#bbc mycroft fanfic

[reallyunluckyrunaway]

Please SOMEBODY make it happen!!!!

[sarcasstic-jpmvr]

TECHNICALLY the only thing that’s canon is ACD Sherlock Holmes

The rest are just fanworks

EURUS ISN’T REAL

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom

Obstinately Pig-headed

Sherlock knows it’s the worst he can say to her, but he can’t help himself.

“You are just as obstinate as your father.”

“Am not!” Rosie Watson yells and stomps her feet.

“I beg to differ,” the consulting detective mutters.

“Sherlock,” his brother warns him.

The three of them are in Mycroft’s office of all places. Sherlock is still baffled about how his brother has embraced the uncle title Rosie has bestowed on him. He spoils her rotten with knowledge, presence, and gifts. The girl adores him, but to Sherlock’s utter relief, she still prefers him to comfort her, to confide in, to share secrets with.

“You are her Papa, remember.”

John’s voice fills Sherlock’s mind as if he was present in the room.

“Rosamund, come here.”

Mycroft’s voice is soft and patient. Sherlock remembers that tone from his own childhood. His heart aches and a lump form in his throat. He knows how much this means to Rosie, and he acknowledges that it will be wise to let his brother take the lead.

The girl approaches her uncle who has taken a seat on the sofa. He reaches out for her, and she willingly takes a place in his lap. The lump in Sherlock’s throat grows, and he blinks furiously.

“Do you think Sherlock was a virtuoso on the violin from the day my father placed it in his hands?” Mycroft asks his niece.

“No,” she answers petulantly, which brings a smile to the brother’s faces.

“Correct. He spent hours and hours making mistakes.”

A scoff from Sherlock makes Mycroft look up with an irritated look. Rosie smirks at him, her face completely changed now.

“Stop talking about me like that in front of my daughter, Mycroft,” Sherlock snaps, but they’re all aware that there’s no sting to his chastisement.

“That being said, I do appreciate your need for independence, but sometimes we are all in need of assistance,” Mycroft says. 

“Even you?” Rosie asks curiously.

Both brothers chuckle, and the eldest discloses that he too needs help occasionally.

***

“How did the rehearsal go, dear?” Mrs Hudson asks when they return to Baker Street.

“Difficult. I didn’t want any help, but Uncle Mycroft said that even Papa had made mistakes as a boy,” Rosie informs her Nana.

“Did he now?” 

Martha Hudson looks at Sherlock with questioning eyes, but he reassures her that everything is fine. They just need some minor adjustments before the big event.

“Practise makes perfect, you know,” the elderly lady tells her goddaughter.

A perfect sherlockian eyeroll is Rosie’s reply.

“Just don’t tell Daddy. It’s a surprise.”

“I heard you the first fifty times, dear,” Mrs Hudson replies. “I’m not senile.”

“Alright, ladies, that’s enough bickering for now,” Sherlock says amused. 

“Let’s head upstairs to call Daddy before bed.”

Rosie’s face lights up at this prospect and waves goodbye to her Nana, before hurrying up the stairs.

***

“Hello, my darlings,” John greets them from his hotel room in Edinburgh.

“Hello, John,” Sherlock says, eagerly taking in his beloved’s face.

“Hi, Daddy!” Rosie exclaims.

Sherlock squeezes her leg in warning. Her small hand pats his in acknowledgment.

“I know, Papa. I won’t spill our secret.”

They talk for the few minutes John is available, which is far too few in Sherlock’s opinion.

“I’ll call you later,” John promises, the love in his eyes evident.

Sherlock nods, unable to find his voice.

“Bye, Daddy. See you soon.”

“Sleep tight, sweetheart. I’ll be home tomorrow evening, alright.”

She leaves for the bathroom, and Sherlock exchanges words of love and longing with John.

“I miss you,” he tells John in a low voice.

“Me too, love. So much,” John whispers. “Talk to you in a couple of hours, yeah.”

“Please,” Sherlock chokes out, biting his bottom lip hard, and taking deep breathes.

“God, I hate seeing you like this,” John replies.

“Papa, can you help me?” Rosie calls from down the hall.

“Perfect timing,” Sherlock smiles, not wanting John to feel guilty about being far away from them.

“I love you,” John says. “Give her a goodnight kiss from me.”

“I will. Love you more,” Sherlock murmurs, and reluctantly ends the video call.

***

A week later, they’re all dressed to the nines, rings have been exchanged, vows have been made, tears have been shed, kisses have been bestowed in abundance, and it’s time for the big reveal.

“Are you ready, Rosamund Watson-Holmes?” Mycroft asks.

Sherlock’s eyes sting painfully, and he must use all his willpower to stay collected.

“I am. The last rehearsal went well enough, but it wasn’t perfect. That’s a good sign Nana says,” she answers.

She’s wearing a light green dress, white shoes, and in her hand is her piccolo flute.

“Papa?” she inquires, looking up at Sherlock with a confidence he wishes he’d had at her age.

“Ready. Let’s surprise Daddy with our duet. And remember what I said, don’t be surprised if he cries. Most likely, they will all cry,” he says calmly.

“I know. Sentiment,” she huffs and rolls her eyes.

A chuckle from Mycroft, makes Sherlock’s lips lift in a tiny smile.

“You are a terrible influence, brother mine,” he says fondly.

“So it seems,” Mycroft concurs and squeezes his brother’s shoulder.

***

It ended like this: The tiny stage was softly lit when Sherlock and his precious girl entered, both carrying their instruments, a murmur of surprise filling the room. Rosie didn’t need help with anything, and the duet was a tremendous success.

“How do you know that?” Rosie whispered in Sherlock’s ear when he crouched down beside her, reassuring her of that particular fact.

“Because even your uncle cried,” he whispered back.

“Oh. Do you think he want help to find some tissues?” Rosie asked seriously.

“Best not. Despite how eager he is to help others, he rarely accepts to be helped himself,” Sherlock said.

“Just like you, then,” Rosie said and smiled mischievously at him, and then John was there to hug them both.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

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[lilmoonbunny]

Denial; Mycroft Holmes

Mycroft only seeked you out to deduce you (aka, how Mycroft realised he liked you).

John and Sherlock were, without a doubt, the loudest neighbours that Y/N had ever had.

Gunshots at God only knows what hour, constant stabbing, banging, and so on. Despite this, she still considered them dear friends and the best neighbours that she had ever had. Sure, they were weird and loud, but they were also kind and genuine, at least for the most part. Alongside this, they also appreciated her baking, especially after long cases.

A gentle knock sounded on the door the 221B catching the attention of three people.

