his efforts on her décolletage, trailing his tongue up her neck before returning to her mouth hungrily.

She whimpered into him, her back arching off the desk as his hand trailed down her stomach and to her cunt, pressing his palm against it over the dampening fabric of her chemise.

"Mmph, love you," she mumbled, her hand gripping softly onto the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Oh, how I love you, my darling," he stroked her hair, kissing her forehead as his hand caressed the inside of her thigh. "My beautiful, lovely wife."

He kissed down her collar until his lips met her clothed nipple, running his tongue over the fabric before doing the same to her other breast. He pulled away and stood at his full height once again before rounding the desk and settling on his knees between her legs. He pulled her so her hips were nearly hanging off of the wood and worked the chemise up above her navel. For a moment he marveled at her glistening before him, placing his thumb on the swollen bud.

She whimpered something filthy, bucking her hips up towards him while simultaneously closing her thighs on instinct. Her attempt was futile, as it only prompted him to take them over his shoulders and lean in, replacing his thumb with his mouth.

"Gods above, My," her cheeks tinted pink, "You're perfect."

He smiled against her clit, and teased at her hole with his fingers. His mustache brushed against the hair on her pelvis as he flicked his tongue over her. He gave the bud a soft kiss before sucking it into his mouth, pushing two fingers inside her cunt and lapping eagerly at the arousal that flowed there.

She writhed on the desk, her thighs closing around his head. His free hand snaked up her stomach until it found her breasts, pinching her nipples softly. He only stopped when her whimpers became so frequent that he knew she was getting dangerously near coating his tongue. This would be perfectly fine had he not planned on having her fall apart on his cock.

He stood, leaning over her to kiss her, letting her taste herself on his tongue. His chin was slick with her essence and his mouth quirked into a grin at the sight of her flushed and panting under him.

"There you are," he teased, pressing his clothed cock against her soaked cunt. "Rather eager for me, aren't you, dear?" He echoed her phrase from mere minutes prior.

She could not muster up the energy to do anything besides nod up at him, batting her lashes and hoping that he would have mercy upon her.

"Up you get, dearest," he instructed, smiling as she stared at him in response. "Come now," he helped her up, her feet hitting the ground as she stood on shaking legs. "There, there. That's a good girl."

She whined at the praise, a slight furrow in her brow as she looked up at him.

"Ah, no whinging now, dear," he scolded lightly before twirling his finger in the air, "Turn around," he said, his voice was gentle but held promise of consequence should it not be obeyed.

Thinking better of defying him, she did as she was told, and finally he came up behind her and removed her crumpled chemise, letting it fall to the floor. "Much better," he smiled, cupping her breasts in his hands and squeezing lightly. "Lay over the desk now, spread your legs. Let me see."

Even as he gave the order, he pushed her down onto it, bending her over and propping her hips up on her dressing gown, presenting her nicely for him.

She only heard the sound of him unbuttoning his trousers, before she felt his length pressed against her cunt.

"Please," she whimpered, purposefully sounding as pitiful as possible in the hopes that he would hurry up.

"I know, dearest," he said soothingly, running his hand over her spine as he teased the blunt head of his cock against her cunt . "Deep breath, sweetheart."

"Mycroft!" she gasped as he pushed inside her finally, moaning into her ear as he wrapped an arm around her waist, hoisting her up high enough he could get rub his fingers over her clit once again. "Oh- please-"

"What? What is it?" his other hand gripped her jaw as he muttered into her hair. "Words please, darling."

"Just-" she whimpered, her eyes teary and her mouth slack, "Please- more, please…"

He thrust into her gently, pistoning his hips as slow as he could muster "Like this, darling."

"More," she begged, "More, please. Harder. Please. I'll be good, I promise-"

"So polite now," he beamed, dropping her jaw and heeding her request, "I knew you had it in you. That's a good girl."

The praise made her sob, her hands trembling around the edges of the mahogany grain as he gripped her hips hard, fucking into her the way he knew she wanted .

