#mycroft oneshot

[beneathashadytree]

Hello! Can I request prompt 16 with mycroft from mtp? I hope you have a nice day!

FIRSTS - MYCROFT HOLMES X READER

Warnings : none I think, this is not proofread, reader is gender-neutral!

Genre : fluff n puppy love

Word count : 0.6K words

Additional notes : Hi nonnie! This was a very sweet request, and felt like a breath of fresh air. Hope you like this as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it!💗

Prompt : “You were my first kiss.”

Tip jar if you’d like to buy me a Ko-Fi!

Masterlist

The gloved hand that was stroking their waist oh-so-tenderly, and the other calloused one that gently tilted their chin upwards, couldn’t possibly distract them from the fact that they were being kissed by none other than the man they’d fantasized about for the past nearly 3 years.

Even in their most fanciful dreams, they had never quite imagined the softness of his lips brushing at theirs, barely there at first, before pressing more surely as they melted into the kiss—and his careful embrace. They hadn’t ever dared to picture how his shuddering breath would mingle with theirs, or how his touch burned in its wake, or how his blue eyes would look, darkened as his emotions swept them up altogether.

But there they were, actually kissing Mycroft Holmes, and not a single coherent thought remained in their head.

Stunned, they’d stilled at the start, before his warm lips and the affectionate look on his face completely robbed them of any other thought than to follow his lead. They hadn’t the faintest idea what to do, but to try and kiss him back by mirroring his actions was their best shot.

It felt far too soon when he pulled back, though they could understand that it was done under the guise of propriety. Only when he’d left a few inches of space between them could they finally dare to exhale, though that gave their body enough time to register the fact that their knees had suddenly grown wobbly.

��Oh dear,” they faintly said, stumbling a little as they tried to regain their balance. Mycroft looked a little alarmed, and his fingers fell from their chin while his grip on their waist grew tighter—a fact that only served to make their tummy flutter harder.

“Are you alright?” His deep voice was too near, and too much all at once. They could feel their face burning more with every second that passed, and knew that they must’ve been a rather embarrassing shade of red.

“Yes,” they managed to say, leaning on his rather muscular arm for a few beats, just so they could straighten up. “Yes, I’m only… a little overwhelmed.”

Mycroft frowned at that, an expression it seemed he was so scarcely without—though they, who knew him better than anyone else, knew that to be quite untrue, for they’d seen him smile so gently more than enough times than was good for their heart.

“Have I misread something?” His question was quiet, but direct. “Was this unwanted?”

“No!” they were quick to exclaim, before growing embarrassed by their outburst. “No, it just… you were my first kiss.”

A look of understanding came on his face, before being replaced by one of faint amusement. “Ah.”

“Ah indeed.” They sounded vexed as they brushed the front of their crisp shirt, though that was probably directed at their own self. “I’ve embarrassed myself, haven’t I?”

“Why on Earth would you have?”

Scoffing, they glanced back up from the imaginary flint. “Come now, it was abundantly clear how inexperienced I was. With kissing, I mean.”

“I hadn’t noticed, actually.” At their look of incredulity, Mycroft insisted. “No, really.” He looked painfully awkward for a half-second, before he cleared his throat. “Perhaps it’s because it was my first kiss as well, and I was too… distracted to notice.”

Dumbfounded (and probably even left gaping) by his revelation, they could only splutter out one question. “Uh, you…? I mean, what distraction? That is, what had you distracted?”

Another awkward clearing of the throat. Dark eyes met theirs soon enough, and the hesitation on his face might’ve even been counted as bashfulness. “It might have something to do with the fact that I’d been wanting to do this for quite some time now.”

Lightheaded at yet another shocking revelation, they shakily breathed in, voice coming out smaller than they’d anticipated. “Ah.”

“Ah indeed.”

Taglist : @sherlockscumslut @lilias-highlights

[lazydoodlesandfanfic]

Answer The Phone (Mycroft X Daughter!Reader) *PARENTAL

Characters: Mycroft X Daughter!Reader, Sherlock X Niece!Reader

Universe: Sherlock

Warnings: mentions of being drugged via gas (fun story, this happened to me once lol), bomb, explosion, burns, unhealthy relationship with parent

Request: Hello could you do mycroft x daughter reader. Final problem the two have really broken father and daughter relationship and they haven't express themselves and because of it sherlock is kinda the father figure of the reader. So instead of Sherlock doing the phonecall its the mycroft who did the phonecall and reader almost said 'I love you ' to mycroft but its time up and mycrift witness the explosion in reader apartment and the Holmes are broken as they heard the shrill scream coming from the reader. Its up to you if you wanna turn out to let reader died. 😊

It had been a long time since you had actually gotten along with your dad. A long time since tensions weren’t running high when in his presence, well aware that things were one thoughtless comment away from a bicker or an argument. Whether it was wanting something from one another- more affection from him, or a more agreeable personality from you- or just not agreeing on things in general. He often commented on how you were more like your uncle Sherlock, even when you were young. Back then you took it as a compliment, seeing your uncle as a genius who adored you and was by far the funnest uncle in the world, but in your pre-teens you realised he meant it as an insult.

You could never forgive him for doing that, even if he didn’t mean it, or didn’t even realise what he was saying. Everytime he said it, it made you pull away from him even more. Spend more time with the man he compared you to, the only person who seemed to actually care about you. Of course, that was until you met Mrs Hudson and then John moved in with Sherlock. Mrs Hudson kept you company when your uncle was busy and you were avoiding your dad, and she’d softly poke into your home life and your relationship with your dad and try and give advice. John thought you were Sherlock’s assistant for a short while before Sherlock corrected him, acting insulted that he thought you were ‘just an assistant’. When he met Mycroft, he immediately began to understand why you weren’t close, and tried to be a responsible adult you could turn to. In the end, when you became a legal adult, you moved to an apartment much, much closer to Sherlock than your dad, and never in the 3 years you’d had it, had your dad stepped foot inside of it. He wasn’t allowed to. 

You had a lot of feelings towards your dad from childhood to now. Anger, resentment, distrust. A disconnect you never thought and come to accept could ever be fixed. Whenever you needed support, you went to Sherlock. John. Mrs Hudson. Never him. But this time was different. 

You were currently trapped in the said apartment. The one place you were supposed to feel safe no matter what, yet here you were, eyes focussed on the bomb that had been planted in the middle of your living room, the heart of your apartment, with several wires linking to it all across the apartment like spiderwebs. Linked to every possible escape route- the windows, the fire escape, and the only door in and out. You didn’t remember what had happened- you vaguely remember an odd smell as you wet to sleep last night, and when you awoke, you found yourself laying on the floor of your living room, and sitting up and seeing the device. Whoever had done this, had been nice enough to leave your phone right beside the bomb. You didn’t call anyone or even turn the phone on for several hours, scared that it had been tampered with as well and that was also a trigger, but you grew desperate. The first person you tried to call was your dad. You didn’t get through, so then you called Sherlock, and he picked up almost immediately, and you told him what was going on. 

That was about two hours ago now. The police cars littered the streets outside, the complex and surrounding buildings completely evacuated. It was just you and this bomb within a 50 foot radius. Well, for a period of time, both Sherlock and John were on the other side of the door, asking you a billion and one questions about what you could see, and you described everything to the best of your abilities, and it was useful. One, Sherlock was able to piece together it was well made, and whoever made this was an expert and had experience with this- probably a military man, working in a bomb squad or something, and that this was purely explosive, no nails or anything to cause more damage, and due the size, the blast wouldn’t go far past the walls of your home. However, after demanding his honesty, he admitted he also had no clue how to diffuse it, or if that was even possible. It seemed too fragile, that even a light breeze could set it off. That solidified your decision to remain perfectly still within two of the wires attached to your windows, too scared to even touch the glass or move to quickly, remembering his comment on a breeze, and didn’t want to risk vibration. 

You still hadn’t been able to reach your dad. 

“John?” You had asked over the phone. The phone was often being in call between people, mostly Sherlock and John, though Mrs Hudson had called when neither were available to try and keep you calm. It was John’s turn as Sherlock was following leads. 

“Yeah? Is something happening?” John asked. 

“No it’s just… I can’t reach my dad. I keep trying to call him but he won’t pick up… I… I just want to hear his voice.” You admitted. It sounded ridiculous, childish, but you were tired, hungry, and the adrenaline had drained your energy a while ago now. “Does he know what’s happening?” You asked. He was silent on his side for a minute. 

“I don’t know, but I tell you what, I’m going to personally find him, and drag him here, and make him answer his phone, okay?” He promised, and you could hear the anger oozing over the phone, which you couldn’t help but smile at. “In the meantime, I think Sherlock is going to call you later, I think he’s onto something. Hang on, alright?” He said, before handing up. You placed the phone on the floor, carefully standing up, and with distance between yourself and the window, you peered out of it, able to see John as he dashed off towards Lestrade, telling him something, before the pair got into a car and took off presumably to go and find your dad. Looking around more, you spotted Mrs Hudson peering up. She waved when she saw you, and you waved back. With nothing else to do, you sat back down in front of the bomb, trying to examine it to the best of your ability, seeing nothing of importance, before you laid down on the floor, closing your eyes, and waiting.

You flinched when your phone rang. You flinched every time it rang, even if someone had told you just a minute prior it was coming. You reached over, picking it up and placing it to your ear, remembering what John had said. “Sherlock?” You asked. 

“How many pieces of furniture in your flat can you crawl under?” His question was far from reassuring, as you bolted up, on high alert. 

“U-Um, I don’t know, why? Do I need to hide? Take cover? What’s going on?” You panicked. 

“The wiring to the bomb is far too fragile for someone to be able to rig it from the outside after escaping. They must have either found or made another way inside, somewhere where you wouldn’t have noticed. If we can find it you can get out yourself, or we can get inside. Think. Lay on the floor and look around for anything, furniture that you can get under, or furniture light enough but large enough to cover an escape but be able to move from below. Be. Careful. Watch the wires. Call me back if you find anything, I’m on my way back.” He said before hanging up, leaving you alone with silence and overwhelming pressure. You looked at the wires around you, before trying to think of the best places for someone to hide a hatch- under the coffee table, the recliner that you knew was easy to move, your wardrobe in your room which had some crawl space underneath, and for you, the most creepy- under your bed. You quickly checked under your coffee table in front of you, of course finding nothing, because of course that would be too easy. Your recliner was across from you, so after a deep breath, you got down on the ground, and carefully crawled under the wires, spotting a wire that was too low to crawl under, and you stood and carefully stepped over it. You then carefully moved your recliner, checking underneath, and found nothing. That left your bedroom. 

Your phone rang again, and your cursed yourself, realising you left it beside the table, and you hurriedly but carefully moved back, grabbing it and answering it. “Hello? Sherlock?” 

“Y/N?” Your dad’s voice caught you off guard, and you gasped in surprised. “What’s going on? John told me to call you and said it was dire.” He asked. A relief came over you just from hearing his voice, your eyes burning as you sniffed. 

“Dad… it’s bad.” You started, getting silence on the phone. “There’s… someone put some sort of sedative gas into my flat when I went to bed and broke in- they moved me into the living room and- there’s a bomb. There’s a bomb in the living room and it’s wired up to every escape and I can’t get out and I’m scared and I don’t want to die-” You rambled to him before you heard him finally repeating your name to try and interrupt you. 

“Y/N, Y/N, breathe. Is Sherlock working on it?” He asked, that last sentence sound a little distance, and you faintly heard John confirm in the background, before he returned to the phone. “Alright. Sherlock’s working on it. What has he told you?” 

“He um… He said that he thinks there’s a secret entrance somewhere- and that’s how the person who did this escaped after rigging everything. He told me to look for it- I’m going to check in my bedroom next.” You explained to him, looking over, being relieved when you saw no wire attached to the door. 

“Is that door rigged?” 

“No. Hold on, I have to crawl under the wires.” You explained, getting back down, crawling under the wires, before reaching it the door, and holding the phone to your ear. “Okay, I’m at the door.”

“Do you feel like a secret agent?” He asked, catching you off guard. 

“What?” You asked, pausing in your plan. 

“Crawling under and over the wires. It’s like the laser lights and those agents avoiding them. You used to love those movies when you were little. You thought that was what Sherlock did in his cases.” He reminisced. A faint smile met your lips. You’d totally forgotten about that. 

“Yeah… I remember one time when I pulled out all the red thread from a jumper you had gotten me, pinning it all over the house so I could pretend to be a secret agent and then using it to make an information board… you were so mad when you came back home because the jumper was some expensive brand and I’d made the board on a wall and wrote on it and everything… sorry about that.” You told him, somehow finding the energy to chuckle pathetically. 