“You can come in, Y/N,” Sherlock called from behind the door, greeting the woman with a nod before turning his attention back to Mycroft whilst John smiled at her.

“Hi, Sherly. Hi, John.” She smiled at the two friends before turning to the older Holmes brother. “Hi, Mr Holmes.” Y/N greeted him with a smile. Although she hadn’t met him before, it wasn’t difficult to deduce who he was; the expensive suit and the fact Sherlock was glaring at him gave it away.

“Sherly?” Mycroft spat, grimacing at the nickname given to his brother. “Who on Earth would you let call you that?” He asked.

“This is Y/N, our neighbour. What have you brought for us today? I’ve been looking forward to this all week.” The sweet smile Sherlock gave to the woman made Mycroft feel ill. He had no clue who this woman was and absolutely no idea why they seemed to be this close.

“Chocolate cake, sugar cookies, and love.” She joked, beginning to laugh at the way Mycroft audibly gagged. “I’m only kidding. No love.”

“I should certainly hope not,” came Mycroft’s response, one which simply made her laugh again.

“Are you jealous, Mycroft?”

“Because of the cake, he is.” Sherlock interrupted, waving Myrcoft off. “No, I won’t take the case. You can leave now.”

“This is an urgent matter, brother mine.”

“Don’t care.”

With a groan and a roll of his eyes, Mycroft lifted himself to his feet and prepared to leave.

“I’ll leave these with you, just in case you change your mind. Goodbye brother mine. John.” The hesitation was obvious on Mycroft’s face, despite how well he typically hid his emotions, as he faced Y/N.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr Holmes.” Y/N smiled sweetly, earning a simple nod from him before he left.

Sherlock, who had leaned to grab the tub of baked goods from the woman’s hands, rolled his eyes as Mycroft left and immediately began to eat.

It wasn’t long until Y/N’s entire life had been researched.

There wasn’t much there. No criminal record, a few jobs, occasional moves, but no sign of her posing any danger to Sherlock and, by association, John. However, the way Mycroft felt upon seeing her was unusual, so he decided to do his own investigation.

“Morning, Mr Holmes,” he was greeted before he reached the empty counter. “Welcome to my bakery! Would you like anything?”

“Just a coffee, please. Black.” Mycroft nodded, not returning the smile she had given, despite the odd feeling it gave him. She was evil and he would prove it to Sherlock.

“Coming right up! Take a seat wherever you’d like, and I’ll bring it over.”

As Mycroft occupied a seat, he took a moment to properly assess the woman making his drink.

She didn’t seem threatening: a content smile on her lips as she prepared his coffee, humming a quiet tune that he barely picked up on. In fact, she didn’t seem out of the ordinary at all, but the feeling when he first saw her – a feeling Mycroft couldn’t explain – had him needing to investigate her further.

“Here you go, Mr Holmes.” Y/N said, placing a hot coffee and chocolate cake on the table in front of him. “Sherlock mentioned that you like cake, so I grabbed you some. It’s all on the house.”

“Why?”

With a small laugh, she responded without hesitation. “You’re Sherlock’s brother.”

How odd, Mycroft thought to himself. She doesn’t even know me and she’s giving me things for free…

Despite his thoughts, Mycroft simply nodded, watching as she took a seat opposite him. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s quiet today so I figured I’d try and keep you company the best I can. I’m sure you have better company than me, though.”

“I don’t mind,” he replied before even thinking. It was safe to say that he didn’t enjoy the way his chest felt whilst he watched her smile.

Maybe she’s a witch? No, don’t be stupid, Mycroft. They don’t exist.

“So,” Y/N’s voice broke the man from his thoughts. “It’s a funny story how me, Sherlock, and John met. I was actually working and Sherlock bursts in demanding to talk to me. My baking stuff had been found at a crime scene and he thought it was me!”

“How interesting.” Came Mycroft’s blunt reply, even if he was intrigued.

“You listened to it, so you must care, even just a little bit. I think that’s a win for me!”

Mycroft couldn’t help the tiniest smile that crawled onto his lips, but he internally prayed that nobody noticed it, especially her. She, however, seemed oblivious to the movement, simply staring over his shoulder and out of the window.

“Anyway, what was he like growing up? Was he like he is now? Blunt and rude?” Y/N asked with a giggle.

“He wasn’t, actually. He was rather sweet. He liked playing pretend with his friend; he always wanted a dog too.” Came Mycroft’s reply. “His favourite thing was pirates.” He said with a fond look in his eyes. Sherlock wasn’t going to be happy when he found out that he had told her, but he couldn’t resist answering her question.

Mycroft watched closely as the woman in front of him grinned, the bright and happy smile a nice contrast to what he was used to whilst working with the government. He couldn’t help but smile back, noting how her smile widened further as he did so.

“That’s sweet. I couldn’t imagine that, to be honest,”

It was time to ask the question that was on his mind. “Are you attracted to Sherlock?”

“Sherlock?” Y/N said, bursting into laughter. “No, absolutely not. He’s more like an annoying older brother. Same with John. We’re just friends, and, well, neighbours too.”

Confusion spread over Mycroft as she felt the weight on his shoulders lift at her words; she was telling the truth.

“How is she?” Sherlock asked the moment he answered the phone.

“How is who?” Mycroft’s voice sounded through the device.

“Y/N,”

“Why do you assume that I know?”

“It’s obvious you were there earlier.”

“…”

“Well, that and Mrs Hudson told us.”

“Of course she did.” Mycroft said with an involuntary roll of his eyes.

“So, how was it?”

“It was fine.”

“You like her then?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, you went to see her. It’s quite obvious, Mycroft. Come on, I thought you were smarter than that.”

Mycroft simply put the phone down.

He did not like her.

The next time that Mycroft came across Y/N was when it was raining.

He hadn’t wanted to seem ‘creepy’ by seeking her out again for more investigations and deductions, so he simply waited. She was friends with his brother, it wasn’t like their paths wouldn’t cross at some point. Besides, he didn’t want Sherlock to think that he liked her.

“Raining real bad tonight, isn’t it?” The driver spoke to Mycroft. He was new, so Mycroft couldn’t exactly blame him for attempting some type of conversation with him; it was still annoying, though.

Anthea, looking up from her phone was what caught Mycroft’s attention. “I feel bad for her.” She said, nodding towards a soaked woman. It only took Mycroft a moment to realise who it was.

“Pull over,” he stated bluntly, grabbing his umbrella. He simply ignored the look he was receiving from his assistant.

It had been a long day filled with rude customers, and to make it worse, it was raining, and she had forgotten her coat. Today couldn’t be going any worse for Y/N.

Shivering wildly and soaked to the core, Y/N huffed, watching the way her breath instantly evaporated; it was clearly below freezing, but she held out hope that the rain would stop and she would be home soon.