"You love it so much when I praise you," he panted down at her, "I wonder as to why you insist on my forcing your submission as opposed to giving it willingly. It is not sound reasoning, darling."

If she was not being fucked stupid, she would have rolled her eyes. Yet as it was, she barely registered his observations over her own moans and the sound of their skin meeting.

He simply laughed to himself as he pushed her hair out of her face, where it had fallen into her open mouth. "You are such a beautiful mess, Mrs. Holmes."

He kissed the junction of her shoulder and her neck, grunting softly against her skin with each thrust. It did not take long for her whining to become incessant, and he smiled against her shoulder.

"You are near, yes? My sweet wife?" he cooed down at her, her glassy eyes barely blinking up at him where her face rested on the desk. She sincerely hoped she had nodded, because she was unsure her brain was functioning well enough to send signals to her muscles.

"Good girl," he praised her, petting her hair, "Go on then, show me, dearest."

With only a few more passes of his fingers, she squealed and convulsed on his desk, moaning his name much louder than she would have hoped to. Still, she could not bring herself to mind when she could hear him whimper against the side of her head, filling her only seconds after her own release.

They stayed like that for what seemed like minutes, until he finally gathered her up and settled back into his chair, wrapping her up in her dressing gown.

"Now, what was all that about?" he teased, touching the tip of her nose with his finger

She made an indignant noise. "Me?" she retorted, "That, sir, was completely your doing!"

"Oh, you certainly started it," he beamed, kissing her temple, "Marching in my office and perching atop my desk."

"Is a woman not allowed to visit her husband? Besides it is nearly ten in the evening!"

"Oh yes, you can certainly visit," Mycroft replied, "But you came to seduce me, there is no doubt on that front."

"To get you into bed," she countered, her fingers toying with the buttons on his shirt, "It was a noble cause."

"I am sure," he took her hand from his chest and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist, "You never answered my question."

"What question?"

"Why must you challenge me when you truly wish for me to win?" he combed through her hair with his fingers.

"I do no such thing."

He only laughed.

[fixalice]

Where are the young Sherlock fanfics at

[tyvolio-lantern]

FAVOURITE | mycroft holmes x reader

SYNOPSIS : Needing Sherlock's help is just an excuse to tease your favourite Holmes.

WORD COUNT : 382

A/N : Just a little drabble I wrote because this stupid man won't leave my brain folds. Enjoy.

‎‎‎‎‎By the forty minute mark, your boredom entirely consumes you. You make your way around the familiar office, searching for anything to occupy you. A forgotten chess game, a battered deck of cards, even a ledger with visitors you had seen and signed a million times.

You settle on overanalysing the photographs and paintings in the absence of a partner to play with. Most you've seen on your visits. Some are new, their frames lacking dust. Time stretches onward as you go through each one; there's still no sign of the man you're expecting.

As you crane your neck for an ocean landscape, the door opens.

Mycroft Holmes is rooted at sight of you.

"To what do I owe the pleasure," he lowers his hat, ever the gentleman.

With a smile that is dangerously close to being a smirk, you cross the room to greet him. He tenderly grasps the hand you extend. Your eyes never leave his as he places a kiss on the back of your palm.

Now you can't help the smirk.

"I am here because I need Mr. Holmes," you say. The spot he kissed tickles.

"Well, how may I be—"

"Not you, I'm afraid." To ease the sting, you step closer and place a hand on his shoulder. His eyes follow it.

Mycroft swallows audibly.

"My brother," he sighs at last. "What did he do now?"

"Unfortunately, it is I that find myself in a predicament. And he's got quite the reputation for solving those, doesn't he?"

Mycroft exhales. For someone who supposedly deals with delicate situations at work, the ins-and-outs of polite chatter, and swerving the conversation in whichever direction he likes, he sure does seem to hide his emotions terribly.

Or perhaps, it's because of you that he is so expressive.

Your hand travels up to cup his cheek, feeling it's warmth seep into you. While your situation is urgent, you can't help the excuse to take a detour. The man is practically begging you to leave him senseless.