“Don’t apologise.” Mycroft told you. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. You were 6, you were just being a child.” He pointed out. “I’m… I’m also sorry that I didn’t answer your calls. I should have known something was wrong when you kept trying to reach me.” He apologised. You hummed, before you realised something. 

“This is the first time we’ve been able to actually talk without bickering or arguing in years.” You pointed out. You heard him sigh. 

“When this whole mess is over, I promise you we’re going to have a proper family dinner, catch up, and actually talk. No bickering. No arguing. A genuine conversation. How does that sound?” He asked. You smiled to yourself. This was the best thing that had happened all day, not like that was hard. 

“Yeah. Let’s hope the escape is in my room.” You said, remembering your task. You reached out, grabbing the handle of your bedroom door, and opening it, and pulling the door open. “Hey, you know, despite not really getting along my whole life, I want you to know that I do love-” You looked up to search your room, but the sound of a beep made your eyes focus on the bomb attached to your bedframe, this one a lot bigger, that was rigged to your bedroom door, that you had just set off.

Mycroft heard you gasp, the sound of you running, hearing you muttering repeatedly ‘no, no, no, no”, the sound of you trying to open a door before the call ended. “Y/N?” Mycroft asked. He heard nothing. He tried calling you back, and it didn’t even ring. He got an awful feeling in his stomach and he wanted to be sick, but he looked up at John who looked confused at what was happening, having not heard what he’d heard. “Get me to her flat right now.” 

By the time the pair arrived on your street, it was already blocked off and there was more than one firetruck trying to subdue the fire that was blazing where your flat used to be. Mycroft didn’t speak as he approached, seeing the sight, realising what it was exactly that he heard. He heard his daughter realise she triggered an explosive. He heard his daughter run across the one place she was meant to be safe to the front door. He heard his daughter try and open the door, and realise it was locked and she was trapped inside.

He heard his daughter die, terrified and alone. And for what? Why? Why not him, or Sherlock? He wanted to be angry, demand answers, find who did this and get revenge even if it isn’t lawful, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t find it in himself to be angry right now. Only guilty. He should have spent more time with you. He should have tried harder to be a better parent to you, he should have been kinder, more understanding. He should have been there. 

“John! Mycroft!” Mycroft didn’t hear Mrs Hudson at first as she dashed over as quick as she could- she was sobbing and sniffling, clutching a handkerchief to her face as she approached. 

“Mrs Hudson, what happened?!” John asked alarmed and out of breath. 

“There was a second bomb in the bedroom, when she opened the door it set it off.” She explained. Mycroft finally looked away from the blaze to look at the woman. The call had ended only 20 minutes or so prior, and since the flat was still in fire, so there was no way to examine the scene. 

“How do you know that?” He asked her. She didn’t say anything, simply grabbing his arm and pulling him down the street, pass the firetrucks, past the police who looked defeated, and towards an ambulance. The back doors were open, and inside he was able to see two paramedics tending to someone in the bed. He felt his heart leap into his throat as he sprinted to the edge and jumped inside, able to finally see your face, an oxygen mask over your face, burns littering your body, and you were unconscious as a paramedic was placing bandaging on one of your burns. “Is she okay? Is my daughter okay?” He demanded answers, one of the paramedics looking up at him. 

“She’s suffered burns and blunt force trauma from the explosion. She was conscious when she was able to get out, but she fell unconscious, and we need to get her to the hospital now. Please sit down if you’re coming with her.” He instructed, and Mycroft followed and sat down. He turned, seeing John and Mrs Hudson stood, staring at you. 

“Please make sure Sherlock finds out who did this. They need to pay for this.” Mycroft demanded. John nodded firmly, before the doors shut, the sirens turned on and the ambulance began to move. Mycroft put his whole focus on you, making sure your chest moved up and down, looking for any sign of you waking up, and more importantly, any sign you were in pain. He only saw you breathing, and he decided for now he should be thankful for that. He didn’t know what exactly he was going to do, but he knew that somehow, someway, he was going to fix this. He was going to make everything better. He had to.

Hope you like it! If you have any questions, please send them in!

*Not my gif

TAGS: @holy-tea-cup-blog @sassy-specter @keenmarvellover @multifandomfix @sleutherclaw @otterly-fey @courtneychicken @graysonmalfoy @bellero @originalpottervengerlock @supernatural-pan @esoltis280 @lady-of-lies @lenaswritingandstuff @macbetheliza @mandywholock1980 @cdwmtjb8 @caswinchester2000 @determinedpines@huntheimpossible @automaticbakeryfreakshoe

[lumillsie]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ elementary masterlist. ੈ✩‧₊˚

╰┈➤ sherlock holmes, joan watson, marcus bell, mycroft holmes, jamie moriarty, odin reichenbach, gareth lestrade

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ sherlock holmes. ੈ✩‧₊˚

tba.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ joan watson. ੈ✩‧₊˚

tba.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ marcus bell. ੈ✩‧₊˚

tba.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ mycroft holmes. ੈ✩‧₊˚

tba.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ jaime moriarty. ੈ✩‧₊˚

tba.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ odin reichenbach. ੈ✩‧₊˚

tba.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ gareth lestrade. ੈ✩‧₊˚

tba.

[chihoshisai]

A Lonely Flower Amidst a Garden

Pairing : Mycroft x Reader / Word count : 1254 / Genre : Fluff and lighthearted / Summary : Mycroft has been injured and stumbles unpon you.

A/N : i recommend listening to "summer" by joe hisaishi while reading this!

Legwork.

There are a few things that Mycroft disliked about his work such as cocktails - interacting with people he deemed as goldfish was no fun - the worst of them all was legwork. Being on the field, having to play an active role in operations that he would usually plan from the comfort of his office were dreadful. Unfortunately, today was one of those days. Things went south unexpectedly as he had been shot in his left shoulder. The pain was one he never felt before, as he covered his wound with the hand from his uninjured arm. 

He somehow managed to get away from the scene before things got too ugly and was now walking in an open field surrounded by hydrangeas. To make matters worse, a spring drizzle of rain enveloped the area, freezing his body. Panting, he kneeled on the muddy grass ; his phone had run out of battery and he was now stuck in a flower field with no choice but to wait for Anthea to find his location. Sensing a presence, he turned his head to the left and saw you, your back turned to him, hidden behind a lilac umbrella, befitting the colors of the nearby hydrangeas.

Mycroft winced from the pain, reverting his gaze to his arm. Before he found the courage to stand back again, thinking of asking to borrow your phone, you had already approached him while putting your umbrella over both of your heads. 

“Are you alright?” You asked him before seeing the injury on his arm. 

“Well as you can see-” Mycroft was cut short due to the fact that you had now crouched to be around the same level as him, resting the umbrella on your shoulder. 

“What are you doing?” Taking out a handkerchief from your pocket, you quietly whispered “stay still.” 

As Mycroft saw the fabric, he hesitantly moved his hand. You wrapped the cloth delicately on his wound. 

“There, it’s nothing much, but I believe it’s better than covering it up with your hand.” You raised your eyes to look into his, giving him something that faintly looked like a smile. 

“That was quite kind of you, thank you.” You stood up, still shielding both of you from the rain. 

“There is a small hospital not far from here. I can take you there if you’re interested?” In turn, Mycroft also stood up agreeing to have you lead the way. So you did, you walked next to him holding the umbrella. For a while, nothing could be heard but the sound of the rain hitting the flower field. Not wanting to inquire Mycroft about his situation you tried making conversation on another subject 

“The flowers are quite pretty at this time of the year. Shame it has to rain today.” Mycroft glanced down at you. 

“Indeed, I also would have wished to have walked upon such a place in much better conditions.”  You lowered your gaze to the ground, “so would I.”

Many questions floated in Mycroft’s mind. You being here, was it a coincidence or was there another reason for this? Were you really taking him to a hospital? Allie or foe? He had never seen you before, but as he was in a vulnerable position, and you didn’t seem harmful he had no choice but to blindly trust you. In any case, if you would dare to try anything, he was convinced he could manage to escape you like he did earlier today. 

“In normal circumstances people would have called an ambulance, why didn’t you?” He inquired, trying to deduce any clues about your intentions. 

“An ambulance is unable to come this deep in the garden. They would need to carry you back. In my opinion it’s inconvenient for you and for them. Plus you seem to be able to walk just fine so what’s the harm?” You blankly say. You did not bother looking back at him either, focused on the path before you. 

“Fair enough.” Mycroft did not discern any ill intentions from you therefore decided to press no further. 

“Plus, this is the least I can do. I can’t just leave an injured man all alone in a flower garden in such weather.” I do not need another reason to hate myself, you thought to yourself bitterly. 

These last words made Mycroft take a slight bit of interest in you. He scrutinized you ; you seemed  neither happy nor upset by the rain, while giving off an air of sorrow. Your eyes arbored no light, as if something was displeasing you. Yet, you were still strangers. It was not his place to ask about your personal life.  

“What is your name?” Mycroft tried to prevent the silence from falling back between you. 

“Let’s see… Mary Poppins.” This time, you looked up at him, a vague smile on the corner of your lips. Despite your flat response Mycroft couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Very well, so you shall be.” He understood your wish to keep your identity a secret and didn't press further. Appreciating the fact that you also didn’t inquire about his identity and circumstances. Before long, the two of you reached the hospital, both getting in. 

“Thank you for your help, you’re free to go wherever you wish now.” He felt his heart clutch at those words, catching himself wanting to spend more time with you. You weren’t annoying, over talkative or too energetic. Despite your gloominess, he liked your knack for humor, was grateful for your kindness to bring him here and most importantly was drawn by the mysterious identity that you made for yourself. Of course, he could easily find all there was to know about you thanks to his minor - yet most important - position in the british government, but somehow he wanted to discover it all by spending time with you. For once, he wanted to try doing what the common people did. Getting to know each other.  

“My job is not completely over, I'm afraid. You are not medically treated yet. Until then, I shall remain and make sure you get the treatment you deserve.” You remained expressionless, but a hint of concern could still be heard in your voice. 

“Alright, suit yourself.” Mycroft smiled at you, somewhat feeling relieved. Soon after, he was making a phone call, as you patiently waited for him in the waiting room, your umbrella soaking the floor in front of your shoes. He came to you, making sure to show you his bandaged arm. 

“You seem much better, I’m glad.” You creeped an awkward smile on your face, but soon returned to your resting face.  

“My ride should be here any minute now. I cannot thank you enough for all you did. May I call you a taxi? ” Mycroft looked at you, dreading the end of this encounter. 

“It was nothing much. Anyone would have done the same. But I see, may you get home safe, free of danger. No need for a taxi.” Both of you stood near the entrance of the hospital, side by side looking at the grey scenery made by the rain. Far too soon to Mycroft’s liking, his usual black car came. You saw him off, feeling he was disheartened, before his chauffeur closed the door, you couldn’t help it. 

“I hope we meet again. Perhaps on a rainy day. I would like that.” For a split second, Mycroft saw a glint of hope in your eyes, but you had already opened your umbrella and walked away before he could reply.

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

A/N : will make a part 2 !

[j-eryewrites]

What the hell was that?!

MAIN MASTERLIST | REQS OPEN

Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Request: Hi!! I’m loving your Arbitrary Lives fic so much!❤️ I was wondering if I could request a Sherlock one-shot, please? My idea was that they come home from a case and are having an argument because one of them did something risky and there’s like a “why do you care?” “Because I love you!” moment. I’d love an angsty confession!!🥹

Warnings: Guns firing, breaking and entering, Sherlock is Sherlock, angst with a happy ending, idiots in love, Sherlock shuts reader up with a kiss, angry confession, worried Sherlock. 

You stormed into the flat. The door swung behind her hitting the wall with a thud. You frantically ran your hand through your hair trying to distract yourself from the scolding you’d get from Sherlock. 

 You two were working on a case. A case that his brother, Mycroft, had asked you to help with. It was a case of national security. A case that required the two to go snooping. A case that could easily go very wrong very fast. 

Mycroft assured the two of you that the office building would be empty. All you and Sherlock had to do was go in and look around. Sherlock would use his brilliant mind and you’d look around for anything useful. 

_______

“You ready?” You had asked Sherlock more to calm yourself instead of him. You weren’t ready despite the years of snooping and solving cases alongside Sherlock. You were going to mess up. You knew it. 

“Always,” Sherlock replied. His voice was cool and calm. He straightened his coat. Your eyes followed as his hands lifted the collar of his coat. Afterwards, he returned his focus to the door. His long finger worked diligently to pick the lock on the office door. Fingers that you wished were trailing your body right now. 

It was no surprise you liked Sherlock. Well, it was a surprise for you. He was a confident, stubborn, sarcastic, oblivious man who had a smart mouth. He always seemed to get on your nerves and knew exactly which buttons to press. That didn’t stop you from barking back at him. You had a mind of your own. With each argument or sarcastic comment that treaded close to the fine line of flirting, your mind and heart slowly opened up to the idea of Sherlock. Before long you found yourself blushing in his presence. His blue eyes looking at you were all you need to turn as bright as a cherry. 

