#mycroft was slightly confused

[mxflowercheck]

So did you ever think about Mycroft giving Lestrade the shovel talk about Sherlock, when they started working together?

Just imagine, you found some eccentric man, who's clearly a genius and he solved your very cold case. But he is also a) absolutely insufferable b) refuses to be a policeman or a private detective ("consulting detective", he says!) c) has zero concerns about social norm and politeness

You go home, tired, confused, a tad mad, hoping for a quiet evening. Suddenly you notice how whenever you pass a phone it rings.

Your phone rings.

You get in the car, your hand close to the gun you still have, no answers, just endless list of questions once again.

You end up in front of a polite-looking man, he's suit is brand-new, his hair is neatly combed, his umbrella is more for decoration - he's nothing like a tired you in your old jacket, jeans that still have stains from today's messy chase.

The man all but scans you, smiles (sincere, but sly - oh, you know that look), offers you a sit. And a pain medication for your head. And talks about the case you (Sherlock) solved today.

He looks you in the eyes and is so very polite, but you feel like that's a snake in front of you.

"I heard that Sherlock Holmes helped you today. And a couple of other days."

Oh God, that's gonna go really well or really, really bad and perhaps bloody.

[girl-next-door-writes]

Hi! :) was wondering I'd you could have someone get flirty...inappropriatly so with Mycroft then shows up to find him

@theweepingvulcan91 Thank you so much for this gift of a gif. It might have got away from me a little - Em.

The soft glow of the reading lamps illuminated the high ceilings and grand bookshelves of the Diogenes Club, casting long shadows that danced upon the richly decorated walls. Mycroft Holmes, his posture upright yet relaxed, was nestled in a plush armchair near the fireplace. The subtle crackling of the fire added a comforting backdrop to the scene, a stark contrast to the day's relentless demands.

The other members of the club, equally committed to the sanctity of silence, moved about with deliberate quietness, their footfalls muffled by thick carpets. Some were engrossed in their newspapers, others in their books, all sharing an unspoken agreement to preserve the tranquillity of the space.

Mycroft's evening reading was a well-worn ritual, a necessary retreat from the cacophony of his responsibilities. His sharp eyes scanned the pages methodically, each piece of information absorbed and catalogued with precision. The club's unique environment allowed him to process the day's events, each new fact or observation finding its rightful place in the intricate tapestry of his mind.

The atmosphere was one of serene detachment, a haven where even the most burdened of minds could find respite. As the fire continued its gentle murmur, Mycroft turned another page, the rhythm of his routine restoring the equilibrium that had been disturbed by the day's incessant challenges. Here, within the hallowed halls of the Diogenes Club, he found peace. That was until his phone vibrated, drawing his hawkish attention.

Mycroft's eyebrow arched as he glanced at the screen, his eyes narrowing slightly as he noted the sender. Shuffling through his mental rolodex, he realised this was that strange woman from acquisitions who always smiled at him. He barely said a word to her, and yet she always seemed to go out of her way to say hello to him.

He wondered how she had managed to acquire his private number. Mycroft prided himself on his meticulous control over his personal information, a necessity in his line of work. That she had pierced this veil of privacy irked him greatly. This imposition was an irritation, a security breach.

With a silent sigh, he leaned back in his chair, allowing the shadows of the flickering fire to play across his face. The club’s atmosphere, usually a fortress of calm, now seemed to buzz with a faint undercurrent of urgency. Perhaps this message was a necessity, something which required his immediate attention.

He opened the message, his expression becoming one of confusion.

"Did you miss me today, Mycroft?" read the message, followed by a winking emoji.

Mycroft's fingers tightened around his phone as he read the message again, disbelief warring with irritation. His mind raced, analyzing every interaction he had ever had with the woman from acquisitions. Each encounter had been brief, polite, and decidedly unremarkable—at least from his perspective. What had he missed? How had he overlooked someone slipping through his carefully constructed barriers?