"Don't worry, Mycroft," you whisper, now so dangerously close that you can feel the exact moment his breath hitches. "You'll always be my favourite."

And if later Sherlock asks why his brother's lips are swollen, it's not your responsibility to answer for him, now is it?

[ma-belle-evangeline]

Guess whose brithday is it???

lovely! I blame Max lrons and his dashing looks for my crush!My idea was: Mycroft is in love with yn, and wanted to marry her since FOREVER....but her family don't have any Money (and we all know how important money is for Papa Holmes,ugh!), so he pulled back on his plans until he secured a good position in his work. So,When he's fired he starts to freak out, and even Sherlock is worried ,because he never saw his brother like that, and he admits that he wants a secure position so he can propose to her. With a happy ending of course(she's the only one other than her sons to visit their mother),what do you think?Sorry about my english, it's not my frst language

A Draper’s Daughter

Pairing: Mycroft Holmes x f!reader

Word count: 4.6k

Summary: can the unfortunate events that plague the Holmes family lead to a happier ending?

Warnings: mentions of prison, a beaten/bloody face.

Masterlist

Notes: thank u 4 the request, i hope you somewhat enjoy it. It took me way too long to write this :P Any feedback is appreciated. Do not be afraid to inform me about mistakes or inaccuracies! Request are open.

—————————————————————

With her hands occupied by a woven basket and the sun shining brightly in her eyes y/n scurried down the street, her heeled shoes clacking against the cobble stone. What caught her eye was not the beautiful fabrics of a lady's dress or how her dress was sewn but rather what was behind her.

Sherlock.

She blinked once—twice—and diverged from her path to inspect the poster. After crossing the street she finally was able to read what it said: Murder & Larceny. 100£ Reward.

His face, it was either beaten or bloody—or both. She could feel her heart beating vigorously against her chest, palms beginning to sweat.

What on Earth has happened?

Y/n lowered the basket and pried the poster off the wall, her fingers running over Sherlock's photograph. Brows furrowed she inspected the poster again: scout, nineteen years of age, his height, the color of his eyes, his complexion—

Her breath began to pick up, eyes welling up; quickly placing the paper in the basket she snacked it up and began to walk towards her father’s shop, pace much faster than before.

In a matter of moments she reached her destination and swung the front door open— bell chiming.

“Papa?” her voice carried through the shop. “Papa, did you see? Sherlock got himself arrested again.”

No verbal answer was heard, only rustling from the back of the shop.

“What?” her father replied, voice muffled by distance.

She placed the basket on the counter, quickly taking the poster out, and ventured on to find her father.

“Sherlock,” she began and swung the door open. “Sherlock, he is arrested,” y/n extended the piece of paper to her father.

Spectacles on his nose and hunched over a sketch of a dress, he accepted it. She saw him read it over multiple times, hand upon his chin—contemplating.

She patiently waited, eyes open wide and breath slightly erratic.

“Papa?” she whispered. “Did you know?”

He shook his head; she sat down beside him.

“Do you think Cordelia knows?” her voice small and very soft, as if they were engaging in a hearsay.

“I do not know,” her father answered, matching her tone. “Mr. Holmes…” he looked at her, it was hard to read just one expression on his face—confussion, fear, nervousness.

“Young Mr. Mycroft Holmes must be the one to inform his mother, I suppose,” he answered after some time.

She released a shuttering breath and nodded. “I wonder how he fares,” she thought out loud, taking the poster from her father.

He leaned back into the chair with arms crossed and hummed.

“What will happen to him?” she inquired again. Her father did not have an answer.

He was a tailor, just as his wife was and just as his daughter. He owned a draper shop, he knew nothing of laws and prisons.

“Has Mycroft come by?” she spoke again, intently watching her father. He shook his head; she exhaled.

The Holmes’ and y/l/n’s met on an uneventful day—roughly six years ago—when his mother strode into their shop. She was accompanied by a twenty year-old Mycroft and fourteen year-old Sherlock. Y/n was only a couple of years older than Sherlock but they never did get on as well as she and Mycroft had.