It wasn’t until John stopped by one day that you realized you liked Sherlock. John saw your face turn bright red and immediately knew. He was too good of a friend not to notice. Unlike Sherlock, John actually had the ability to read people’s emotions quite well. He pulled you to the side and you confessed. John only smiled and chuckled to himself. He urged you to tell Sherlock. A suggestion that you profusely shot down. Despite how much you long to tell Sherlock, to take your partnership to another level, you needed Sherlock as a friend. You needed him in your life. His comments, his beautiful mind, and his friendship meant more to you than anything. You couldn’t lose it. You couldn’t lose Sherlock, so you kept your mouth shut. 

“You’re staring,” Sherlock smirked. 

You shook yourself out of your daze. “Sorry, just…”

“Nervous?” He replied. 

“Yeah,” you chuckled. 

“We’ll be fine.” He stated. Sherlock’s way of comforting you. 

We, you repeated in your mind. He said ‘we’. You smiled softly at his words. 

“Yeah.” 

“Take my hand,” Sherlock instructed. 

You looked at him with wide eyes. “Sherlock we’re supposed to…”

“I don’t care what my brother said. You’re nervous and that alone is a disaster. Let me hold your hand.” 

He stuck his hand out in front of you. You were hesitant. Your hand hovering above his. Sherlock grew impatient and clasped your hand. You gasped slightly as he tugged your hand to his side pulling your body closer. 

“Relax,” he whispered. His hand squeezed yours gently. 

You closed your eyes and took in a deep breath. You could feel Sherlock’s stare and it wasn’t helping with the nerves. Get a hold of yourself, Y/N! You thought. 

Your lungs had reached their capacity, finally exhaling out. A wave of calm hit you and your hand felt cold. Sherlock had let go. 

“Good, shall we?” He asked. He turned the knob and with a click the office door opened. 

________

“What the hell was that?!” Sherlock swore. 

You turned to look at the man in question. His jaw was clenched tightly his icy blue eyes bore into yours. You felt a chill creep up your spine. There was the saying that eyes were the window to the soul, and you could swear he was staring directly at yours. 

You rolled your eyes. “I saved your ass.” 

“Y/N,” Sherlock growled. 

You turned around to face him. 

“What?” You spat. The adrenaline from the evening was finally leaving. 

_________

You should have known someone was going to be there. It did not make sense for a company of that stature, especially a criminal organization, to not have night guards. 

You and Sherlock had split up. You would take one office and he would get the other. 

As you scavenged through the office files, snapping photos of anything you thought would be useful, you heard a whistle. Someone was whistling a song. You heard keys jangle and the whistle getting closer and closer to the office you were in. In a hast, you closed the file cabinets and scoured the room for a hiding place. Your only option was underneath the desk. A cliche, but it was better than being caught red-handed. You darted across the room and fell under the desk. There was a rustling and then the door opened. The creaking of the hinges echoed in your mind as a bright flash of light swung across the room. 

You held your breath and forced every muscle in your body to be still. The guard stepped inside the room. The light grew brighter, and you closed your eyes. 

Then it was dark. The door shut and the guard moved down the hall. You held your breath a moment longer before releasing it. Carefully, you peered up behind the desk. You pulled out your phone to text Sherlock and warn him. Sherlock. 

You heard the guard stop at the door to the office Sherlock was searching through. Sherlock wasn’t as small as you and if the office was anything like the one you were in, Sherlock would have no place to hide. You shot up from behind the desk and ran to the door. You listened closely, for any sign that Sherlock had been found. 

“What the…” the guard muttered. 

You opened the office door and ran down the hallway towards Sherlock and the guard. You could see the guard looking through the room. It was a mess. Sherlock sure knew how to create a mess. You saw a head of curly dark hair standing behind a bookshelf, a few feet from the bright light of the flashlight. The guard grabbed the radio from his hip and raised it to his lips. His finger pressed down on the button. 

“Excuse me!” You spoke. 

The guard turned around. His flashlight blinded your eyes. He lowered the flashlight. 

“Who are you?” 

Your eyes darted from Sherlock to the guard. “Uh… I work here. I left something in my office. I was wondering if it’d be alright to get it. I know it’s late, but…”

The guard looked you up and down. “Work here, eh?” 

You gulped. “Yeah.” 

The guard placed the radio back on his hips and hovered his hand over his firearm. 

“Bosses didn’t tell me they had such a pretty thing working for them, thought they’d only hire men.” 

Your eyes widened. Sherlock shuffled from his hiding place and began to creep out of the office. The guard turned to look behind him, but you recalled his attention. 

“Right! I’m a… new hire. Started a few days ago. I work in the finance department.” You stated confidently. 

Sherlock froze and the guard’s face grew into a smile. “There is no finance department darling.” His hand latched onto the gun and pulled it out. Your eyes widened and you ran. Bang! A shot rang out and you crouched behind a desk. 

“Come out, pretty girl. Wanna have some fun with you.” The guard declared. 

The guard shot the gun again. Your eyes shut tight, and your body was stuck in place. “If you come out now, I’ll make sure to be extra nice when I kill you. Make it short and quick.” 

You felt a hand on your shoulder, and you opened your eyes. A hand covered your mouth stifling the gasp. It was Sherlock. He brought a finger to his lips signalling you to be quiet. He peered up behind you. 

“This way,” Sherlock whispered to you. 

Bang! “I’ll give you to the count of three,” The guard said. His footsteps grew closer and closer to the desk Sherlock, and you were behind. 

“One,” the guard muttered. 

You followed Sherlock crawling across the floor. He turned into a hallway and stood up. You followed suit. 

“Two.” 

You shuddered and Sherlock grabbed your hand. He pulled you along. You two were a few paces faster than a walk. You knew that if you ran, your steps would echo off the walls, and you’d end up with a bullet or two. 

“Three!” The guard exclaimed. 

You and Sherlock had reached a corner. He pulled you to a stop and looked around the corner. There was the door. Your escape. Now you two had to reach it. 

“Got you!” The guard yelled. 

You jumped at his voice. Sherlock shushed you again as the two of you began to creep towards the door. 

The man let out a laugh. “Naught girl. Now I have to be mean.” There was a click and a static noise. “I’ve got an intruder.” 

Then came thundering footsteps. The guard was coming down the hallway. In a moment he would turn and see you and Sherlock. Your breath became frantic. 

Sherlock heard the steps and the two of you began to run. You reached the door and pushed it open just before the guard turned the corner. He fired another shot. The glass of the door shattered. Sherlock grabbed your hand. 

“Run!” He yelled. 

The two of you ran out of the building and down the street. Adrenaline was pumped through your veins like oxygen urging your legs to carry you a bit farther. You didn’t stop running until you got back to Baker Street. 

_______

“Why did you do that?” Sherlock asked. His voice filled with fury. “He wouldn’t have found me.” 

“You don’t know that Sherlock.” 

“I very well do know it” Sherlock replied. “What you did was reckless. He could have killed you.”

“It wasn’t reckless, Sherlock. I was protecting you.” 

“Why?!” Sherlock asked. He stepped towards you. His voice grew louder and more frantic. 

There was silence. All of London was asleep or at least they were. You were sure Sherlock could have woken up the whole street with the pitch of his voice. 

You bit your lip and looked to the side. Tears now filled your eyes. How could not see? You’d risk everything for him. 

“Look at me, Y/N,” Sherlock commanded. “Why would you do something so stupid just …” 

“Because I love you!” You exploded. Your eyes widened at your confession. If the street wasn’t awake before, it would be now. 

Sherlock’s mouth fell open. He stood straighter and his eyes bubbled with confusion. 

“Y/N” Sherlock whispered. The way he said your name made you feel like you could shatter into a thousand pieces. 

“I love you, Sherlock.” Your voice trembled. You had said it and now he knew. It was over the friendship was over. He would never be able to look at you again. You’d have to…

His soft lips were now on yours. Sherlock’s large hands cupped your face and held you close. His lips were uncertain as they moved against yours. He kissed you. He kissed you like he was on his last breath. Breathing you in like the drugs that wired his brain. You kissed him back. Your hands, one wrapped tightly in his hair, and the other on his chest. 

Finally, he pulled back. The two of you collecting your breaths. His forehead rested against yours, and his hands slid down from your cheeks to your neck. His cold finger felt your pulse. It’s pounding reminding him that you were alive. Both of you were. He held his hands there grounding himself to your heartbeat. 

You tried to pull away, but he pulled you back in. One of his hands now rested on your waisted. He hugged you close to his body. Your body was smothered by his warmth. 

“Promise me, you won’t ever do that again.” Sherlock pleaded. 

You nodded hugging him back. 

“I love you, too,” Sherlock muttered into your hair. He kissed your temple, lingering there. 

He held you. His friend. His partner in crime. His love. His world. He breathed in your scent. 

He’d give Mycroft the information tomorrow. He’d tell his brother the two of you were done with the case. But that was for tomorrow. Right now, Sherlock was determined to hold you close. To feel your body against his. Your lips on his. To feel your heartbeat that let him know you were alive. That this was real, and you were safe. 

______

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[random-imagines-blog]

You Will See Me {Mycroft Holmes x Female!Reader Oneshot}

Requested by: Anonymous Wordcount: 4277 Summary: The last time you saw Mycroft, you had your heart broken. What happens when you’re confronted by him again? Notes: Not a happy ending.

It had been a long time since you had seen Holmes come up on your cellphone. Years, actually. You couldn’t remember the last time that one of those boys had any reason to call you. Mycroft, that bloody bastard, was off being the Queen’s hand or something like that, running the government from the inside. And then there was Sherlock, who was always in the papers for something or other, solving a case. You had nothing to do with either of their worlds anymore. And they had nothing to do with yours since the incident. There’s always a goddamn incident, isn’t there?

And yet, for some reason, you had kept both of their numbers in your phone. You haven’t texted, you haven’t called, you’ve skipped past them in your contacts multiple times without giving them thought. You were sure that Sherlock could tell you the reason why, though you couldn’t. He knew everything, especially about you. That’s what best friends did. They knew each other, they took care of one another. Although brother trumps best friend, and a brother is always on a brother’s side.

You thought about not answering Sherlock’s call. It was obviously a mistake of some sort. And if it wasn’t - bad  news, surely. Something like a funeral invitation. No, no, Sherlock would have just sent something like that in the post. He wasn’t the personal sort. Knowing that it was going to bother you until you found out that it was a butt-dial, you answered it, keeping your tone as neutral as possible. “Hello?”

“Ahh, good, so you’re not that busy then,” Sherlock said, curt as ever. No hello, no greeting, just straight to what he is deducing from you. You hated when he did that. And you hated when he was correct because it was your one day off from work this week, and you were intending to spend it doing the ever-blissful nothing at all. The most action that you had taken today was getting out of bed and moving to your sofa, turning on the telly and making yourself a nice cup of tea. “Can you join me this evening?”

“I just want to make sure that you have the right number,” You said, leaning back against your cushions. “This is y/n, not John, or whoever it is that you are ordering around at this moment. Would that be all of Scotland Yard now?”

“Yes, I’d say it’s about all,” Sherlock said, and you could imagine his face getting a little smug at the admission. He did enjoy showing off how superior his intellect was, and using it as some sort of power trip. You put up with it in the past, but you haven’t had to in quite some time. It was more annoying and irksome than you remembered. “But I did call the right person, I don’t make amateur mistakes like that. You didn’t answer my question. Can you join me this evening?” And just as you were attempting to think up some sort of excuse, he added on, “Don’t come up with a lie. You know I’ll know if you do.”

“Fine,” You groaned in a very non-adult way. If you were going to be dragged into whatever it is, you had every right to act petulant. “Yes. I can join you this evening - depending on what we are doing. I’m not a detective, and I really don’t want to see any dead bodies -”

“I know you’re not. You used to get sick at the thought of maggots, you’d never be able to handle seeing them on a corpse,” He said, so matter-of-factly.  “No bodies. Unless you are objecting to the animal kind. I was thinking dinner. Bring a guest, if you like. If you have one.”

The thought of Sherlock with a fishing pole came into your mind, wearing wellies because oh the man was fishing. You weren’t in any sort of mood to tell him that you had no boyfriend, no girlfriend, no partner of any kind. You debated on bringing a friend. Surely, Sherlock was going to be bringing John Watson with him. None of your friends would get along with Sherlock - it would be like mixing oil and vinegar together and expecting them to fuse.

“Dinner at your expense I hope?” You questioned.