Her hope seemed to pay off, though, since she could no longer feel the rain. As she looked up at the sky, she spotted a familiar face.

“Mycroft?”

“Y/N.”

“What are you-“

“Get in.” He said, pointing towards the car before wordlessly leading her towards it, still holding the umbrella above her, even if he was getting wet.

“You don’t have to, Mycroft.” She said as he ushered her in and shut the door behind them both. “I mean, I’m soaking your car!”

Mycroft, who could feel the heat on his cheeks from their proximity, simply shook his head. He was too focused on the way her leg was pressed against his as she sat between him and Anthea who stared at her phone with a small smirk.

The ride was void of conversation, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, the only noise was that of Y/N shivering.

After a moment of hesitation, Mycroft shrugged off his jacket and handed her it. “Here.”

There was no chance of refusal, Mycroft wouldn’t allow it, so with a quiet ‘thanks’, Y/N popped the jacket over her shoulders. He just found the chattering of her teeth annoying, was what he told himself.

As they arrived at the flats, Mycroft followed her out of the car.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes.” She said as they stood on the door of her flat.

“Mycroft is fine, Y/N.”

“Thank you… Mycroft.” She said with a small smile before bidding him a goodnight.

“I see you gave her your jacket,” Was all Sherlock said as Mycroft entered 221B.

It was hard. Very hard. Harder than anything Y/N had ever experienced. Having a crush was not easy as it was, but having feelings for Mycroft Holmes was the hardest thing in the world: he rarely showed emotion, he was blunt, he was rude, but most importantly to her, deep down, he was nice.

A small sigh left Y/N’s lips as she worked on her latest batch of cookies for the morning. He was on her mind… again. It was a common occurrence by now.

“We’re not open yet, sorry!” She called over her shoulder at the sound of the door opening. As she turned around to see who it was and apologise again, a blush rushed to her cheeks. “Mycroft! What are you doing here?”

Mycroft stood there, umbrella in hand, and gave a simple shrug. “I was on my way to work so thought I would ‘pop in’ as people say.” He explained, earning a laugh from the baker.

“Modern phrases don’t suit you, Mycroft.” She teased.

With an amused shake of his head, Mycroft took a seat at the table nearest her.

“Want some cookies? They’re fresh out of the oven!”

Mycroft nodded with a grateful smile, always glad to have sweet treats. He would never turn down anyone’s desserts, least of all Y/N’s; not because he liked her and didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but because she was a good baker.

The pair sat in a comfortable silence, Mycroft gladly eating his cookies with an appreciative look whilst Y/N worked on her next batch. There was nothing awkward between them, and there, surprisingly, never had been.

“Are you not at work today?” Y/N broke the silence with a question that was bugging her. She could have sworn Mycroft had always worked this time over the months that she had known him.

Mycroft hesitated for a moment. He was supposed to be there right now but had decided to visit you before. It wasn’t like anyone could fire him for it, he was basically the British government, after all.

“Not yet,” he lied, and he was glad that he was a good liar.

“Oh, okay! I’m happy you came then. I don’t want to bother you.”

“You could never be a bother,” the words fell from his lips before he even registered what his thoughts, and he noticed the blush race up her cheeks, as did she with his.

“Thank you, Mycroft.”

As he stared at her and her rosy cheeks, a million thoughts went through his mind, but they were all related to one thing: her. It was in that moment that he realised the truth, he did like Y/N, and he had been attracted to her since the beginning; that was what he was feeling.

Oh dear…

[hesagoodone]

Almost choked on my coffee. Now that's a Sherlock line if there ever was one.

(From An Interesting Puzzle by A Wandering Minstrel!)

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

You asked for reqs so Im here to yap! How about Mycroft from Sherlock having a gf that is constantly overthinking if he actually likes her(if he is with her for some reason where he can take advantage of her later, even tho as far as she knows, she has no connection to anything political that he can use. She still can't stop thinking about it tho.)

Him comforting her awkwardly bc he literally can't say any affirming words coherently, just actions that you'd have to look for under a microscope to notice, but they are there! He does let her brew and feel bad for quite some time unintentionally because he is very avoidant of emotional confrontations tho🥹

Do feel free to ignore this if it isn't your cup of tea! Mwah💋

An Affair of Logic and Love

Word count: 1k

Pairing: Mycroft x reader

________________________________________________________

Mycroft Holmes wasn’t a man of romance. That much was obvious to anyone who knew him. Reserved, calculating, and perpetually aloof, he approached the world as a chessboard, his every move measured, every relationship dissected for utility. Yet here he was, seated across from you at his immaculate dining table, sipping his tea as if nothing in the world could rattle him.

And here you were, trying to decipher his every blink, every sigh, every sip.

You glanced at him cautiously. Did he even like you? Or was there some hidden reason—a grand strategy that somehow involved you, though you couldn’t imagine how? You were an ordinary person, far removed from the tangled webs of politics and espionage he navigated daily. What could he possibly gain from being with you?

These thoughts gnawed at you, louder with each interaction, until every small silence felt like proof that you were merely a pawn in his game.

“You’re staring,” Mycroft said without looking up from his tea.

Your cheeks flushed. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he replied smoothly, setting his cup down. His piercing gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

You fumbled for a distraction, taking a sip of your tea and nearly scalding your tongue. “I was just… thinking.”

“Thinking, I see.” He folded his hands and leaned back slightly. “Should I be concerned?”

You hesitated. Part of you wanted to confront him, to demand why he was with you if he could barely muster a word of affection. But the other part—the overthinking, self-doubting part—was too afraid of his answer. What if he confirmed your fears?

“No,” you muttered, looking down at your cup.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. But true to form, he didn’t press the matter. Instead, he let the silence stretch, leaving you alone with your spiraling thoughts.

For the next several days, the doubts consumed you. Every interaction became a puzzle to solve:

• When he handed you a cup of tea without a word, was it a sign of affection, or was he just being polite?

• When he mentioned your favorite book in passing, was it because he genuinely remembered, or because he needed to lull you into a false sense of security?

• When he kissed you on the cheek before leaving for work, was it out of habit or obligation?

The questions were endless, and Mycroft, in his typical manner, did nothing to alleviate them. He wasn’t cruel—far from it—but his reserved nature and avoidance of emotional discussions left you in the dark.

It all came to a head one evening when you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Mycroft,” you began hesitantly as the two of you sat in his living room, him reading a newspaper and you pretending to focus on a book.

“Yes?” he replied without looking up.

“Why are you with me?”

The question hung in the air like a thunderclap. Mycroft froze, his fingers tightening slightly around the edges of the paper.