At the time, her family did not know that this was a rare stroll through Oxford for the family, they were not familiar with Cordelia’s ailments.

But she strode in—bell ringing—with the widest eyes and the brightest smile, and inquired about the dress in the shop’s window. Y/n’s mother obliged the lady and even commissioned a few more dresses for Mrs. Holmes.

Y/n stood a little further away, simple work clothes and plaited hair, she was observing her mother, learning how to talk and act with clients.

“She is rather in a good mood today,” she heard Mycroft say.

“Wouldn’t everyone be when they are about to be three dresses richer?” she asked him jovially.

He huffed a laugh and she smiled.

“I certainly wouldn’t—I do not wear dresses,” the last part he said in a whisper, only for her ears alone.

That drew a laugh out of her and a smile from him.

Unfortunately, their conversation was cut short by the need of additional assistance—to take Mrs. Holmes measurements.

Mycroft kept returning to the shop with new instructions from his mother; sometimes he would buy fabrics from the shop, sometimes he would stride in with a roll of fabric under his arm.

They often exchanged pleasantries, discussing small conversation topics; Mycroft revealed he was an articled clerk at the Humson’s Firm and going on his fourth year of Law Apprenticeship.

“Well, one more year to go and you will be a free man,” she joked to him once, hands folding the fabric he brought in, noting where the seam should be.

He only gave her a tight smile. “No man is truly free.”

She raised her eyes to him and slowly nodded. “Maybe, but one can certainly try,” it was a sad attempt at reassurance. Y/n did not know much of how men lived their lives or how encaged they felt. She only knew of her own experiences and that she was getting older and older with no significant prospects or suitors.

“We certainly can,” he answered her softly. Mycroft's eyes carefully observing her, paying close attention to her fingers; that made her blush.

It was the first time she saw Mr. Mycroft Holmes as something more than a regular customer or a family acquaintance. He looked handsome, hair neatly combed, suit ironed… and god he was tall, she never noticed that before. Well, of course, she did, she had to crane her neck up to look or talk to him… she just never pondered over it much—

“I suppose he will not have much time now,” her father finally spoke, bringing the memories to a halt.

“Mhm,” she agreed. “Mycroft will do something,” she murmured. “He did get Sherlock's previous sentence shortened,” y/n wondered out loud.

She heard her fathers humming agreement.

“Should we do something?” her voice wavered.

“Petal, there is nothing we can do for those boys,” her father’s response was simple and truthful.

Mycroft worked for Her Majesty's Foreign Office, he was the most powerful man she knew. Most of her and her father’s friends and acquaintances were other drapers, bakers, maids, coachmen and such. Both y/n and her father stayed in touch with her mother’s friends, even years after her death. But none of them came close to Mr. Mycroft Holmes.

They were a small circle of acquaintances and all of them were working-class; there was nothing they could do at all.

A bell rang in the shop, and with one final exchange of glances with her father, she stood and retreated into the front of the shop.

********************************************

Mycroft’s long strides quickly carried him through the city under the night sky. The tapping of the cane against the cobblestone was a constant companion, an instrument helping Mycroft concentrate.

Tap.

Sherlock angered him; Mycroft provided every opportunity to excel and still he ended up in jail, again.

Tap.

Because of him Mycroft’s position at Her Majesty’s Foreign Offices was greatly compromised. Job, no job, job again, compromised job position. It seemed as if it would be a never ending cycle.

Tap.

No steady income equals a disappointed father. An absent and disappointed father.

Mycroft sighed. His thoughts wandering to y/n…the first time they met he felt drawn to her, he even openly jested with her. Mycroft was not a man who jested, he was steady and serious, and dependable. But he would jest and banter just to hear her laugh.

Tap.

Insufficient funds.

He took a deep breath. The building where his apartment was located appeared before him.

Tap.

Y/n had no dowry or funds, or anything of that matter, really.

Tap.

According to his father not an adequate wife for my son.

Tap.