“Yes,” He said, sounding annoyed for the first time in the conversation. That made you grin. That lightened up your mood a little. That irritation that you could drag out of him without getting insulted the way that everyone else did.

“Then absolutely. I’ll see you at dinner.”

--

As you attempted to pick out a dress from your closet - Sherlock had given you the address of a rather upscale place, a fancy steakhouse that was way above your budget on an ordinary day - you thought back to the last time that you had seen the Holmes boys. Years ago. Almost two decades. You were wearing a dress that was much like the one that you were picking out now - so you quickly returned it. The color red was gorgeous  but it held so many negative emotions now. And then you decided - sod it. You weren’t going to let the color be ruined just because Mycroft had hurt you when you had worn it once. None of what had happened was Sherlock’s fault, and now that he had reached out, you weren’t going to take it out on him anymore.

You stepped into the dress, then pulled it up around your figure. It fit perfectly. It highlighted what you wanted to highlight and it hid what you wanted it to hide. As you looked in the mirror, you really came to grips with the fact that you weren’t the same young, naive woman that you had been when you last were around the Holmes. Your hair might be the same color that it was then, your eyes were still the same shade, but you had a few gray hairs now, a few small wrinkles. You were a professional with a career, not a student at college. The outer differences were slight but everything inside was completely was different. You had confidence. You had experience. You had -

The trauma of being in love with Mycroft Holmes.

Nope, nope, you weren’t going to go there. You were going to smooth the dress over yourself and put on small touches of make up so that you looked like a million bucks when you walked into that restaurant. Like you belonged there. Like you were completely happy to see an old friend and there was nothing at all mortifying about this. A touch of lipstick, swipes of mascara, putting earrings on, all while trying to keep your cool, all while trying not to think about the past but about what this could mean for the future.

Shoes, check. Purse, check. A black-cab waiting outside of your flat to zoom you through the London streets towards the restaurant, check. Time to go.

No matter how much you tried, you couldn’t get Mycroft out of your head now. Sherlock had just brought it all coming back. All of the memories, all of the feelings that you had been burying for so long. Hurt always bubbles up to the surface. That’s what it does. Once a wound is reopened, the scar tissues takes even longer to make it heal. Even the passing streetlights coming on as dusk started to make the sky darker, turning it into a shade of indigo. How many evenings like this had you spent wasting your youth on a man that had been stringing you along? On one that didn’t love you?  Too many. Way too many.

You grew up with the Holmes brothers. You were the same age as Sherlock, and Mycroft was the cool, smooth older brother. You grew up across the street from them, and unlike a lot of the other children in the neighborhood, you weren’t scared off by their intellect and naturally cold demeanor. You knew from the start that there was a warmth underneath there, you just had to stick around for the ice to melt. You might not have been as smart as them, and sometimes it was difficult to catch up to a lot of what they said but you showed an eagerness to learn. They appreciated that. They started to enjoy teaching you, not just calling you an idiot for it like they did the other kids.

Instead of hopscotch and football, it was crossword puzzles and University Challenge. It was a lot of reading outside with Mycroft while waiting for Sherlock to finish his violin lessons. That’s what you always liked about Mycroft. He didn’t have to sit out here and hang out with you. Most people didn’t do that with their kid brother’s friends. But he seemed genuinely interested in what you were reading, asking questions, telling you more information than what was in the book, always amazing you with how much stayed inside of his head. Even when high school was finished with, and you moved on to a college while Mycroft went to Cambridge, he stayed in touch with you. A little too in touch.

You met up for dinner one night. You had expected him to bring his surly brother along but no, it was just the two of you, at a rather nice Italian restaurant that you had always said you wanted to go to but could never afford. The kind with real breadsticks on the table, not ones out of a box. Where the waiters had uniforms and not just a dirty t-shirt with a washed out logo on it. He treated you to dinner, and a cheeky glass of wine, and listened to - or seemed to - you talk about your annoying dormmate and the lame parties that you had been invited to go to. He eventually got around to asking you if there was anyone interesting that you were seeing on campus. You found it hard to believe that he asked something so personal. He never asked about other friends, let alone boyfriends. The question made you nearly choke on your wine. He was there with a napkin which you gladly used to blot at your mouth.

“Oh um - well, there is one bloke I’ve been talking to a little bit, his name is Kevin, he’s really nice actually. He’s studying-”

“Oh, Kevin,” Mycroft said, the snobby voice starting to take effect. Oh yes, he had that since you two were children as well. There was no getting rid of it, as annoying as it sometimes could be. “Pedestrian name. Has he ever taken you to a place like this?”

You looked around, and had to admit that no. Kevin really hadn’t taken you to a place like this. “He hasn’t taken me to a restaurant, actually,” You admitted. “We went to a party, the one that I was just telling you about. But then he went to his friends and I went to mine...”

“Doesn’t sound much like a gentleman,” Mycroft mused. “If I were to go to a party with you, though I do find the idea of a party to be degrading and below the both of us, I wouldn’t leave your side. Especially not to go and talk to the sort of people that I’m sure that he considers friends.”

You continued sipping on your wine despite the fact that you were feeling rather confused. "Are you telling me that you want me to bring you to one of the college parties? I can’t even picture it,” You laughed. “But you do have a point. His friends are definitely chavs. I try not to speak to them really but-”

“No, I’m most certainly not asking to go to one of those depraved get-togethers,” He scoffed. “What I am trying to say is that you deserve someone who is not going to walk off once there are other options of people to talk to. Why, I’ve always found conversation with you to be quite stimulating. The person that you deem as your equal, as someone worthy of being in a flirtation with, let alone a relationship, should be seeking you out at a party. That is what I’m saying.”

Was it hot in the restaurant or was it just you? “A compliment from Mycroft Holmes. I can hardly believe it,” You chuckled over your wine, holding it in front of your face. “And one involving a party no less. Well thank you, Mycroft. I appreciate it. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Will you?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “I do hope so. We’ve known each other all of these years and still keep in touch. You must know how rare that is for me. I do believe the word is ... captivated.”

That’s all it took. That’s all that it took for you to stop seeing Mycroft as just Sherlock’s brother, and as someone beguiling. The strawberry blonde hair that curled just above one eye, just short enough not to be annoying but also just long enough to get him a step away from the squeaky clean boy image that he had. You spent night after night with him, doing things that you wouldn’t regularly do. Sneaking onto the Cambridge campus for film nights, and then holding onto his arm as he walked you back to the bus stop, laughing about the historical inaccuracies. Walking past protests that were happening against Thatcher and talking about it. You sneakily pinned a ‘Down with Thatcher’ pin onto his jacket. Despite the fact that he would have realized quite early on that it was there, it wasn’t taken off until he switched jackets for the season.

Then there was that night. That dark and fateful night, as a gothic novelist might put it. Where you put your favorite red dress on, with matching rouge upon your cheeks and lipstick upon your mouth, your best pair of heels and stars in your eyes. Stars and hearts both. This was going to be the night when you were going to tell Mycroft Holmes that you had fallen in love with him. This is the night where you were going to go back to the restaurant where he first paid you those compliments that you did keep in your mind, right at the front of it, repeating those words to yourself again and again whenever you had some alone time. Touching yourself to them. Quite stimulating indeed. You were going to confess your love and he would do the same and  you would kiss, shamelessly. You would share a tiramisu dessert, noting that he quite enjoyed sweets.

That’s where the good ended. Right when you walked into the restaurant. Up until then, everything had been sublime. You even had been complimented by a couple of people on the subway. And not just leering perverted comments either. You looked lovely, you looked great, where did you get that dress, someone is going to have a good night. You were feeling it. And you had been trying to chase that confidence ever since.

“Ma’am?” The cab driver asked, bringing you out of your reverie. “We’re here.”

“Thank you,” You said, gathering yourself. You paid him with a hefty tip and then got out, and stood in front of the steakhouse. It was just Sherlock, surely. And John. And a chance to have a good meal on someone else’s dime, never anything wrong with that.

Shoulders back and stand up tall. There were workers right there at the doors who opened them with a greeting and a friendly smile which you returned. You gave your name to the host and he immediately brought you towards a table in the back. You smiled to yourself when you saw Sherlock’s messy head of curls. Some things would never change. The more that people tried to tell him to cut it, the longer he let it grew, until it annoyed only himself. The little rebel. And John, of course, whose blog you’ve perused once or twice - shorter than you imagined but pleasant nonetheless.

What did Sherlock need? He got straight to the point, or rather he did in his own sort of way. There was a lot of information being thrown at you but you remembered enough from your friendship days to sort through it and find what was important. An art piece had been stolen. He didn’t care much about art. But since you had gone to the college of the arts ... he needed your help. He wouldn’t say so upfront, but the way that he spoke made you feel like you were obligated to help him.

“It could be a homophobic attack,” You said, stroking your chin. “The artist was known to have some close male friends. Or it could have something to do with the Nazis. Everything always comes down to them but art theft - they hid so many masterpieces from the world, and some had yet to be discovered. This piece that was stolen is one of the recovered pieces. It could be some deranged supremacist trying to regain the lost collection.”

“Ahh, speaking of supremacist,” Sherlock said, his eyes now gazing above your head. A shadow had come over you, darkening your plate, your glass. You knew who it was by the silhouette.

“Apologies for being late - I didn’t wish to come,” Mycroft’s voice rang, as snobby as ever. It was such a him answer to give. You wish that you had thought of it. You were finding yourself wishing that you hadn’t come either, despite enjoying yourself a few moments prior, remembering why you and Sherlock had been friends in the first place. He walked around without greeting you, or even seeming to notice you - up until he sat across from you at the table. Whoever he might have been expecting to be sitting there, it wasn’t you, and for the first time, you saw surprise gleam across his eyes. And then - was that guilt? You could only hope so.

You were pleased to see that he had aged. That helped you a small bit. In your mind, he stayed in his early twenties, but here he was now, his hair thinning, hairline receding, wrinkles and all. It would have been better if he wasn’t still handsome despite this, but beggers can’t be choosers.

“Miss y/l/n,” Mycroft said, his voice raising as if he were asking a question more than a greeting. You decided not to respond, turning your head towards Sherlock, and bade him to continue, which he did without delay. Get him talking about a case and he can go on for hours. You attempted to enjoy your meal, all while trying your utmost not to look across from you but it was so damn hard. Seeing Mycroft hit you like a truck. It brought back all of those unpleasant memories.

--

You had walked into the restaurant, eager and ready. You thought that perhaps ... just maybe... this would be one of the best nights of your life. Mycroft, your partner, had admitted that he had been hiding something and was ready to come clean. You and your girl friends thought this meant that he was going to tell you that he loves you. You wore your best outfit, you had gotten your hair done, your make up was perfect. You were going to open your heart once he did and say those three words back.

You loved him, you loved him, you loved him. The way that he was so smooth. So debonair. So ambitious. He was going places. You were so proud of him for all of it. Every contact that he made, who he’d tell you about, getting excited like a child because he shook the hand of someone in parliament. He opened doors for you, he would ask you what you wanted at a restaurant and then order it for you, he’d send you flowers when you did well on an exam.

That wasn’t what it was at all. You were having your heart broken. Decimated. Crushed beyond recognition.

An experiment. For school. That’s what this whole thing had been. He’d been studying the psychology of romantic couples, and what better way was there to study than be a part of one himself? He proudly showed you the marks that he had gotten, the stacks of notes in case you wanted to read them over. He had only done a good job because he had a good partner. Well done. Cheerio. Claps all around.

You couldn’t breathe. You felt like you were drowning, you just wanted to flail, to kick, to pull yourself up into the air but you were also terrified of making a scene in the restaurant, of having everyone look at you and know immediately that you were nothing more than a grade, not good for anything else. Wasted time, wasted effort, wasted love.

“Excuse me,” You said, throwing your napkin down on your half-finished meal and you departed. You didn’t go to the bathroom, you walked home. All fourteen blocks. Your heels clicked and clacked against the London streets, and you hadn’t paid any attention to anyone who walked past you. You think, perhaps, someone had asked you if you were alright? But you weren’t. You just kept walking until your feet hurt, and then you took off your shoes, carried them in your hands, and kept on walking. You had dropped one. You got home with only one of them but you didn’t care. You dropped into your bed and stayed there for two full days.

Mycroft tried to call a couple of times. You kept the phone off the hook. He tried to call some of your friends, but after they had found out what had happened, they said such scathing things that he hadn’t dared to call again. A part of you was hoping that he would show up at your dorm, or at one of your classes and tell you that he knew he had made a mistake, but that was not something that a Holmes would ever do. As far as you knew, he had never showed up.

Time went on, life went on, but you never forgot the pain. You never forgot Mycroft. You tried to go on dates with other men, your friends setting you up, dating apps, people from work, but it never felt right. If they didn’t open the doors for you, or offer to order for you, it felt like you weren’t being treated quite right. If they did do those things, since there are still gentlemen left in the world, you couldn’t trust that there was some ulterior motive. That this was a study. A joke. Nothing ever got past a first date. A spinster by twenty-five.