“Pardon?” he said after a moment, his tone carefully neutral.

You set your book down and turned to face him fully. “Why are you with me? I just… I can’t help but wonder if there’s some reason—some ulterior motive—because I don’t understand why you’d choose me.”

He finally lowered the newspaper, his expression inscrutable. “Is that what’s been troubling you?”

“Yes,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I know it’s irrational, but I can’t stop thinking about it. You’re so… you. And I’m just… me. It doesn’t make sense.”

For a long moment, Mycroft said nothing. He looked at you, his sharp gaze scanning your face as if you were a particularly challenging code to crack.

Then, finally, he spoke: “I see.”

That was it. I see.

You stared at him, waiting for more, but he just shifted slightly in his seat, as if the conversation had already concluded.

“That’s all you have to say?” you asked, your frustration bubbling over.

Mycroft cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I… hadn’t realized you felt this way.”

“Well, I do.”

He looked down at his hands, his usually unshakeable composure faltering ever so slightly. “Emotions are… not my area of expertise,” he admitted, his voice quieter than usual. “But I assure you, my intentions are entirely genuine.”

It wasn’t the grand declaration you’d hoped for, but coming from Mycroft, it was monumental. Still, it wasn’t enough to banish your doubts entirely.

“Then why don’t you ever show it?” you pressed. “Why can’t you just say how you feel?”

Mycroft shifted again, clearly wrestling with his discomfort. “I’m not… accustomed to such expressions,” he said stiffly. “But that does not mean I don’t care for you. On the contrary, I—” He stopped, his mouth opening and closing like he was physically incapable of forming the words.

Instead, he stood abruptly and walked to his desk. You watched in confusion as he opened a drawer, pulled out a small velvet box, and returned to the couch.

He handed it to you without a word.

Inside was a delicate necklace, the pendant a simple yet elegant design that you immediately recognized—it was based on your favorite flower, something you’d mentioned in passing months ago.

“I had this made for you,” Mycroft said awkwardly, his gaze fixed firmly on the coffee table. “I was waiting for the right moment to give it to you. I suppose now will have to do.”

You stared at the necklace, your heart swelling with a mix of surprise and warmth.

“Mycroft…”

“I may not be able to express myself in the traditional sense,” he continued, his voice stiff but earnest. “But I do care for you. Deeply. If that were not the case, I wouldn’t—” He stopped himself again, sighing in frustration. “I wouldn’t have allowed this relationship to happen.”

It wasn’t a perfect confession. It wasn’t romantic or poetic. But it was Mycroft.

You smiled softly and reached out to take his hand. “Thank you,” you said, your voice thick with emotion.

He finally looked at you, his expression softening ever so slightly. “There’s nothing to thank me for,” he said gruffly.

[forevers-world]

A Mycroft Holmes appreciation post.

What a beautiful specimen of the human race. 👏👏👏

[xianjaneway]

Who needs someone to read their fanfic over Christmas break?

I'm a fast reader (over 700 wpm) & if you're craving comments & kudos, I'd love to read your stuff, & say nice things about your fics, to lift your spirits over the holidays.

NO CRITICISM unless you ask me for it.

I just know how hard the holidays are for a lot of people, & would like to make you smile. I'm not at the mental/emotional place where I can write my own fics yet, but I CAN encourage others. It's my spiritual gift, lol. (IYKYK)

Fandoms include (in no particular order):

Marvel, Star Trek, Good Omens, OFMD, James Bond, Wonder Woman, Superman, Batman, Sherlock, OUAT, Inception, Tenet, & some Star Wars (like Andor, though I'm willing to branch out).

Any rating, any pairing, & while I'd love it if they WEREN'T depressing, I'll read sad fics to make your day.

I also download fanfics to an audio reader, & listen to them while I work.

Ha, I've reached my tag limit for the first time, ever!

[multific]

Destiny

Mycroft Holmes x Reader

Summary: What happens when you fall in love with the IceMan himself? It can never end well, right?

Destiny.

A simple word yet it held so much power.

What does it mean to be destined for something or even, someone?

When you first heard about this word, your grandmother told you how she and your grandfather met.

A true love story.

A story so beautiful it was always in the back of your head as you grew older and older.

You hoped you would have a similar experience in your love life. Finding, the person and falling in love, it all sounded amazing.

You knew you wouldn't be able to force such a thing, you were aware of that. And yet, you were impatient. 

So impatient that in fact, you fall into many traps.

In many ways, you thrived in your life.

Expect your love life.

Your desire for a love like no other made you fall in love with men who were undeserving. 

Until you met Mycroft Holmes.

To say that he was the entire British Government would be an understatement.

You applied for a simple job, to be his assistant.

You spent so much time with him, that you thought you were going insane.

You blamed Stockholm syndrome for your feelings.

The moment you realized your feelings were real was during a very difficult week.

Almost every criminal in London had an agenda to mess with him. This caused you to do so much overtime, that you didn't even leave the office.

It was during the fourth day when Mycroft showed up with a bouquet. 

"I thought you would be home," he said, clearly he wasn't prepared to have you right there, at your desk. "Usually you arrive at 6:46 because you stop by at the nearby bakery for breakfast and coffee." 

So, he did pay attention to you. After he spent all that time to make sure you are aware that he simply doesn't care for people like you.

"I stayed to finish the file on this. I-"

"Did you eat?"

"No, Sir." he made a face at that and took his phone out of his pocket.

"Delivery will be here in 10 minutes. Eat, drink your coffee and then come speak with me. I'll be in my office."

He ordered exactly just what you wanted with the most perfect coffee you ever had.

He paid attention to you.

And you realized your feelings for him were real.

You knew hiding it from him would be impossible. Mycroft was incredibly smart. He would notice.

But little did you know, he felt the same.

He thought you would notice his feelings and confront him about it. 

He wasn't ready for a rejection.

Yet, your rejection never came.

Not when he asked you out to dinner. Not when he brought you another bouquet.

Not when he kissed you.

Instead, he let you guide him.

Love wasn't new to him. He loved his siblings, and his parents but this kind of love is very different. 

He didn't have experience with this kind of love, and it scared him a little.

But he also didn't reject it.

He embraced it.

And soon, a beautiful diamond ring found its rightful place on your finger.

It might have not been the way you wanted your one and true love.

But it was your destiny.

And you were okay with it.

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou @mandoloriancookie @il0vebeingdelulu @deliciousfestsalad @groovyqueer @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE OR REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[holmesianlove]

Have enjoyed binge reading the #FTH fic #bluebuell33 wrote for me that she has finally posted!