He set the phone down on the mahogany table beside his chair, the flickering firelight reflecting off its screen. The message stared back at him, its casual tone completely at odds with the seriousness of his current predicament. Mycroft was not accustomed to being caught off guard, and the sensation was deeply unsettling.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. It would not do to let this minor breach unsettle him. He needed to address the situation methodically. His first step would be to ascertain exactly how she had obtained his private number. That would require some discreet inquiries—he had no doubt that the answer would reveal a lapse in his own protocols, and that was unacceptable.

For now, he had to respond. Ignoring the message was not an option; it would only embolden her to further intrusions. Mycroft picked up his phone again, considering his reply carefully. He needed to convey his displeasure without revealing too much, to reassert his boundaries firmly but without provocation.

After a moment of contemplation, he typed out a response:

"I believe you may have mistaken this number for a more public line. Please refrain from using it in the future. – M.H."

He sent the message and set the phone down once more, feeling a measure of control return. The fire crackled quietly beside him, and he let the warmth and the familiar surroundings of the club soothe his irritation. This would be dealt with swiftly, just like any other anomaly in his meticulously ordered world.

Unfortunately for Mycroft, the matter was far from settled. It appeared that once she knew this was indeed his number, it only encouraged her to send further messages. Each one was more flirty and suggestive than the last, making him feel increasingly uncomfortable. Despite his best efforts to ignore the texts and hope they would stop, they persisted, leaving him in a state of constant unease. Mycroft realized that he would need to take more definitive action to address the situation, but he wasn't quite sure what steps to take next.

Sherlock had asked you to stop by the Diogenes Club on your way home to drop off a file for his brother. As you entered the room, ignoring the glares that quite obviously not being a member earned you, your attention fell on the look of total frustration on Mycroft's face. His entire being practically vibrated with it. It was clear that something was deeply troubling him, and it wasn't just the breach of the club's strict non-communication policy by your presence. Mycroft, usually the epitome of calm and control, seemed to be battling an internal storm. His fingers drummed impatiently on the armrest of his chair, and his eyes, though focused on his phone, were filled with a mix of anger and discomfort. It was a rare sight to see the elder Holmes so unsettled, and you couldn't help but wonder what had pushed him to this edge.

As you approached, his phone vibrated. He looked at the screen and rolled his eyes, frustration rolling off him in waves.

"Trouble at work?" you queried, taking a seat opposite him. Your voice pierced through the silence, earning you more than a couple of black looks from other club members.

"Nothing I cannot handle," Mycroft huffed, his jaw clenching as his phone vibrated once again. The urge to throw the damned thing into the fire grew stronger with each low hum emanating from the blasted machine.

You glanced at his phone, then back at him. "It doesn't look like nothing," you remarked, your tone gentle but probing.

Mycroft's eyes flicked to yours, a mixture of annoyance and resignation in them. "Persistent... nuisance," he admitted, the words forced through gritted teeth.

You raised an eyebrow. "Anything I can help with?"

For a moment, he seemed to consider the offer, then shook his head. "No, but I appreciate the gesture. It's a personal matter that requires a delicate approach."

"I doubt a 'delicate approach' from a Holmes is possible," you said, raising an eyebrow and trying to suppress a grin.

The phone buzzed once more, breaking the moment. He reached out and grabbed it with such force that his knuckles turned white.

Without a word, you extended your hand, eyes locked on his. He hesitated but eventually handed over the phone, his gaze never leaving your face. As you scrolled through the messages, your eyebrows shot up and a smile tugged at your lips; the messages were becoming increasingly bold.

He watched, his curiosity piqued, as you typed a reply and hit send. Then, with a smirk, you handed the phone back to him.

He held it in his palm, expecting another buzz, another daring message in response to whatever you had sent. But the phone remained silent. Intrigued, he opened the message thread. A look of amusement spread across his features as he read what you had sent to his rather persistent admirer:

"Consider your approach noted. Best of luck, but persistence doesn't always equate to success. - someone with a much better approach to courting Mycroft Holmes."

[fairy-writes]

hello there i hope you have a great day today, can i request an albert x reader. the reader is holmes younger sister (could be an age gap but if you uncomfortable you can make the reader sherlock older sister). im kinda interested that the reader and albert is ike in a fake engagement but slowly they fall for each other. im sorry if its a lott or confusing 😖😖😖😖

FAKE�� OR IS IT?