--

You hated how much you looked at him while you were trying not to. Out of the corner of your eye, there he was. In the reflection of your knife. Of your wineglass. Every time that you heard his voice, you remembered the sweet nights, the old dates. The conversations that lasted for hours. You tried to focus on what Sherlock was saying, but it felt impossible. You were trying to overcome that feeling of drowning again. Trying to keep in control and not just walk out like you had the last time.

But when it came down to it, you were still just help in a study. Whether it was for school, or for a case, it was all the same.

When the waiter came around with the bill, you jumped at the chance to leave at an appropriate time. You went through your purse, dug out some notes, and put them onto the table. “Well, gentlemen, it has been a lovely evening.” Your voice was shaky, giving you away. You did your best to ignore that. Pretend it didn’t happen. Pretend a lot of this didn’t happen, for your own sake. “I’m glad you have been of help, and I hope all goes well.”

“So you do still love him,” Sherlock said, making all eyes at the table, including yours, turn to him. And then six were right back on you.

“P-pardon?” You asked, hoping you heard him incorrectly.

“You’re flushed, your palms are sweaty,” Sherlock started to list.

“It’s warm in here.”

“Your voice went higher once he came in-”

“Did not.”

“The complete and utter avoidance while you were still mirroring his movements,”

“We’re at a restaurant, everyone is eating here...”

“And you’ve been fidgeting for the past half hour,” Sherlock finished.

“How do you know I don’t just fidget all of the time?” You argued.

“Pardon, I forgot becoming defensive.”

You couldn’t take anymore. You finally looked right over to Mycroft. Stared into his blue-gray eyes. And then yours narrowed. “I’ll never forgive what you did to me, Mycroft Holmes. Not for any of it.”

And you stood up then. No one tried to stop you this time around. Sherlock didn’t have anything witty to say, or if he did, it blended in with the rest of the noise of the restaurant. You took your leave. You stepped out into the gloomy London evening, raised your arm and fetched yourself a cab. You got into it slowly, situating yourself, looking towards the door of the restaurant, hoping and also dreading that he might come out. That Mycroft is going to run out and apologize and grovel at your feet. No. He didn’t happen. So you gave your address to the patient cab driver and made your way home.

At least you had both shoes on this time.

[anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek]

I've got like 36 written oneshots and only 10% of them are published...

[unusuallysubtext]

Hey, can I request a oneshot where Y/n (Mycroft's spouse) suddenly brought a puppy home; they found the puppy on the sidewalk. They brought the puppy home, cleaned him up, and then went to the pet store to buy supplies like dog food, toys, a bed, and a pad for the puppy to pee or poop on. They returned home with all the supplies.

Mycroft finally arrived home after a long day at work. He found Y/n on the floor and was confused at first until he saw the puppy they were playing with. He was perplexed and definitely against it at first, but a few weeks later, Y/n finds Mycroft in the living room with the puppy on his lap while Mycroft reads his newspaper.

Thank you in advance!

Thank you for your request! Requests are open as of 18/06/2024. Tags at end. To be removed/added to the taglist, send an ask or DM me. Critics welcomed, reblogs appreciated! :)

Today was one of those rare days off you had from work, but as usual, it was never in sync with Mycroft's busy schedule. You had awoken to a cold bed with the sun already beaming through the crack in the curtains. With a sigh, you climbed out of bed and stretched, making your way downstairs. A vase of sunflowers stood on the kitchen counter, a card beside it on top of a box of London’s finest pastries.

Good morning, my love. 

Salon appointment at two p.m. 

Take care of yourself.

Love,

M.H.

You smiled, admiring the set up and the time taken out of Mycroft’s morning. Of course he had booked out an entire salon; nails, hair, facials, drinks…

After getting comfortably dressed (a change from your usual business attire), eager to eat more than a few pastries (it would be unfair to try only a couple, after all), you ran downstairs and popped the kettle on.

As you sipped your tea, you pondered how to spend the rest of your day until a car picked you up at one-thirty. The idea of a long walk around the estate seemed appealing, especially with the rare London sun. 

Spring coat and boots on, you set out for your walk. The streets were quiet unlike the bustling inner city, and she much appreciated the calm; it allowed for decompression after high stress days at your demanding job. As she turned a corner into a small park, she noticed a small bundle of fur huddled in the bushes fronting the blue-painted metal rails. Curiosity piqued, you approached cautiously.

To your surprise, it was a puppy, shivering despite the unusual warmth, alone. You were expecting a rabbit, likely dead after the foxes got to it, not an uncommon sight in this area. The little creature looked up at you with wide, fearful eyes. You kneeled, allowing your hand to be sniffed before you picked it up. Upon further inspection, it was only a couple of weeks old, the size of your hand, and bore no collar.

"Poor thing, you must be freezing," you murmured, stroking its soft fur as you held it close to your chest. "Let's get you home."

She made a quick stop at a nearby pet store and vet clinic, purchasing everything the puppy would need—food, a bed, toys, and a small collar, which you left unetched without a name, only your phone number on the back of the tag. 

By the time she arrived back at the house, her arms were full of supplies, and the puppy seemed much more comfortable in your breast pocket. The clinic had not detected a microchip, making you wonder how long the pup had been outside as you set up a cozy corner in the living room. You watched as the puppy explored its new surroundings, following you with tiny, tentative paw taps to the kitchen, where you poured some water and food into its bowls. 

"Mycroft is not going to like this," you thought out loud with a wry smile, imagining his reaction. But the sight of the puppy, now curled up contentedly in its new bed, made her feel certain she had made the right decision.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of playing with the puppy, canceling your salon appointment and ride through Anthea, and preparing dinner after the pup grew tired enough to fall asleep in its bed. As evening fell, you found yourself anxiously awaiting Mycroft's return, wondering how he would react to your new addition and fearing his disappointment of being unable to enjoy his planned day for you.

The grandfather clock struck once, indicating five-thirty and you arose from the dining table to head to the front door. You opened it to see Mycroft, who was pleasantly surprised at your greeting.

“Good evening, darling. How was your day?” he asked, heading in. His smile immediately turned to scrutiny as he sensed something was wrong. “You didn’t go… Why do you have cat hair on you?” Mycroft asked, looking at you.

“Dog, Mycroft,” you rolled your eyes. You weren’t anxious anymore, just keen to see Mycroft discover what you’d done. You followed him to the living room, where he froze at the sight of the sleeping puppy across from you.

“Y/N, what on earth were you thinking? How will you care for it?” Mycroft cried. He never called you by your name. Only ‘Mr/Miss/Mx L/N’ before marriage, and ‘my love’ and ‘darling’ after.

“Mycroft!” you were taken aback, but still attempted to explain your situation. “She was abandoned on the side of the road, no collar, no chip. I couldn’t leave her there!”

“Do you know how many shelters there are in London? One-thousand-two-hundred-and-twenty-seven! Any one of them would have taken it in.” Mycroft was exasperated. “Y/N, please think before making such decisions…” he trailed off, softening his tone and expression as he caught sight of your teary eyes. He walked to you, touching your cheeks and kissing your forehead. “I love you. I don’t love that,” he indicated to the puppy with his head. “I do not want this matter to cause any stress to our relationship. I’m sorry for shouting at you.”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “It’s okay. I’ll see what I can do about her as soon as possible.”

You understood where Mycroft was coming from. Both of you worked full-time, and taking care of a puppy who was rapidly transforming into a full-grown dog was like taking care of a toddler. She would need to be trained, spayed, played with for mental stimulation… it was going to be a lot.

While Mycroft showered, you heated up dinner. As the two of you ate, the puppy awoke and padded to the dining room, watching Mycroft curiously. The two of them stared at the other intently, frozen in place, and you watched in amusement. 

That night, you lay in bed on your side against Mycroft’s chest. It was a miracle that the puppy had not followed you upstairs, but was instead sleeping soundly in the living room. 

-

Mycroft had been sitting on the sofa after dinner, reading their mail while she tried to reach the seat beside him. Watching her struggle for a couple of minutes from the corner of his eye, he finally sighed and picked her up. She lay down next to Mycroft’s side, and he begrudgingly had let her. She fell asleep, as Mycroft mumbled, mostly to himself. “You don’t have a name, do you? You are rather annoying, going to places you don’t belong. Sofas are for humans, the dog bed, as implied in the name, is for you.” Mycroft thought for a moment, then chuckled in revelation. “Sheryl.” He seemed pleased with the name.

-

“Mycroft?” you say quietly, unable to see him. The curtains have been drawn for the night, the bed toasty from your combined body heat. 

“Hmm?”

“Are you jealous of her?”

There is a pause. “That is preposterous! Go to sleep,” you can feel him shaking his head as he is ripped from his near sleep.

You smile to yourself, turning around and kissing his cheek before drifting off to sleep.

-

Days went by, and you spent all of your lunch breaks and the extra ten minutes you had in the mornings at work calling animal shelters in London, despite the heartache. It would not be difficult at all to get the pup into one, just inhumane. Unsurprisingly, they were all overcrowded and underfunded. You glanced up from the website you were reading on your phone to the stack of paperwork overshadowed by your boss. You sighed.

“Working, are we, Mr/Mrs/Mx Holmes?” Ms Smallwood sneered, saying your name as if it were sour milk.

“Yes, apologies, ma’am. No excuses,” you said, grabbing a pen and opening the first file. 

Her beady eyes watched you for a moment before huffing and storming out on her four-inch heels.

You shot Mycroft a quick text.

Going to be late, sorry. Lots of paperwork, ughh. Can’t wait to get a transfer. - Y/F/I.H.

Don’t worry, my love. I’ll have dinner and a bath ready. Don’t stress, my darling. I shall see you this evening. - M.H.

You smiled at your husband’s preemptiveness, silently thanking the universe for having him to go home to. 

It was quarter-to-seven when you arrived home. You walked through the hallway past the empty study and dining room, the aroma of dinner making your mouth water. In the living room, you could see Mycroft, engrossed in reading the newspaper… out loud? Mycroft saw you, and hushed you, pointing to the sleeping puppy curled up against his belly. He finished reading one last sentence of today’s headlining news: ‘Two murdered bodies found in abandoned freezer at Wembley Sainsbury’s.’ 

“Goodnight, Sheryl, sleep well,” Mycroft said quietly, putting the newspaper down and patting her gently before picking her up and placing her in her bed. He then walked over to you. “Hello, darling, how was your day?” 

“Sheryl, huh?” you laughed.

“Too late to change it now, I have already had it engraved,” Mycroft said matter-of-factly. “I have already fed her–one cup–walked her around the estate, had her pee, and read her a bedtime story, of course.”

You squealed in joy, engulfing Mycroft in a hug. “We’re keeping her?!”

“Yes, of course we are, darling. How else will I keep in shape?”

“Oh, Mycroft! You’re already perfect. I love you! I can’t believe we get to keep her!”

Every night onwards, Sheryl lay in wait in front of the dinner table for the two of you to finish eating and take her for a walk. She would chase butterflies in the very park she was found in before returning to her home, where Mycroft would read her the headlines and let her pick her bedtime story from the papers. Some days it was stock trading tips, obituaries and juicy celebrity gossip, other days it was how her Uncle Sherlock was saving the arses of the Met Police, and gruesome murder-suicides. Every night, she fell asleep in Mycroft’s lap, even when she grew up to be a huge German shepherd. Every night, you snapped a picture of the two, compiling the photographs into an album that showed how their bond strengthened and their kinship blossomed.

-

Tagging: @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @that-ace-idiot

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hi Steph! Hope you're having a good day! I'm new to this platform and to your blog of course. Sorry if this has already been asked but do you know of any fanfics where the relationship dynamic between Sherlock and Rosie is explored? Would love it if you can recommend some!

Hey Nonny!!

Welcome to my blog! I'm happy to have you here, and I hope you're enjoying your time in the fandom!!

Oooo, this is a good question, because I haven't read a lot of Parentlock with Rosie in them; I just recently recced an Older Rosie Parentlock list, so you can start there. As for others, here's what I recall in my bookmarks as being Sherlock AND Rosie.

If anyone has a fic to suggest please do, because I've FOR SURE missed some! It's been a long time since I've even read these fics listed so I'm HOPING my recall on them is correct.

SHERLOCK AND ROSIE

Non-Toxic by NinjaNina2 (M, 1,713 w., 1 Ch. || Post S4, Parentlock with Rosie, Established Relationship, Oneshot, Stubborn Sherlock, Worried John, Doctor John, Fluff and Humour, Misunderstandings)  – Based on previous experiences, John has every right to be worried when gone for a medical conference, but what is the extent of damage This time…?!?