Please give her a read and some love

Handbook for Unrequited Love

[sakshisahu]

My 3rd fic!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62631484/chapters/160321102

The Sociology Experiment (Or, How Sherlock Holmes Lost to a Textbook)

By SakshiSahu

Summary:

It starts with a book.

A completely ordinary, perfectly harmless sociology textbook. John found it among his old things, a relic from university, and—naturally—dares Sherlock to read it.

Sherlock, unwilling to back down from any challenge, accepts.

Big mistake.

What follows is two hours of Sherlock arguing with a textbook,

Somewhere between Monarchy & autocracy, marriage,culture, kinship and Social Control, Sherlock Holmes realizes he is in love with John Watson.

At 4:30 A.M., he wakes John up, kisses him, and asks if they’re a family.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, Mycroft hears about it. And he brings gifts.

Sherlock loses the battle with a book, loses the war, and somehow gains a boyfriend.

But he absolutely refuses to admit that sociology might have had something to do with it.

[softestqueeen]

✧*̥˚ bbc sherlock masterlist *̥˚✧

✧*̥˚ key *̥˚✧

❤️‍🔥 smut 🌸fluff ⛓️ hurt/comfort 🖤 dark ✍🏻 request

-> back to my main masterlist

sherlock holmes x reader

i can't do this anymore! ⛓️���� When Sherlock overhears you talking on the phone, he thinks you're going to leave him.

let the light in 🌸 After a particularly frustrating case, all the consulting detective needs, is closeness.

misty mornings 🌸 When Sherlock Holmes awakes on his birthday, he doesn’t expect anyone to remember it. But of course, you do.

don't you forget about me, sherlock part 1 ⛓️ When Janine forces Sherlock to choose between being in a relationship with her and living with you, he has to make a tough decision. How will your feelings for each other be affected by it?

don't you forget about me, sherlock part 2 coming soon...

sherlock requests open! also for other characters within the universe like john or greg (also queer ships or queer x reader)

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

The Same Page Part 9

Sherlock and Mycroft & little sister!reader

A/N: you guys have been the epitome of patient, and I’m so sorry it took so long to update it. I got so caught up in my requests (which were all supernatural, which I also love btw) that I didn’t even realize that it’s been months. Updates are not gonna take this long in the future, I do love this series too. Thank you guys for being so patient

Warnings: angst, Sherlock’s kinda mean in this one

“I’m asking you not to declare war.”

Mycroft’s words struck a nerve in Sherlock. He wasn’t the one who threatened a custody battle, and he wasn’t the one always trying to take you away.

“It’s not about declaring war,” Sherlock argued. “It’s about you going against our agreement. You agreed that she should stay here for a few days, and it’s only been one night.”

“Yes, and she’s already had a panic attack,” Mycroft shot back as he led the argument into the kitchen so that they wouldn’t wake you up. “My agreement was made when I thought that you would actually stay here with her, not run off on a case. And I assume that that case is yet to be solved?”

“I’m getting close,” Sherlock said, feeling defensive.

“Which means that you’ll leave again. She can’t be alone Sherlock, she just can’t. You may disagree with me on that, but as her legal guardian I’m putting my foot down; if she’s in this house, she won’t be alone. Ever.”

“How is she ever going to go back to normal if you keep treating her like she can’t do anything on her own?” Sherlock challenged.

“That’s the problem with you, Sherlock! All you can think about is getting her back to normal. Why don’t you stop and try to think about what she needs, instead of just what you want.”

“You think she doesn’t want to go back to normal?” Sherlock scoffed. “You think she wants to be like this?”

“Like what?” Mycroft challenged. “No, don’t turn away,” he continued when Sherlock started to turn, shaking his head. “Like what, Sherlock? Are you going to stand here and tell me that because she’s hurting and she needs help, there’s something wrong with her?” When Sherlock didn’t speak, Mycroft persisted. “Like. What. Sherlock?”

“Like an invalid!” Sherlock snapped. “Like she can’t spend a couple of hours alone, like she can’t eat unless you’re hovering over her, like she can’t do anything by hersel—“ Sherlock’s voice cracked as he stopped, and the blood draining from his face instantly alerted Mycroft. He turned around to see where Sherlock was staring…

“Myc?” Your voice came out in a whimper as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes. “Myc, I want—I wanna go home now.” You kept your head down, not looking at Sherlock even as he started to protest.

“N/N, I didn’t mean it like—“

“Of course,” Mycroft cut him off. “Of course I’ll take you home now.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock glared at his brother. “Let me talk to her.”

“Myc, I want to go home,” you repeated, your voice a little more desperate now. The meaning was clear, even if you didn’t say it—you didn’t want to talk to Sherlock.

Mycroft turned on his heel and led you towards the door without responding to Sherlock.

“We haven’t finished discussing this!” Sherlock argued.

The only answer he got was a slamming door.

…

“I can do it,” you insisted, ignoring Mycroft’s outstretched hand as you reached the stairs leading down 221B.

“Please let me help you.” Mycroft was already reaching for your hand as he spoke, but you snatched your hand away.

“I can do it!” You repeated.

Mycroft pulled his hand back, but remained close as you made your way down the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled after a moment.

“It’s alright,” Mycroft assured you, and the two of you remained silent after that.

Mycroft was too preoccupied thinking about Sherlock to speak anyway. As much as his little brother had been out of line, he hadn’t been completely wrong. Surely you wanted to go back to the way things had been, at least a little. What was Mycroft going to do if you stopped needing him around? Of course he wanted you to go back to school, to start sleeping regularly again, to eat right, all of that…

But what if you went back to Sherlock? Mycroft realized suddenly that he didn’t want that, even if you completely recovered mentally. He liked you living with him, and he was pretty sure you liked it, too.

But it wouldn’t be fair to you if that wasn’t what you wanted. But Mycroft could no longer tell what you wanted. He was trying to give you what you needed, and it was clear that you weren’t ready for the level of independence that Sherlock was pushing for, but…but what if one day you were? Would you stay with Mycroft, or go to Sherlock?

Mycroft was starting to realize that he needed you to need him too much, and he wasn’t sure what he would do once you didn’t need him. Would no longer needing him mean that you no longer wanted him?

“Is everything ok?” John’s voice interrupted Mycroft’s thoughts as the two Holmes’ passed him in the stairwell.

“Not really,” Mycroft sighed. “We’re going home.”

“What? I’m sure you and Sherlock can—“

“Not now, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft insisted. “We’re going home.”

…

You were quiet the whole way home, and when Mycroft asked if you wanted to sleep you just nodded silently.

As Mycroft got you settled in your bed, he talked quietly to you.