This time his cane met the ground with more fury.

Tap.

He hefted the cane and ascended the few stairs that lead into the building. Quickly opening the front door he entered it, the stairs in front of him carried him to his floor.

Tap.

She must be worried, he has not been to the shop in quite some time; he has not contacted either y/n or her father.

Mycroft halted before the doors to his apartment, muffled voices were heard inside. He sighed and opened the door.

“No feet on the sofa, Sherlock,” he loudly called out and the murmuring stopped.

“They are not on the sofa, brother dear,” he heard Sherlock respond from the other room.

“I can hear you shuffling off of the couch, brother dear,” Mycroft replied, taking off his hat and coat, leaving them on the dresser near the entrance.

He was met first by James, that did not surprise him, his brother hauled Moriarty everywhere he went these days.

The both men exchanged polite greetings and Mycroft took a seat on the said sofa.

“You look awful, brother dear,” he heard Sherlock declare. With a turn of his head, his brother entered Mycroft’s view.

“Yes, well, my brother decided to create a mess big enough to cause a ruckus that echoed to London, costing me my job,” he said sternly.

“What?” Sherlock straightened up.

“You got the boot?” he heard James butt in. Mycroft glared at the both of them.

“There are plenty of other jobs,” his brother quickly offered.

“It does not matter anymore,” Mycroft sighed, leaning the back of his head on the top of the backrest; cushioned and comfortable, something he has not felt in days. Mycroft loosened his tie, unbuttoned a few of the buttons and placed his palms upon his thighs.

“What happened,” Moriarty spoke again.

“I lost my position at the—”

“Yes, we know. I am sorry Mycroft, but no man I’ve met acted like this,”—Moriarty nodded to Mycroft—“after he lost his job.”

“The job was a very good job,” Mycroft gave him a pointed look. In return James raised his hands in defence.

“What is it?” he heard his brother speak again. That, also, earned him a pointed look. And his brother smiled, a cheeky expression on his face, “Ahhh.”

“What? What am I missing?” James interjected.

“He,” Sherlock pointed at Mycroft. “My dear brother, is saving up a fortune to marry a woman,” he continued to speak; light humour laced his voice and the blooming smile confirmed Sherlock’s jestering.

Mycroft glared again. Moriarty laughed.

“I did not know this was happening, tell me more,” James laughed breathlessly, placing his elbows atop his thighs.

“There is nothing to tell,” Mycroft cut off his brother who was opening his mouth to speak.

Moriarty laughed again. “I think there is a lot to tell.”

Sherlock straightened from his slouched position and matched James’ disposition; elbows atop his thighs.

“I’ve only uncovered this a few days ago myself, apparently—”

Mycroft stopped him sternly, “There is no need, brother dear.”

Sherlock retread, raising hands in defeat and threw James a devious grin, but quickly proceeded to speak the truth for all to hear.

“Our mother’s favourite draper,”—Sherlock pointed at his borther—“has captured brother dear’s heart. Draper equals no money, no money bad, Mycroft make enough money to fill her dowry for her,” Sherlock explained mockingly and James rejoiced in that.

“You are the worst,” Mycroft said as he stood up and inched towards the hall. “Get out of my home.” Of course, he did not mean it and his brother knew that, but he was vexing Mycroft and that did nothing but add to his worries and anxiousness.

“We will,” James answered for Sherlock. “We have a lead.”

Halfway out of the drawing room Mycroft turned to look at the two younger men. “Go chase it then.”

“Aye,” Moriarty spoke again, clapped his hands and stood up. “Thank you for your hospitality, until next time,” he mockingly bowed and rushed past Mycroft out of the room. Sherlock followed suit but lingered near Mycroft for a moment.

“Do not waste more time, brother dear, steady income can wait… the girl might not,” and with that his brother followed after is friend.

Alone in his home Mycroft thought much about what his brother told him. Mycroft was steady, he had a steady income, he periodically visited his mother, sometimes accompanied by y/n, he had a schedule and kept to it like it was a religious matter.