There's Always Three of Us by Itsallfine (T, 1,765 w., 1 Ch. || S4 Fix It Fic/Post TFP, Parentlock / Rosie, Angelo’s, First Kiss, January 29, Love Declarations) – Sherlock takes John and Rosie out to Angelo's and gets a chance to correct the biggest mistake of his life.

Made of Music Series by SosoHolmesWatson (T, 6,464+ w. across 2 works || Series WiP || Post S4, Parentlock with Rosie, First Kiss, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, Cuddling, Love Confessions, Angst with Happy Ending) – For the past years, John and Sherlock have lived at Baker Street again, raising Rosie together--as friends and nothing more. Ever since the little girl has watched her first Disney movie, she is obsessed with princesses. When John comes home one day, he finds his friend and his daughter in the middle of a reenactment of her current favourite.

Permanent Fixture by vitruvianwatson (E, 18,836 w., 9 Ch || Post-S4, Parentlock, Slow Build, Friends to Lovers, They’re Good Parents, Blushing Sherlock, First Kiss/Time, Explicit Consent, Sexual Content, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Big Feelings, Crying, Fluff, Anxious Sherlock, Inexperienced Sherlock, Emotional Communication, Love Confessions) – Now, as Rosie sat curled up against Sherlock’s side, John watched and wondered exactly how he had ended up here. Domesticity had never suited him before, not at any point in his life. His disastrous marriage had been proof of that. But somehow, here in the warmth and safety of 221B Baker Street, here with Sherlock Holmes reading medical jargon to his daughter, Sherlock’s bony feet nudging against his leg, John couldn’t imagine anyplace that would make him happier. 

A Quiet Life by DiscordantWords (M, 25,176 w., 6 Ch. || Post S4, Retirement, POV Sherlock, Awkwardness, Established Relationship, Family Dynamics, Minor Character Death, Questionable Parenting Choices, Non-Linear Narrative, 20 Year Old Rosie, Meddling Mycroft, Pining Sherlock, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Angst, Sherlock Whump) – There had been three days of silence and a funeral. Sherlock had the terrible feeling that whatever happened next would depend, entirely, on him.

Dropping the Act by jadztone (T, 27,258 w., 10 Ch. || Post S4, Fake Relationship, First Kiss, Snuggles and Cuddles, Mary's Past, Morally-Grey Mary, Idiots in Love, Parentlock) – Sherlock and John are quite happy living together with Rosie in Baker St. They might be even happier if they didn’t act towards each other like their love is only platonic. Mycroft brings troubling news in the form of Mary’s parents wanting to know just what their grandchild’s home life is like. The boys decide to spend Christmas pretending like they are in love in order to seem more like a "normal" family. It's easy enough to pretend when all you're doing is dropping the act.

The Winter Garden by Callie4180 (T, 31,213 w., 13 Ch. || Post-S4, Retirement, Christmas, Slow Burn, Grown-Up Rosie, Parenthood, Rosie’s Cat, Angst with Happy Ending, Holidays, Beekeeping, Magical Realism, Sherlock POV, Sherlock’s Violin, Future Fic, Sussex, Honey, Magical Healing Honey, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Scar, First Kiss, Touching, Mycroft is Dying) – As Sherlock nears the end of his career, he's given the gift of a cottage in Sussex. The honey from the beehives out back is amazing. Almost...magical. 

Chaperones by MissDavis (T, 34,114 w., 7 Ch. || 11 Years Post-S4, Fake Relationship, Parentlock, Disney World, Bed / Room Sharing, Friends to Lovers, Fluff, First Kiss, Obsessive Sherlock, Insecure John) – Right. Of course. Everyone assumed they were a couple and no one would question it. John put his elbows up on the table so he could rest his head in his hands. "You want to pretend to be a couple so we can chaperone a trip to Disney World with Rosie's class and you won't have to share a room with a stranger?" "Exactly." Sherlock beamed at him. "Don't worry about the cost. The Birmingham case last month paid more than enough to cover expenses for all three of us."

[specialagentlokitty]

Mycroft x reader - just to keep you happy

Hello, I'm not sure if you still do request but um you do can you please do a BBC Sherlock Oneshot, where The reader had a rough day that they are so upset on their way home,Mycroft, Sherlock and John was all in the flat when the reader arrived and all saw that they were upset, they all thought that the reader was going to John for comfort but end up running toward Mycroft, bawling their eyes out and squeezing him tight, confusing the duo and Mycroft like have a revelation and decided that they would protect the reader at all cost That's all thank you, I love all your works💚 - @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek 💜

You didn’t know anybody was home when you arrived back at the flat, you were hoping it was going to be empty and you could be left alone.

But when you walked through the door and you found Mycroft, Sherlock and John all stood around the desk you just stared at them.

They stared back.

“Why have you been crying?” Sherlock asked.

You looked between the three of them, on the verge of tears again, and John stepped forward.

“Hey come here.” He said softly.

You shook your head and you walked forward, but you walked back him and to everybody shock, to Mycroft.

You wrapped your arms softly around him in a loose grip, and you began to cry again, and Mycroft just froze.

He looked down at you.

“I… I’m not sure what to do if I’m being honest..”

“Just hug her back.” Sherlock sighed.

Mycroft placed his hands on your back, and you hugged him even tighter, balling your hands into the fabric of his blazer.

Mycroft held you a little tighter, and when he looked up he saw John and Sherlock and left the flat all together.

Mycroft turned his attention back to you and he sighed a little bit, running a hand gently up and down your back.

“What ever has you so upset?” He asked.

You shook your head.

He didn’t press the matter, he’d be able to find out in no time after this, it would only take him a matter of minutes to figure it out.

“Alright, you’re okay.” He said gently.

He knew sometimes you got upset, but usually you would go straight to John, finding John was more suited to comforting people compared to Sherlock or himself.

This was the first time you had ever come to him.

But seeing you breaking down in tears and gripping him for dear life, in a way it hurt him.

He never understood how people could cry like this, but it hurt him to watch you cry in such a way knowing there was nothing he could do for you but just stand there hugging you.

“Oh my dear, I do hate to see you cry..” he whispered.

And he did.

Mycroft Holmes, for the first time in his life felt something he hadn’t felt before, he felt empathy.

And he felt it for you.

You were hurting, and that hurt him.

He didn’t want to see you cry again.

So, there and then, holding you tightly in his arms, Mycroft Holmes vowed he was going to keep a close eye on you and do whatever it takes to keep you happy and safe

[getosbf]

MTP Masterlist

Me And My Husband :- [fluff | oneshot | 1691 words] Summary: I like fluff. I like horses. I like sherliam. Not necessarily in that order. (Sherlock tries to court William. He wants to be the Prince Charming for him I am very serious about them. Set in NYC when Liam had the bandage eyepatch.)

Angels like you can't fly down to hell with me :- [angst with happy ending | 7/7 chapters | 19,396 words] Summary: Soulmate AU where you dream of a single moment of your future with your soulmate. As the end of the final problem draws near, William is more and more convinced that his soulmate dream must be false or of a past life, because he can see no possible way he and Sherlock Holmes will have a future of drinking coffee made using a handkerchief for a filter in a cozy apartment with no curtains.

Partners (In Crime) :- [fluff | oneshot | 2315 words] Summary: When William and Sherlock find out a local restaurant has been cheating innocent people out of their money, the former Lord of Crime and Hero of London take it upon themselves to serve justice. But it seems they chose to have quite a bit of fun in the process.

Feverish Fondness :- [fluff | oneshot | 2315 words] Summary: "Even the walk from the kitchen counter to the couch had felt impossible, legs shaking under him as his 'minor' headache turned skull-splitting. Silently, William cursed himself for going out for groceries in the rain the previous day. 'Liam?'" / In which William James Moriarty gets sick and Sherlock Holmes takes care of him.

A Bleeding Nose And A Blessing :- [fluff | oneshot | 1054 words] Summary: Sherlock Holmes comes to Mycroft's office with a gold ring on his finger, and the elder Holmes is smart enough to know what that means. / Sherlock marries William and goes to Mycroft to get his blessing hehe

Cotton Carnage :- [crack | oneshot | 1083 words] Summary: PILLOW FIGHT IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS / Bedding provided for late session became ammunition when Lord Moriarty threw a pillow at his parliamentary boyfriend in the middle of a meeting

Sorry About The Blood In Your Mouth, I Wish It Was Mine :- [songfic | hurt/comfort | oneshot | 1055 words] Summary: Some write about the hero saving the day, some write about the happily ever after, but who writes about the gap between them? Staining your hands with scarlet leaves you ridden with guilt. That's a tale as old as time. And when there's someone to kiss your crimson palms and not worry about the blood in their mouth, it isn't easy letting that happen. After all, it had always been easier for him to hold a sword than a hand.

The Five Times Sherlock Holmes Got Constructive Criticism From A Stranger And The One Time The Stranger Was His Boyfriend :- [crack |6/6 chapters | 5449 words] Summary: Sherlock works at a diner. William loves going to said diner. Problem? William is a little infatuated by the pretty chef and so the pretty chef in question finds anonymous notes every other weekend. Sherlock, too, is more than a bit interested in this secret "Lord Of Cuisine" and makes it his mission to find him.

Until It Killed You :- [wip | reincarnation au | modern au] Summary: "Hear me well and clear: fate does not change for anybody. But you defied me. You tried to die. You tried to die and leave him behind. And now he is dead and you are left behind." In which William James Moriarty defies fate for his ambitions, and pays the price for it by having his life's only love taken away. It's up to fate itself to decide whether he deserves it back or not. Though one thing is for sure: he would have to atone for defying it. But can he? While his lover wanders through the lonely valleys of the afterlife, he is a mere ghost lingering in the night. Both grieving each other as a soul grieves a body. And all they can do is wait.

[beneathashadytree]

Congrats on 2K!!! Could I request prompts 13 and 21, for Mycroft Holmes, please?

NIGHTS WITH YOU - MYCROFT HOLMES X READER

Warnings : pretty suggestive implications but nothing else I think, this is not proofread, reader is gender-neutral!

Genre : domestic fluff <3

Word count : 0.7K words

Additional notes : Thank you nonnie! I did enjoy writing this soft piece, so fingers crossed that this is what you had in mind. Hope you like it!💗

Prompts : “Do you mind if we stay like this for a little longer?” “Can this stay between us?”

Tip jar if you’d like to buy me a Ko-Fi!

Masterlist

“Your hair’s much softer than it seems,” they pointed out as they carded their fingers through it.

“Is it? I’ve never paid it much attention,” Mycroft replied, his eyelids fluttering shut as their actions soothed his nerves to a point where he found himself nearly falling asleep.

Their other hand wandered, tracing invisible shapes onto the warm skin of his chest. He was very much naked in their bed indeed, but the last thing on their mind at the moment was any sort of intimate act. This was the only kind of intimacy that they were craving now.

“I believe Sherlock’s hair is quite similar to yours,” they mused, “The same curls and all.”

Mycroft sighed a little with exasperation, though he didn’t seem too annoyed. “Please do not bring up my brother’s name while we’re in bed.”

“Alright, alright,” they conceded, scratching at his scalp just right, successfully pulling a deep hum from the back of his throat. Something of a smile formed on their face; nothing ever made them happier than the sight of this man, who had a habit of working himself to the bone, relaxing in their arms. “If you’re too busy, I’ll let you up.” This was said with no small amount of reluctance, and was—thankfully—met with even more reluctance from his end.

“Do you mind if we stay like this for a little longer?” Mycroft carefully asked, not quite meeting their eyes. It must’ve been embarrassing to him; to ask for something so mundane and so simple, when he was a man who’d always carried the weight of the Crown and its responsibilities on his shoulders.

The last thing they wanted to do was discourage him from seeking them out whenever he was in need of affection—after all, theirs was plentiful when it came to him. “I’d very much like that, actually,” they replied with all the honesty there was, and then resumed their ministrations.

After a few beats of silence, they noted the dark circles under his eyes, and the gauntness of his cheeks. “You seem tired.” Their hand left his chest, only for their fingers to softly caress his face. “I suppose it would be wishful thinking on my part, to think that you’d been taking care of yourself?”

“Darling.” Mycroft sighed once more, though this time he sounded decidedly more resigned. “I just… hadn’t the time. Please, do not scold me.”

“I won’t admonish you this time, but you know I worry,” they earnestly said, tilting his face to meet their gaze. “You’re about to fall asleep in my arms, and it’s not even ten o’clock yet.”

He snorted, his tone self-depreciative. “Not my most impressive feat, I suppose, getting all but knocked out after one round in bed.”

“I’d rather have no rounds but plenty of hours of sleep for you.”