“I don’t want you to worry about today, alright? Any of it. Sherlock and I are going to figure out our custody arrangement, you’re not going to be left alone again, and…and Sherlock didn’t mean what he said, alright? There’s nothing wrong with you, so don’t think about it.”

You blinked up at your brother for a moment before turning on your side and closing your eyes. Mycroft sighed, turning to sit in his chair by your bed. You hadn’t gone this silent in months.

This could be harder than Mycroft had thought.

…

Mycroft stirred at the sound of sniffling. He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep—he was usually able to keep himself awake until you fell asleep, but he must’ve dozed off.

He squinted in the dim light to see your short hair, sticking out at a few angles as you cried face-down in your pillow.

“Y/N…” Mycroft was at your side in an instant, but when he pulled you away from your pillow you started to shake your head and push at him. “It’s ok,” he insisted. “It’s ok, it’s just me.”

You continued to shake your head, but Mycroft noticed that your fingers had a vice grip on the front of his shirt.

“It’s alright…I’m right here.” Mycroft pulled you into his arms, and you stopped fighting him. You still didn’t speak, and Mycroft just held you in his arms until you cried yourself to sleep.

“Sherlock, what have you done?” Mycroft muttered to himself.

…

You had barely managed to hold in your tears until Mycroft fell asleep in his chair, but it didn’t matter, because you’d woken him up anyway. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak as you tried to fight Mycroft off, or even as he held you close. You didn’t actually want him to go away, but after what Sherlock had said…

“She can’t do anything for herself!”

Even if Mycroft claimed it wasn’t true, you couldn’t get that voice out of your head. You’d barely said a word since then, and you weren’t ready to change that yet. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to, it was more like the weight in your chest was so great, that even if you wanted to speak, you didn’t feel able anymore. Your anxiety clawed its way up your throat, choking even the idea of speech.

So instead of speaking, you just let your big brother hold you in his arms until your exhaustion won the fight with your anxiety, and you finally drifted off to sleep.

…

Mycroft was concerned almost as soon as he woke up. After you’d gone back to sleep, he’d returned to his chair but stayed in your room, just in case. But when he woke up, he saw that you were already awake—your eyes were open, but you hadn’t moved.

“Are you ready to get up?” Mycroft asked softly, and your eyes flickered to him at the sound of his voice. You pushed yourself up wordlessly, and Mycroft began to wonder just how long you’d remain silent. “Let’s go downstairs and get some breakfast,” Mycroft added, being careful not to phrase it like a question; he knew your answer would be no—you never felt like eating when you got like this—but Mycroft wanted (more like needed) to keep you on your eating schedule.

You didn’t protest as Mycroft helped you down the stairs, or when he put a plate of toast in front of you. But you didn’t eat it, either. Mycroft sighed, exhausted.

“I need you to eat. Just a little bit, for me?”

You blinked up at him before returning your gaze to your lap.

“Just a bite or two,” Mycroft added. When you didn’t move, he sighed and pushed the plate aside. “Alright, we can try that again later. Do you want to play our game? Tell me what you see.” Mycroft was desperate for any kind of interaction with you, but you remained unmoving and silent. “C’mon, you can’t—I can’t do this again, please. I can’t. I need you to—“

Mycroft cut himself off when your hand reached out and grabbed his in a death grip, your breath suddenly coming in gasps.

…

“I can’t do this again, please. I can’t. I need you to—“

Panic gripped your heart as Mycroft struggled to speak.

“I can’t do this again.”

This. You.

Would Mycroft get tired of trying to cater to you, the way Sherlock seemed to? Would he get sick of the way you “couldn’t do anything for yourself”?

You’d sought out Mycroft’s hand without even meaning to as your fear forced itself up your throat, restricting your breath.

What would you do if Mycroft got sick of taking care of you? Where would you go?

You remembered the earlier days of living with Mycroft—when CPS workers came over to “keep an eye�� on your custody switch. They’d taken one look at you and tried to convince Mycroft to bring you to some care facility. If Mycroft didn’t want you, was that where you’d go? You wouldn’t last a week there, you just knew it—not without your brothers.

“Y/N! Y/N!” You’d been so lost in your own head that you didn’t hear Mycroft calling out your name until he was shaking your shoulders and yelling in your face. “Yes, good, look at me.” Mycroft breathed in relief when your eyes finally met his.

“I’m sorry.”

Mycroft couldn’t even take a moment to be relieved that you were speaking again as you sobbed in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated. “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t—“

“Hey, hey now,” Mycroft cradled your face in his hands, trying to get your attention back. “I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here Y/N, I promise.” You finally seemed to focus on him, so Mycroft just repeated “I’m right here,” again and again as he wracked his brain for a reason behind your sudden change to hysteria. He’d been speaking just before you started to panic—what had he said?

“I can’t do this again…”

Oh no. You hadn’t understood him; worse, he hadn’t made himself clear to you. Now you thought…

“Hey.” Mycroft made sure he had your full attention before he spoke. “I need you to listen to me now. I…I didn’t mean that I can’t—or won’t—take care of you, ok? I didn’t mean that I’ll leave you. I’ll never leave you, never. You understand me?” At your hesitant nod, he continued. “Good, good. I never meant to make you think that, I just…I just meant that I don’t want to see you in so much pain again. You didn’t talk for so long, and…and I know how much you were hurting. I don’t want you to hurt like that anymore.”

“I’m sor—“

“No, no don’t.” Mycroft wouldn’t let you apologize again. “Don’t ever apologize for being in pain, that’s not what I wanted. I just…I really want you to forget about what Sherlock said. He didn’t mean it, he didn’t. There’s nothing wrong with you, ok?” You didn’t nod this time, but Mycroft didn’t push it. “But it doesn’t matter. Because no matter what happens—with Sherlock, with wherever you decide to live, with all of it—I will never leave you, alright? I’ll be here whenever you need me. I’ll always be here for you.”

Mycroft willingly let you pull him into a hug, and when you all but collapses your weight into his embrace, he held you up without wavering.

“Please tell me you know that. Tell me you believe me. Because I promise it’s true.”

“Ok,” you sniffled. “I-I believe you.”

“Ok,” Mycroft sighed. “Ok.”

Mycroft eventually led you over to the couch where you dropped in exhaustion, and soon enough you were fast asleep, remnants of tears still staining your cheeks.

Once he was sure that you were asleep, Mycroft reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone, pressing a number and placing the phone to his ear.

“Sherlock? Yes, it’s me. I need you here, now. You’ve got a mess to fix.”

Taglist:

@navs-bhat @isabellavere @chaoticglitterkitten @peachycupotea @justforrose @severussimp

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Incandescent in All His Glory

My brother likes to present himself as aloof, undeterred, haughty, and cold-blooded. To those who has never seen him in pyjamas and dressing gown, the image remains unaltered. Underneath that stoic and well-maintained façade, he is very much human, despite how loathe he is to admit it. 