Material things, they do not rush, they stay put and linger; humans are in constant movement. He should start moving… take the first step, the biggest step… to her—and with her.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaustion settling deep within him—his body aching for sleep—tommorow he will endeavour.

Tomorrow he will be brave.

And for tonight he has much to ponder about.

********************************************

For quite some time no members of the Holmes family came by the shop; no Cordelia with Mycroft and, definitely, no Sherlock.

For Sherlock has become involved in devious business neither y/n or her father could fully comprehend.

And it was strange not having Mycroft around; often, during these past six years, he would come by the shop several times a week. Whether that be for business, sent by his mother, or to spend time with y/n and, of course, her father.

During his apprentice years, he would come by to have lunch with them or would invite them for a stroll or lunch. Usually, her father politely declined Mycroft’s invites and let y/n go on without him.

Y/n always guessed it was because he did not want to leave the shop unattended for longer than it should be, to spend his money on two mouths in a dinner rather than one. It was a financial decision, rather than a social one.

But Mycroft, the gentleman that he was, always paid for her, and for her father when occasionally he joined.

When they were younger Mycroft often initiated such outings; ice cream parlour on a Tuesday, a stroll through a park on a Thursday. Sometimes, both of their lives were engulfed by work—the influx in dresses during the social season and the rising stack of case files on Mycroft’s desk.

But there has never been such a long stretch of time where she or her father were absent from the Holmes’.

Y/n tsked as the needle poked the pad of her finger, instinctively enveloping it between her lips to catch the blood. A sharp pain pulsed but she tasted no blood.

Somebody behind her cleared their throat and with a quick twist of her body y/n turned in her chair and was met by a tall handsome gentleman.

“Y/n,” Mycroft nodded to her as a small smile crept in on his face. “Lunch?” he enquired her humorously.

“Hmh?” then the realisation dawned and she quickly drew the hand away from her face, her lips releasing the finger. Abruptly she stood up, chair scratching the floor, and hurried towards Mycroft.

“Hello,” she spoke breathlessly, from the expression on her face he could read many emotions: confusion, fear, uncertainty, and happiness—that he was here in her shop, in front of her, alive and well

With a tilt of her head she racked her brain, it would be improper to hug him but it felt very appropriate at the moment. She wanted to comfort him, to show him that he was not alone.

She huffed and opened her arms to embrace Mycroft, “I have heard what happened, I am so terribly sorry, Mycroft.” Her cheek pressed against his stern chest, lips mumbling these miniscule words of encouragement into his buttoned shirt. Her hands wrapped around his middles and squeezed him tight, like her mother used to; Mycroft did the same.

“Thank you,” she heard him whisper while his hands enveloped her. It was very improper—for a gentleman and a working-class woman to be seen in such circumstances, it would have tainted her image forever.

“Sorry,” y/n mumbled as she stepped back. “That was…” she cleared her throat and continued to stare at him; his face contained a soft smile and slightly reddened cheeks, he took off his hat and began to speak.

“All is alright.”

“I don’t know what that was.”

The both of them spoke at the same time and awkwardness ensued. He again began to open up his mouth, most likely to assure y/n that her actions were not offensive, but she spoke first.

“A glass of water?” her tone was higher than usual—nervousness.

He nodded.

She scurried to the back of the shop and heard Mycroft follow her. Y/n drew a chair out for him, indicating for Mycroft to sit, and continued towards her target.

It took y/n a couple of moments to find a clean glass, she would never serve Mycroft anything unfit for a gentleman of his standing. With one hand holding the glass and the other holding the pitcher, she turned towards the table. Setting the items atop it. She sat down next to him.

“How is Sherlock?”

She watched him place the hat on the table, fill the glass and take a sip. His throat bobbing, a strand of hair falling over his forehead; she wanted to fix the flyaway but she decided against it.

Mycroft nodded, placing the glass back on the surface of the table, and looked at her.

“He is not in prison anymore.” His voice was strained, as if he was not sleeping for a fortnight, not eating or drinking, as well.