There was no doubt as to whether or not they were being truthful, because even a blind man could see just how concerned they were for his well-being, and how deeply they always wished to help shoulder some of his burdens. Since they very well couldn’t interfere with Royal business, they were stuck here, with nothing in their hands but to try and make him feel most at home and at ease with them.

“I’m sorry. I wanted us to have a more memorable night together, after having been apart for so long. But...”

Mycroft sounded truly apologetic as he said that, and they couldn’t help but smile at the way he could no longer force his blue eyes open. They knew it would be mere minutes before he fell into a deep sleep, and they would have to content themself with the beautiful sight of him slumbering in their embrace.

“It’s alright, dear. Only one round for one night is more than other men might offer, but I know it leaves a blot on your perfect record of a daily two,” they teased him, softly stroking his cheek as he huffed out a half-laugh and shifted to drape his arm around their waist.

“Then I must ask. Can this stay between us?” he mumbled, his consciousness clearly slipping.

“Of course. Wouldn’t dare spill your secret.”

And perhaps his last memory before the world turned dark was that of them tenderly kissing his forehead, seeing as he fell asleep with a small, content smile on his lips, the sight of which warmed them up to their very toes.

Taglist: @sherlockscumslut @lilias-highlights

[darsynia]

Repeat After Me | Oneshot

(Tony Stark/Reader, Soulmate AU Canon Divergence 'Mob AU')

Summary: You're thriving in Loki's Empire as the most respected smuggler out there. You earned that reputation by remaining neutral, traveling between the city-states run by powerful Magnates like Loki's thrall Tony Stark in NYC or the relocated Wilson Fisk in Miami. It's lucrative business, but the real reason you have to stay moving is written on your arm.

Length | Rating: 3,635 | T (for language)

Notes: Set ten years after Loki successfully mind controlled Tony Stark and took over the world in 2012. My tongue-in-cheek take on a mobster-style AU, series potential if folks are interested.

Written for @caplanbuckybarnes's Three Words Challenge, using 'Don't look back.'

Tags: @ronearoundblindly @chickensarentcheap @themaradaniels @starksbf @tiny-anne @starryeyes2000 @my-soulmate-is-mycroft

Repeat After Me

You might be the only person who has both soulmate Words written on your body.

Repeat after me: don’t look back.

At first, you’d found them comforting. After all, they’re predictable in a way almost no one else’s Words are: if you’re right about them, it means you can choose whether to speak those fateful Words aloud. Then Loki came with his Chitauri army, and everything changed.

It’s been ten years since Lord Loki became the ruler of the world; ten years of societal restructure and bleak acquiescence. It turns out that humans are well adapted to be ruled, just as he’d said-- but perhaps not quite in the way he’d intended. Everyone has figured out their own way to survive, whether it’s in one of the densely populated city-states, the agricultural backwaters, or the uneasy suburban sprawl that straddles both extremes.

You’re one of the few who can travel easily through all three, and you pride yourself on that. Pre-Empire, you’d been a top exec at a shipping company, and your talent for managing large egos, ability to memorize maps, and knowledge of machinery was easily translated to a life as a smuggler. Your top rule? You do not take sides. Ever. It’s what made you successful, what kept you alive.

And no one knows the real reason.

“Zephyr, how long before you head out?”

You’re half-in, half-out of your truck, the open door heavy on your ass thanks to all the armor plating. “Weather looks like it’s gonna hold for another hour and a half, I was thinking forty-five minutes?” you guess, squinting up through the tint on the upper part of the windshield.

“Got time to meet with a potential?” Karl laughs at your obvious groan, adding, “Fancy suit says D.C., maybe New York. Probably shouldn’t risk skipping.” You trust your second in command, even if you don’t want to take his advice. Karl Mordo is pragmatic, honest, and a baronic pain in your ass sometimes.

“Fuck. Okay. But I’m going right now, before I de-grease for the trip.” You hop down and hold up your dirty hands, wiggling your fingers.

“What if they’re from Stark?”

You clench your jaw. “His people should know better, even after two years. We just did Fisk a favor, maybe he’ll remind Loki’s strongman that there’s a reason he relocated to Miami.” 

Karl nods and heads back to the house, and as soon as he’s gone, you hold still and count to ten to calm your breathing. Tony Stark rules the northeast with a literal iron fist, and no one’s sure whether the mind control has turned him cruel or he’d been released years ago and just likes it. Only people Stark trusts have been close enough to know for sure. 

Despite your reputation for neutrality, a few years back he’d sent his clever and ruthless ex-turned-CFO Pepper Potts to ask you to spy on some of the biggest players on the Eastern Seaboard.

It had been the first time you’d gotten close enough to see the electric blue of Loki’s mind control first-hand. Her threats had been articulate and terrifying, but your response ended up having a lasting effect on the way Lord Loki does his business. Word is that the emperor includes additional spells and enchantments to prevent a simple blow to the head from releasing a thrall and undoing years of work. 

You still get messages from Potts, filtered heavily by word of mouth, through the Resistance.

When you get up onto the porch, you note with approval that someone’s already gotten the burly, suited visitor some sweet tea. He turns around, and your heart sinks as you recognize him from news articles. Tony Stark’s sweet-faced associate, Happy Hogan. 

“Zephyr, is it?” he says warmly, reaching out a hand to shake. You offer him your left hand, and he immediately grins. You wear a binding on your right forearm, and it’s basically an open secret that your Words are there. Words you’ve made very clear you intend to remain a secret, on pain of death. “We have a job for you.”

“That’s truly unfortunate,” you say with a smile. “Your boss burned that bridge years ago. All I have is my integrity, I’m sure you understand.” Leaning up against one of the porch pillars, you send all of your anxiety to your legs, to hold you up and maintain the illusion that you’re not distressed. “Since you’ve come all this way, I can offer to connect you to one of the reputable smaller orgs.”

“Interesting you mention integrity. Did you know your right hand man is a known member of the Resistance?” Hogan’s tone is light, almost teasing.

You do your very best not to react, but on its face, you doubt the accusation. Karl had come to you deeply disillusioned by the Resistance, after working with them openly for a year, spending double that in prison, and being released with an interdict that prevented any employment but fieldwork. By the time you brought him in, he was full of quiet fury and determination to survive. The money you spent to clear his interdict was some of the easiest you’ve ever spent.

“I assume you have newer information than 2013?”

Hogan pulls an envelope from his lapel pocket and hands it over. Inside is a set of pictures showing Mordo speaking with and shaking the hand of Steve Rogers, the most wanted man on the continent. Karl’s hair has only been in that particular style for a few months.

You hand them back, keeping your hand steady. “If you can point and shoot pictures, why not point and shoot that particular problem?” The question is important to your public front, but you also want to know what kind of answer you get, whether it’ll be something you want to pass along.

“One step at a time,” Hogan says, walking over to you. He stops only inches away, a physical power play that masks the psychological threat.

“Which step are you on?”

“The one where you come with me to speak to Stark in person, or we reveal how thin your claims of neutrality really are.”

You nod as though you’re considering it, then say, “What if I dismantled everything and moved to Arizona? Started over.” It’ll sound like a joke, but you’ve considered it. You want nothing to do with Stark.

“You’re welcome to make that decision after the meeting.” The guy’s so confident he slides his hands into his pockets, fully relaxed except for the way his pulse is jumping in his neck. There’s zero chance that Hogan’s anxious because of you, so that means it’s important to his future that you leave with him today. If you have to, you’ll use that.

“You act like meeting with Stark won’t destroy my reputation just as much as your false accusations would,” you point out. 

Happy Hogan shrugs. “Stark is prepared to offer you one alternative. Meet with him or give us a credible way to contact Pepper Potts.”

You want to swear under your breath, but instead, you channel all your frustration into a single act of defiance. Lifting your grease-stained right hand, you press it right in the center of his chest, fingers spread so you get his white button-down and both lapels.

Then you shove, letting your hand slip against the resistance he immediately puts up to avoid moving backwards and show weakness. You would have expected anger, maybe even to be thrown to the ground, but Hogan just chuckles. It’s dismissive, diminishing, and does nothing to lower your level of fury. Especially not since he’s got you over a barrel.

You push past him toward the house. “I’m sending Mordo with my load. Your guys fuck with him and I’ll tear down every fucking thing you’ve built or die trying.” Given the clout you’ve accumulated in the last decade, which one depends on whether the emperor is in town to shield his pet Avenger or not.

You hadn’t told Hogan you’re coming with. You both know you have to.

The flight to New York City is stressful, but most of that is because you know how much effort and care it takes to maintain a fleet of airplanes. Now that flights are nearly all restricted to just the Magnates, you doubt the due diligence of their maintenance teams. This is reinforced when you land and walk down a presidential-style rolling staircase instead of into the abandoned airport. It’s hard not to think of what air travel could do for your business. One flight would take so much food from one place to another-- but the safety margins are horrifying.

“What’s with the face?” Happy Hogan asks, after the two of you get into the waiting limo.

“Just imagining how much work it would be to get an orange to Maine nowadays.”

“You don’t have to live in Georgia, you know. The offer’s always open.”

“Fuck your offer, and fuck you,” you say coolly, crossing your arms and looking out the window. There’s a non-zero chance he’ll kill you, but you’ve got a trick up your sleeve that might just carry the kind of irony that would make even a man as powerful as Tony Stark cry. It’s the reason why Hogan wants Potts back, the reason she won’t go, not while he’s in Loki’s thrall.

Midgard hadn’t been interesting enough for the trickster god. No, he’d grown bored by the way most of his new subjects had responded to his rule. Too many of you had accepted that you weren’t strong enough to resist him, and so, with the power granted to him by the staff he always carried, Lord Loki had bestowed each soulmate pair on the planet a random power set.

Pepper Potts and Happy Hogan’s version had been the ability to detect lies.

Tony Stark’s inability to find his soulmate had been newsworthy before the attack on New York, but now that he’s the de facto ruler of the place, his search has become an obsession.

It’s the reason you live in Georgia, the reason you wear the distinctive binding around your right forearm, the reason you’d balanced yourself on the knife-edge of neutrality instead of choosing a side that’s not Stark’s and then leaving yourself vulnerable to being discovered.

Stark’s Words are well known: ‘Don’t look back.’

Ironically, you don’t think he has connected your well-known quirk about protecting your forearm with his soulmate search. He wants you because Lord Loki wants Pepper Potts’ lie detecting powers, and Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff’s soulmate bond is keeping her hidden. Karl Mordo has forsworn his connection to the Mystic Arts, but a man will do many things to prevent his own death, including oathbreaking, so instead of putting pressure on him, they’ll put pressure on you.

And somehow, you’re going to have to resist without speaking a word.

The car is underground when it stops. You nod at Hogan in thanks for his hand as you exit the vehicle, and he cocks his head to the side and looks at you.

“Passive resistance, eh? Good luck.” He leads you through a warren of hallways, stairwells, and locked doors. This display of strength is clearly designed to intimidate and/or give you time to think and fear what comes next, but you wonder whether it’s annoying to Hogan. Undoubtedly he’d be taking the short way if it weren’t for this task, and that kind of time-wasting adds up.

Sure enough, the last leg of the trip is an elevator ride. The doors open out into the wide expanse of the penthouse, a rich space with wall-to-wall windows looking out over the city. A man in a well-fitting white suit walks out from behind a bar area, and you recognize him to be Tony Stark himself. Instead of a tie, the signature blue of his arc reactor glows against the buttons of his shirt, and as he approaches you, you see that it’s matched by the blue tint of mind control in his eyes.

That knowledge is dangerous; already, this man’s leverage over you has doubled. You wonder what you’ll have to promise to get out of here alive. 

Tony Stark stops a foot away and looks you over. His brown-blue eyes linger on your right arm, and as you’d planned during your pseudo perp-walk, you shift into a challenging pose, popping your hip out and lifting your chin. Stark’s lips curve into an appreciative smile. It’s attractive, he’s attractive, and you’re annoyed that you’ve even noticed. Everything about him exudes the confidence of a man who is never challenged, and that’s always been your catnip, your kryptonite. You love to bust egos, it could even be said that you live for popping that bubble. This man might be the first one you’ve ever met whose arrogance is well-deserved, though, and that could be a problem.

He gestures, and behind you, Hogan answers.“No weapons that we found, multiple scans.”

Ah, so the many doorways and long hallways had more than one purpose, you think to yourself. Well played. You stay still and expressionless as Stark looks you up and down, eyes lingering on your chest and your arm. He lifts his glass in an appreciative salute before finishing off his drink. Something about the way his throat works makes you feel the burn of the alcohol in your own chest.

“What’s under the armguard?” he asks Hogan.