Granted, he has a peculiar way of showing his emotions.

Sentiment is never an advantage, is his trademark, so to speak.

Having known him for my entire life, and by being an adept observer, I am aware of the truth. 

His heart might be heavily protected by a seemingly unbreakable padlock, but when that lock is broken, there’s no stopping the tidal wave of emotions hidden there.

The unbridled rage is the most common of the forementioned emotions. Let me rephrase: the most common emotion to appear.

This rage mostly recurred in our childhood, and as far as I know, only directed at me. Not that I didn’t deserve it. I did almost anything to get his attention back then. I ruined his new suede shoes in the murky pond, put cockroaches in the biscuit tin he hid in his room, and read a love letter he’d received out loud at the dinner table on Christmas Eve.

“Did you ever apologise?”

Of course, John would ask that.

I shake my head. Much to my surprise I feel ashamed. Mycroft hadn’t done anything to deserve that, other than leaving home for school, which in my opinion was the same as treason.

What my brother has done is this:

He brought me food I tolerated when my parents didn’t understand my stubborn ways, when I refused to eat what they sat before me.

Once, he came home unforeseen. Three of my bullies were after me, again, and I ran as fast as I could, but they were older, had longer legs, and caught up with me quickly. Before the first blow, I closed my eyes, protected my head, but nothing happened. The anticipated pain wasn’t forthcoming. I looked up, and there he stood. My big brother, incandescent in all his glory. Fuming with rage. I swear, I saw flames in his eyes. Nobody ever bothered me again.

Three times he’s followed me to rehab. Picked me up in places he normally never sat his feet. Each time I woke, I saw his pain and sorrow. His quiet requests, no, pleas, to make me stop breaking his heart, left my own heart raw and aching.

He interrogated my newfound flatmate to make sure he knew what he was getting himself into, but also to assess what kind of a man John Watson was. I know Mycroft’s heart sung with relief when the ex-army doctor took it all in his stride, not the least bit perturbed by my brother’s inquisitorial questions, but rather affronted on my behalf.

Without so much as hesitating, he agreed to be my best man at my wedding, and his speech made us all weep. Even John. My husband.

Mycroft’s rage nowadays, is nothing like the one from his adolescence. Now it is cold as a polar wind. He remains calm, which in my opinion is much more terrifying than his uncontrolled fury from the past. I guess one doesn’t get employed by the British government if one has trouble managing one’s anger.

By now, most of his associates call him The Iceman. It fits him, and I know the nickname pleases him immensely. 

I’m happy to say, no one uses my hateful nickname, The Virgin, any longer. John wouldn’t stand for such an insult, being the one who unburdened me of said virginity…

----------------------------------------------------------------

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@givemesherbet-blog-blog @couldbecannibal @2old2b-fangirl @dw91165 @jonkwatson

@binx72 @macgyvershe @raina-at @dragoonthegreatest @kholkate

@fookincarrotsandpotatoes28 @talkativeanxiousturtle @aloeverawrites @ch0s0lvr

[lilmoonbunny]

Balls and Questions; Mycroft Holmes

Mycroft has a question.

There was nothing Y/N hated more than attending balls, but alas, it was mandatory in her workplace. Being in the cyber security sector of the government was nothing short of exciting, at least until you factored in that the digital safety – and perhaps physical also - of the country was essentially in her hands. Socialising had never been her forte, least of all dancing, so combining the two was a nightmare which is likely why she stuck by her close friend Mycroft Holmes.

“Do we have to be here?” Y/N whispered, being careful as to not be too loud that others around them would here.

Frankly, Mycroft did not care about being heard and replied in his typical voice. “Sadly, yes. I do not wish to be here anymore than you do.”

With a sigh, Y/N turned to face those dancing, watching her friend Anthea dance with a man she had been approached by moments prior.

“I don’t know how people dance so much; I couldn’t do it.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Mycroft asked, turning to face her with a raised eyebrow.

Y/N smiled. “A bit of both. I don’t think I’d be a good dancer.”

Mycroft hesitated for a moment, seeming as though he was about to say something before turning back to facing the crowd.

Everyone seemed to be having fun except the pair stood off in the corner of the room, both praying that nobody would approach them, although, Mycroft did have a question on his mind for the woman beside him that he was not yet willing to ask.

Truth be told, he had harboured feelings - a ‘silly crush’ as Sherlock called it - for her for the last year, having worked together for three, yet no matter how many times Sherlock told him that she reciprocated his feelings, he did not believe him nor wish to approach her romantically. He didn’t believe that he could be a good partner to her and did not wish to hurt her in any form.

“Maybe we can leave early? Say I feel sick or something.” Y/N chimed in with her idea.

“That does not get me out of this, I’m afraid.”

“Just say you’ll take me home or something,”

“That would start rumours.”

Y/N smiled sadly, taking a sip from the glass in her hand. “I guess you’re right.”

“I always am,” Mycroft replied, shaking his head when Y/N turned to him with a raised eyebrow and a smile, a giggle falling from her lips.

“I’ll take your word for it, Myc,”

There was that nickname again, the one that she had been calling him for the longest time when they were alone; the one that always had his cheeks flushing. It gave him confidence, well, downing his drink also helped.

“Would you like to dance with me?” He asked, avoiding looking towards the woman, despite wishing to see her reaction.

Y/N smiled to herself. “I would love nothing more than to dance with you. And not just a single, slow dance, I just want to have fun and dance with you for the rest of the night.”

Maybe balls weren’t so bad after all.

[strawberrywinter4]

May 9 | Prompt: Intimidation

Warning: Depictions of violence and drug use.

“You’re just too much sometimes, that’s all I’m saying,” his mother comments as she troubles herself with the dishes.

Mycroft rolls his eyes. He knew it would be a poor idea to come visit. He should have just settled for a call.

“You almost scared John away,” she says, scrubbing a class clean. “Your comments and glares at dinner are not helpful, you know. Sherlock almost had your head.”

“John is anything but frightened by me, Mummy. He made that perfectly clear when we first met.”

“Sherlock told me about that first meeting.” She sighs, turning toward him with a scolding expression. “Mycroft, why did you do that?”

Mycroft wills his cheeks not to flush crimson in embarrassment. “It was merely for precaution.”

“Sherlock is a grown man. He can take care of himself.”

Mycroft’s hands clench the kitchen counter. She doesn’t know. She hasn’t seen the extent of Sherlock’s pain like Mycroft has.