Her heartbeat picked up and she took a deep breath. “Not hurt?”

“Not hurt.”

A deep exile of the breath in her lungs echoed through the quiet room. “And you?”

Now it was his turn to take a deep breath, he leaned back—resting against the back of the wooden chair. “I do not have a job, y/n.”

Her back strained and her hand shot up towards him, enveloping his palm in hers. His voice, that was the strangest thing, was exceptionally calm. Mycroft’s face did not betray anything more than that.

He always worked so hard, such long hours; the darkened spots under his eyes were a testament of that. Both she and her father thought Mycroft a man of profession, one of those that would rather marry his job than a woman. Apparently, they were wrong, he did not look like he cared much about the job. “I…I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Her thumb caressed the top of his hand; she saw his eyes wander downwards upon their interlocked hands.

Mycroft took a deep breath and raised his eyes to look upon her. “Do not worry yourself of such matters.”

He tried to bring her comfort during his own hour of need, she thought. That made her pulse quicken, made her heart ache for him. Of course, this could never grow bigger than what was happening in the back of the shop. She was a draper's daughter, he was a son of a successful merchant and businessman. But she would take this, she would take the small moments, the smiles and laughs, and would nurture them until her ability to remember would abandon her body. For now, his big hand in hers was enough.

“I always worry, you know that,” she answered him, voice slightly strained.

“You do,” his own voice was barely above a whisper. He was enduring some sort of grandiose emotions, y/n thought. Mycroft never showed this side of him, even when work piled and piled atop his desk or his mother’s health worsened; always poised and stoic, that was Mycroft.

This man sitting in front of her was a different version; different from the man she began to silently fall for and lean on. He spoke again.

“I had plans,” his voice wavered and he took his hand away from her, looking to the side. “To work, attain a respectable and stable job, to earn money—a fortune,” he laughed breathlessly under his nose, then faced her again.

The look upon his face broke her, it was like seeing a man robbed of faith and belief. Mycroft looked desperate, the dark spots under his eyes worsened his disposition. “I had plans, y/n,” he whispered. It sounded almost akin to a plea.

“You can find another job, you have time,” y/n began to encourage him again. She did not know much about his professional life, but she assumed it would be easier for him to find a job than her if their positions were reversed. A scratch of the wooden chair legs against the floor brought her out of her thoughts, halting her wandering mind.

Mycroft paced, hands on his hips and head hung low. His hair hovered over the furrowed brow, “There isn’t time.”

Now his voice was stern, agitated.

Confusion rose within her; with a deep breath she tried to calm herself but the thought of him angry because of something she said was disbalancing her.

She sat silently—obiedently—hands on her lap, fingers playing with the fabric of her work apron.

He continued to pace, mumbling under his breath—

“This is not how I envisioned this,” he finally spoke louder, enough for y/n to hear. She saw him looking at her, his hand running down his face stopping at his neck.

“Never like this,” he repeated himself, a quiet admission.

She rose now and approached him—slowly. “I am sure you will figure this out, Mycroft. This is not the end of the world—”

“But it is,” he quickly cut her off. “It is. The end of my world.”

“You are feeling the nerves,” she continued, hands stretching out to touch him, to try to ground him; he stepped away.

“No,” he quickly replied with his hands raised. “Not nerves,” his voice wavered. She noticed the wetness in his eyes and her heart stung. She never imagined she would see such an image before her. Y/n opened and closed her mouth, she wanted to comfort him, to say something encouraging but nothing came to her mind. He spoke for the both of them.

“I have been feeling so much for the past six years,” he placed a hand over his chest—his heart. “And feeling so much joy… with you and because of you.”

His voice was gentle now, body showed signs of anxiousness; cheeks and top of his ears were maroon.

“Do you understand?” he added, voice so soft and delicate.

She shook her head, brow furrowed. “You…feel pressure because of your work?” she tried to understand him; he only shook his head. She saw a soundless no come out of his mouth.

“No,” he repeated, voice still very quiet. “Six years we have known each other," Mycroft continued; she nodded.