“According to sources, a nasty burn. Sunlight makes it worse.” It’s the truth-- you’d tried to burn off the words as soon as you’d heard about Tony Stark’s search for his soulmate. The magic of the mark protects it, so all you’d managed to do was destroy the skin around it, causing a wound that never fully healed. The vambrace you wear is for concealment, yes, but it’s also there to keep the damaged skin protected and dry.

You turn your head and direct a grumpy look at Hogan. “This whole meeting could have been an email. What is it that you two want?”

Before you can stop him, Stark steps forward and slides his hand into the hair at the nape of your neck, forcing you to meet his eyes.  With a fierce, determined expression, he says, “Repeat after me: don’t look back.”

You can feel the strength in every single aspect of the man, voice, personality, grip, but that just fuels your need to fight back. With all your might, you manage to shake your head just enough to convey your refusal.

Tony Stark’s expression lights up. You realize your mistake immediately: if it didn’t mean something, if the words weren't important, you would have had no trouble repeating them. A million impossible escape routes spill out like marbles in your mind, scattering every other thought.

“Go on, Hap. Keep this to yourself for now,” Stark says. The triumph in his voice is as frightening as it is sexy. 

“You got it, boss.”

You fight back a strong feeling of desperate inevitability. Really, your only hope now is to wrench free and follow your contingency plan: to say the words and play them off, avoiding the physical contact that reinforces the bond. If you can convince this man that you planned to trick him into thinking you’re his soulmate, you might still get out of here with your free will intact.

That’ll be easier to do without Hogan there, so you force yourself to remain still. Stark sweeps a broad, warm caress along your neck with his thumb, and god, it’s been so, so long since anyone’s touched you like that. There’s something insidious about it, like some part of you is already lost to him if you enjoy it even a little bit. All you can do is close your eyes, clench your fists, and wait.

The elevator doors close, and Stark starts pulling his hand away, stroking your neck possessively on the way. You do your very best not to like it. In truth, Tony Stark the billionaire, Tony Stark the Avenger was absolutely your type. You imagine that after ten years of mind control and cruelty, there’s probably little of that man left. 

“You might as well say it,” he tells you with a smug little quirk in his voice. You open your eyes to see that Stark’s headed back to the bar. “Got a favorite drink?” You shake your head. “You strike me as a Tequila Sunrise type. Fun to look at, goes down easy.”

You cross your arms and glare at him, but it was a cute line for such a tense situation. Wrong, but cute.

Stark gestures to you with the Tequila bottle. “So, what, did you think you’d just stay quiet and run back home to Georgia? Happy says it didn’t take much persuading.”

You smile at him, but not warmly. One thing you hadn’t considered was that Stark might be pleased, might be looking forward to the other… perks of having a soulmate. That might make him more inclined to be kind to you, at least until you try to bluff him. You can use that.

“Don’t think I can’t see how furious you are, little one,” Stark purrs. “I’m still figuring you out, but I’ve had a file on you for years. You want to know what people say about you?” 

He rests a large hand on a folder you hadn’t noticed before, pushes it across the bar in invitation. You shrug and turn your head to look out the window, the picture of indifference. You hope it pisses him the fuck off.

“Yeah, you’re right. It’s all trash now anyway, now that you’ve met with me.” Stark holds it up. “They’ll never trust you again.” He tosses it behind him. When it strikes the wall, the many single pages that made up the bulk of the file fly out around him like some kind of monstrous confetti, to the accompaniment of breaking glass. You wonder how many bottles he just wasted, whether they’re even replaceable in this brave new world you’re all trapped in.

You nod, feeling the weight of the coming moment. Mentally you gird yourself, but physically you try to adopt an attitude of casual discourtesy. You want Stark to hate his soulmark, to hate you, enough to send you away or destroy you.

Anything, anything but touch you again.

Letting out a sigh, you spread your hands in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture and say, “Don’t look back.”

The words strike him, so much so that he chuckles ruefully on an indrawn breath. A bitter disappointment sweeps across his face before it hardens into anger. You're grateful; you'd expected something-- a thunderclap, a rush of adrenaline, a gust of magical wind, but there’s nothing to indicate that you’ve both said the Words. Maybe, maybe, you can get out of this, if you’re careful. If you’re just the right level of heinous bitch.

“Did you practice that?” Stark finally says. He walks out from around the bar, and you take the opportunity to make your way over to the window, the picture of unconcerned, unattached, unbothered.

“What do you want, Mr. Stark?” Shit, your voice is shaking.

“I want a challenge,” he snaps, his voice closer than you expected. He’s just a foot away, and you can’t hide your shock fast enough. “You think that file was just for show? I read the whole thing.”

“Then you know I don’t want to be here. I have a business to run, a business you’ve fucked over with--” you back away in the guise of making a dismissive, furious gesture; “--whatever this is. What do you want, so I can get the fuck out of here?”

“What’s wrong, pet? Foot caught in a trap?” he asks, tone suddenly gentle, soothing. You scoff, turning on your heel to stalk away from him--but Stark reaches out swiftly and catches your hand in his.

A jolt of pleasure-fueled electricity floods you with an almost overwhelming need for closeness, companionship-- to be known. It's as if until this exact moment, you’d been empty, and you gasp, screaming against the sudden, insidious desires that have cropped up in your mind.

Oh god, no, this is too much, this is--

What you don’t expect is for Stark to answer.

Oh FUCK yes, telepathy. My second favorite superpower, right after flight.

You snatch your hand away and fall back onto the window, eyes wide. Stark shakes his head almost imperceptibly, then throws both hands in the air as if in disgust.

“You really had me, but there’s just… nothing. I should toss you off of the roof, you know that, right? Faking soulmark words? Ballsy.” He twitches his lips as though he can’t decide whether to be angry or not, and steps closer. “Hold out your hand?”

There’s vulnerability in his expression, something you hadn’t at all expected to see, but you are still reeling from what had passed between the two of you. Tony Stark is one of the smartest men on the planet, and certainly one of the most ruthless. He’ll stop at nothing to get what he wants-- and it’s well known that every inch of his penthouse is under surveillance, not to mention whatever Lord Loki has monitoring his most powerful thrall.

Just like the words written on both of you, neither of you can look back.

Sullenly, you lift your hand, and immediately, Stark engulfs it in an angry grip.

Okay here’s how this is going to go: Do as I say, and we can keep this our little secret. Resist me and I’ll tell Loki I’ve finally found my soulmate. Believe me, you do not want anything to do with what he has in store for us.

Possibly TBC if there's interest...

[swanimagines]

ENOLA HOLMES AO3 SERIESES

EVERYTHING FOR ENOLA HOLMES

Enola Holmes (character)

Tewkesbury

Sherlock Holmes

Mycroft Holmes

(Any of the other characters don't have any requests written nor pending as for now, so I'm unable to have serieses for them as AO3 requires you to have at least one oneshot written to be able to add it to a series, and I can't promise serieses for characters who don't have requests pending/I have no ideas of my own for them)

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If you want to be informed about new fics for Enola Holmes or its individual characters, create an AO3 account and subscribe or bookmark any of those serieses listed above. There are buttons at the top right corner for those, or on top on mobile. I do not post any of my fics on Tumblr anymore, at least for now. I do not do taglists as AO3 has an inbuilt taglist.

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[user-needs-new-hyperfixation]

I really want to know about 13.

This is just chapter 13 of Love, In All Its Disrepute, which kind of accidentally went on a back burner because I got attacked by plot bunnies for oneshots.

In which Albert is in a bad mood:

"At least he’d spent the better part of the day happily distracted by spending time with William and Louis, having promised to take them sightseeing. It’s been a while since the two of them spent any significant time in London, and they had happily whiled away hours exploring shops and museums with Albert simply reveling in their enjoyment. That had been distracting enough for a time. Now it’s evening, and the negotiators have gathered at the Moriarty manor. Albert only grows gloomier the longer he goes without finding an opportunity to pull Mycroft aside. He won’t be settled until Mycroft tells him he can be. The realization of that does nothing to improve his mood. The further realization that Mycroft is intentionally avoiding being alone with him, teasing, tips him from sulking straight into fuming."

[j-eryewrites]

Love Story

MAIN MASTER LIST

ANON Request: Can you do a fic based on “love story” by Taylor Swift? Sherlock and the reader are in a relationship, but he's older than her and her mother is probably not for this marriage, so they meet, hiding from others, and like the song he proposes to her.

Author’s Notes: OMG this was so fun to write! Super fluffy and slightly OOC Sherlock. I hope you guys enjoy it! I tried to not make this one too long, but oh well…

Warning: Just major fluff

Flashes of gold and silver twirled around the room. Under the lights of the chandeliers, partners waltz hand in hand. The women dressed from head to toe in the finest silks and fabrics. They wore the shiniest and most entrancing of jewellery. The men were sharply dressed. Not a wrinkle in sight on their tuxedos as they led their partners around the room. Their elegance and grace exceeded your own as you admired the view along the wall. 

You’d never seen a live orchestra before, let alone have one accompany the dancers at a ball. It was London’s greatest charity event of the year. All those who oozed importance or wealth attended. Never in your life could you have imagined you’d be one of those people. You wouldn’t say you were anyone of importance or wealthy. However, you were important to someone. 

“Meet me in the garden.” 

You don’t need to see to know who whispered into your ear. The sharp constants, slight coarseness, and tone seething with intelligence only meant one thing–Sherlock. 

You don’t even get to reply because he’s out of sight by the time you turn around. You looked back once more at the ball letting the music and dancers spin you into a trance before the cool air of the outdoors called for you. 

The garden itself was just as breathtaking as the life of the ball. The moon showed brightly that night, as did the stars. The sky seemed to dance to its own song. The silver light cascaded down illuminating your path. In the garden, Sherlock had said. Where you did not know, but something told you that you’d find him, just like you did all those years ago. 

We were both young when I first saw you

I close my eyes and the flashback starts

I'm standing there

He said he needed an expert. You didn’t understand why it was you. You were only a freshly graduated art student just making your way into the world. Name after name you gave Sherlock, all people who were better qualified than you to give the world’s only consulting detective advice. 

He proved you wrong. You were the freshest mind of them all. Your mind was still structured by the greats and the lessons your schooling gave you. You didn’t have experience or time to make art your own, unlike the others you suggested instead. You didn’t forget your schooling, how could you when it was all you knew? 

You gave your advice. A case was solved and soon there was another. One after the other it came. How could you refuse? After all, he said he needed an expert. 

See you make your way through the crowd

And say "Hello"

Little did I know

That you were Romeo, you were throwing pebbles

“Here,” Sherlock said before dropping something smooth and small into the palm of your hand. 

You pry away your fingers and smile. A pebble. A rock. The shiniest thing you’ve ever seen. If you looked at it just right, there were hints of green and blue. You peer up at Sherlock.

“It reminded me of you,” Sherlock muttered. His cheekbones were ever so slightly blushed, and his sapphire blue eyes averted yours. 

“Sherlock–” You grinned. 

“I read that penguins present what they deem the most perfect stones to those they wish to court,” Sherlock explained. 

You look down at the small stone in your hand. 

“Yes”

Romeo, save me, they're trying to tell me how to feel

This love is difficult, but it's real

Don't be afraid, we'll make it out of this mess

It's a love story, baby, just say yes

Mycroft. You were wondering when you would meet Sherlock’s brother. You never expected to be forced into a black car and driven to the middle of nowhere. The man was just how you pictured him: Stern, cold, tall, and intelligent. 

He told you to stay away. Sentiment is a chemical defect in the brain. A defect that Sherlock must not have. He offered you money and anything your heart desired. You shook your head. You already had your heart’s desire. 

(Takes place at a ball/gala. Reader and Sherlock are there, and he’s asked her to meet him in the garden. As she’s walking through the garden, she is getting flashbacks on how they met: Reader needs help on a case and they meet Sherlock, then cut to after the case on the back of an ambulance, Sherlock asks the reader to go for coffee sometime, then it cuts to Mycroft meeting with reader basically paying her to stay away from Sherlock since Sentiment is a chemical defect in the brain. She refuses and now we come to the ball. She finds Sherlock in the garden and he’s proposing to her. It ends with yes and then the song lyrics (these are scattered throughout)

He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring

And said

"Marry me, Juliet, you'll never have to be alone

I love you, and that's all I really know

I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress

It's a love story, baby, just say yes"

Your hands were cold from the night air, but you never cared. “Meet me in the garden,” he said, and, in the garden, you did find him. A head full of dark curls that you loved to brush your fingers through. Eyes that sang of home and you wished you could never leave. Sherlock stood there in the garden next to the roses and the lilies.

He held out his hand to which you placed yours. His lips meet each of your knuckles before pulling away. There was something on your finger. It was small, round, and smooth. 

The pebble glimmered under the moonlight. You gasped, cried, and smiled. A small stone you thought you had lost now found home on your finger. 

“Will you marry me?” Sherlock whispered. 

Yes

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