“All I’m saying is that I think you should be more considerate to the people who seem to actually want to be around him,” she says. “And John…well, he’s a very polite man. I think he’s good for Sherlock. Very good.”

Mycroft doesn’t answer her. Realizing she’s not going to get a response out of Mycroft, she leaves the kitchen with a tut under her breath.

Mycroft’s eyes are trained to the sink.

——

The front door opens and shuts loudly, Mycroft wondering if the force of it broke any vases. Ignoring his brother in the lounge, Sherlock runs up the steps, his little feet going as fast as they can. Mycroft hears his bedroom door shut.

Mycroft sighs, getting up and leaving his science project. Heading upstairs, he turns the corner and knocks on Sherlock’s door.

“Go away, Mycroft!”

Mycroft is silent for a moment, then tries for the door handle lightly. Locked, of course. He rests his head on the door.

“If you open the door, I’ll make Ginger Nuts.”

A few seconds pass and the lock clicks, the door creaking open. One of Sherlock’s blue eyes peak through the crack. “Do you promise?”

“Yes.”

Satisfied with the reply, the door fully opens. Mycroft holds his grimace successfully, but it isn’t a simple task.

Sherlock’s eye that wasn’t peaking through the door is a mixture of purple and black, a few bruises gracing his jaw. His lip is cracked and blood is oozing down his chin.

Mycroft attempts to keep his voice leveled. “Sit on the bed, I’ll grab the first aid kit.”

Returning with the kit, Mycroft is pleased to see Sherlock took his advice for once, sitting on the sheets, eyes focused on his legs as they swing back and forth over the edge.

Without comment, Mycroft sits beside him. “Up,” he instructs, tilting Sherlock’s face to the correct position. He applies alcohol to a cotton and begins dabbing the application to his brother’s lip.

They sit in silence, Sherlock hiding his winces and Mycroft cleaning the blood and bruises.

“When are they coming back?” asks Sherlock.

“I’m not sure. Probably not for another few days.” Mycroft is used to their parents being gone for business trips, but Sherlock is still wrapping his mind around it.

Silence falls again. Then Sherlock speaks up:

“Are you really making Ginger Nuts?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.”

It takes everything in Mycroft not to crack a smile. “Why is that?”

“You don’t like Ginger Nuts and you only do things that benefit yourself,” he says bluntly.

Mycroft hums. “You really think so little of me?”

“Yes.”

They both share a grin.

Mycroft’s face hardens as he wipes another trail of blood on Sherlock’s cheek. “Did you decide to make another quip?”

Something changes in Sherlock’s expression. Something akin to…embarrassment? Shame? Mycroft’s not sure, but he’s never seen his brother acquire such a look.

“I didn’t,” Sherlock replies.

“Then what happened?” Mycroft demands, though his voice is quiet.

Sherlock shrugs. “I don’t know.”

And it truly seems like he doesn’t know. “Then tell me what could have possible occurred.”

Sherlock looks down, his finger trailing the design of the solar system on his bed sheet. “I thought I made a friend.”

Mycroft blinks. “A friend?”

Sherlock nods. “He said he wanted to be my friend. At break, he offered me to join him at the back of the building to play, and I said yes because…well, I told you about the pond that’s back there.”

Sherlock enjoys observing the frogs that live around there.

“I thought I’d show him the pond,” Sherlock says, this time more quietly. “But then we got there and he pushed me in the mud. His apparent friends came around the corner and…”

“Did that,” Mycroft finishes, nodding to Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock nods in answer.

Mycroft will never understand it. Out of all things, he will never understand this. Yes, Sherlock is odd. He has required rudeness over the past year, but Mycroft fully believes that Sherlock has just been taking after him.

Then there are the admittedly good things about him. Sherlock enjoys rambling about scientific discoveries, he likes to play in ponds and rain, he likes to help Mummy bake, he likes to play Pirates (which is actually quite fun), and he is a swift and independent learner. Mycroft admires these qualities. And though he’s never been good at showing his affection (and possibly never will be), he and Sherlock know how to make their relationship work.

“I will take care of them,” Mycroft says as Sherlock wipes tears from his eyes.

“They’re big,” Sherlock says. “And scary.”

Mycroft snorts. “Bigger than you. Not me.”

Hesitantly, he puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. This seems to give a sign to Sherlock that he’s been waiting for, and he hugs Mycroft tightly. Stunned, Mycroft settles for patting his curls awkwardly, but this doesn’t will Sherlock away. Sherlock continues to hug him and cry, and Mycroft wants to make it all go away.

After a while, Sherlock releases him and sniffles stubbornly, wiping more tears. “Can I have Ginger Nuts now?”

Mycroft stands, nodding to signal Sherlock to come along. “You’re assisting me. I know you know how to make these in your sleep.”

——

In a random building, in a random place. That’s usually where he is.

Mycroft hears either miserable sounds or nothing at all. He sees stranger’s eyes rolling to the back of their head while taking sedatives or pills.

The curls are unmistakable. Sherlock is huddled up in a corner, a blue hoodie wrapped around him loosely. Mycroft nudges him. He then turns him and is not startled to see his pale skin, his unhealthily sharpened cheekbones or his dull eyes.

Mycroft sighs.

He helps Sherlock up and practically drags him to the vehicle parked thankfully close outside.

Carefully putting him in the passenger’s seat, Mycroft gets behind the steering wheel.

Mycroft glances at him, and is overcome with what his brother has turned into.

“Brother mine. Why do you hurt yourself so?”

He knows Sherlock doesn’t hear him, doesn’t understand his whispers.

Maybe that’s for the best.

——

“I worry about him…constantly.”

John stares at him. “That’s nice of you,” he murmurs.

“But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you call a difficult relationship.” Mycroft keeps his voice impassive. His heart aches.

John’s phone pings. It’s obviously from Sherlock.

They continue with comments back and forth. Mycroft feigns an impression that he’s only wanting Sherlock’s whereabouts for personal gain. John seems to believe it wholeheartedly.

Mycroft can’t decide if John is worth Sherlock’s time.

Probably not.

Mycroft analyzes him to get a rise out of him.

“Are we done?” John asks, attempting to keep his frustration to a minimum.

Anger issues. Of course.

The rest of the meeting goes not so smoothly. John leaves obviously bothered and Mycroft doesn’t know, he doesn’t know if he can trust this man to even come close to deserving Sherlock’s friendship.

No one does. It’s the truth.

Mycroft has been called overprotective. He’s been called annoying. Unfair. Unethical.

Mostly by Sherlock.

But what are big brothers for?

——

You can read it here on ao3 as well.

I hope you all enjoyed! Love me some Sherlock and Mycroft lore.

Prompt by @calaisreno Thank you!

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