“Not once have I—during those years—had my eye upon a woman…” his voice wavered. Not like before, she noticed. This was not desperation, this was fear. She took a step closer, mind racing trying to catch up to what he was trying to say.

She tilted her head to the side, a quizzical look upon her face.

“No woman has captured my attention…not like you have,” Mycroft said. With a breathy exhale he lowered his hand from his chest and looked at the floor, head hanging low—he was avoiding her gaze.

Her own breath faltered at the admission. She had reigned in her feelings for Mycroft, tried to stifle them because they were an abstraction in her daily life—an impossibility. She noticed his stares and lingering fingers. She often wondered if those walks and lunches were more than nothing, but she never allowed herself to think much about that. Mostly, y/n though she was imagining things, that her mind romanticised each interaction and warped her image of reality.

She understood now, how wrong she was.

Six years, he said. Six years they have known each other and during all that time he had some sort of romantic feeling for her.

Y/n herself did not harbour such feelings for Mycrofts for that long. Two or three years.

That shook y/n; that a man such as Mycroft Holmes could fancy a draper's daughter. That statement disbalanced and maimed her, because she never thought it could be true; only in her fantasies and only on good days.

“Oh.”

A simple breathy sound is all she could have muster to produce at the moment. His head rose, eyes lingerie on her face; Mycroft cleared his throat.

“Just that?” he asked confused, tone betrayed the hurt he was feeling.

“I-I… am not sure,” she shook her head and stumbled back towards the chair. He must have thought she was in shock, unable to hold herself straight, for he quickly reached for her, hands on her elbows. They were close once more.

“You need not say anything,” Mycroft whispered, his gaze set intently upon her face, drifting from her eyes to her lips and back to her eyes.

Her heart beat so fast she thought it would burst, sweat began to collect on her skin making her clothes stick to her. Her fingers wrapped around his biceps and both of them had a tight hold of each other.

His breath was erratic and short; she took deep breaths, slowly exhaling the air.

“What?” she finally spoke, confusion laced her voice just as it did her face. She must have sounded like a scared child, she thought. She felt like one.

He shook his head and bit his lip, hands holding steadily on to her; Mycroft inhaled and exhaled. “I have… I harbor enormous feelings for you,” he whispered.

All y/n could manage is to nod her head as she felt her own tears beginning to collect.

“I’m not very good at this,” he quickly added, voice lighter; she huffed at that, a smile appearing on her lips.

“No you aren’t,” she added, eyes bright and the skin around them crinkling from smiling.

“I struggle—to speak out when it is needed the most. I am not a brave man, y/n… but I would love to be brave for you—with you,” Mycroft added quickly.

Y/n laughed as her smile widened and tears were now streaming down her cheeks. “You would?”

“If you let me,” he added, his own lips formed a smile. He licked his lips to rid them of the salty tears, she noticed.

“If you want—” she began but Mycroft interjected.

“Yes. More than anything. I want you,” he laughed breathlessly, leaning his forehead atop hers. With both of their eyes closed they still kept a tight grip on each other.

She nodded and he did the same. He dipped his head lower and planted a soft kiss upon her cheek. Mycroft’s hands slid from her elbows and came to rest on her hips.

Their teary eyes met and breaths echoed in the empty room.

“Marry me?” he whispered. His voice, she noticed, for the first time during their conversation was full of hope, opening up his heart and embracing the possibility of affection. He sounded happy and contempt; he looked like the bravest man she’d ever seen, y/n thought.

“Yes,” she choked out a laugh through the happy tears, head bobbing up and down vicariously. He laughed with her.

“I have no ring,” he added humorously.

“There is no need,” she huffed happily.

“I will commission one, to your liking and taste,” he added delightfully as his hands began to caress her torso. “One of a kind, just for you.”

“Okay,” she whispered and raised her hand to cup his cheek while the other still held tight on to his arm.

—————————————————————

Draper – a person who makes/sells clothes.

Articled clerk – a person training to be a lawyer.