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Moriarty the Patriot

Pairing(s): Albert James Moriarty x Reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Female!Reader, Holmes!Reader, Fake Engagement, Reader is short

Notes: I wrote this with the reader being the Holmes’s middle child. So, in between Mycroft and Sherlock :)

Here are their ages!

Mycroft: 31 | Reader: 27 | Sherlock: 24

__________________________________________________________________________

“Sit up straight, Sister.” Mycroft chastises, and you roll your eyes, propping your heeled feet up on the coffee table, much to his chagrin. You can tell he’s less than pleased with the mud on the table by the tightness around his eyes. 

“Bugger off, Mikey.” You grumble and slouch even more in your seat. His frown deepens, but he knows better than to try and get you to obey. If anything, it would make you rebel even more. 

You had never been one for proper manners if you could help it. You had always been a rough-and-tumble type of woman, playing in the dirt with the neighborhood kids while Mycroft and Sherlock dealt with their studies. Sure, you also had studies of your own. But overall, you tended to ignore whatever your governess taught you in favor of learning how to handle weapons from your father. Mycroft sits back in his seat and sighs, 

“At least sit properly when the company gets here.” He mutters under his breath. 

That gets you to sit up straight.

“Company?! Since when?!” You choke and hurriedly set down your teacup before you can spill it down your front. Your elder brother had summoned you to his office that morning with a telegram. But he hadn’t explained why you were there, even with your pestering. Mycroft glares at you pointedly and is about to answer when there’s a firm knock on the door. 

“Come in.” He calls, his voice booming and loud in the quiet room. 

A tall young man, perhaps your age, enters the room. He’s attractive, almost devilishly so. With slicked-back brown hair and piercing green eyes, he’s dressed in the typical uniform of all soldiers. 

You recognize this man. 

Your younger brother wouldn’t shut up about his family. 

Lieutenant Colonel Albert James Moriarty. 

You glare at Mycroft, who ignores your look in favor of standing up and shaking Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty’s hand. Brushing off the front of your dress, you stand as Mycroft gestures to you. 

“This is my younger sister,” He says. Your name follows soon after. You plaster a bright smile on your face and extend your own hand. Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty bows slightly and introduces himself before you turn to look at your brother. 

“I assume this is where I take my leave?” You ask, and he raises an eyebrow, 

“On the contrary, dearest sister, you’ll be taking part in this meeting.” Your face betrays your shock before you can school it into a facade of perfect calm. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty notices but doesn’t comment. 

Mycroft gestures for you to take your seats before his desk, and you do so, perching on the edge of the seat like a bird ready to take flight. In contrast, Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty sits back, relaxed in his chair, setting his hat in his lap and steepling his hands together. 

“So, mind telling me what this ‘important mission’ is about?” He says politely, and you look at him from the corner of your eye.

Important mission? 

Just what was your elder brother planning? 

Mycroft leaned his hands on his desk and then leaned his weight on his hands. It seemed he wasn’t taking a seat quite yet. 

That meant things were serious. 

“There’s a mission I am entrusting to the both of you. It’s of the utmost importance and must be handled immediately.” 

Wait…

“You’re what?!” You blurt just as Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty opens his mouth to speak. You don’t give him the chance to talk. You stand and jab a finger at Mycroft, the other hand clenched in the fabric of your dress skirt. 

You weren’t about to be a pawn in your brother’s game. You weren’t even an MI6 agent or soldier of his! 

“Absolutely not! This can’t possibly be legal! I’m just a civilian!” You stand and jab a finger at Mycroft, the other hand clenched in the fabric of your dress skirt. Mycroft stares down at you. He had always been the tallest of the three Holmes siblings. You were saddled with the hefty burden of being the shortest. 

“You know this as well as anyone that MI6 operates outside the law,” Mycroft says simply, and you grind your teeth. He had a point. But still… 

“What about Miss Moneypenny?” You ask, and Mycroft shrugs, 

“She’s on another mission with Colonel Moran. You two are the only ones I trust with this.” He says, turning his intense stare onto you and Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty. 

You flinch at that. Mycroft never openly said he trusted you. It was sometimes implied, but he knew how fickle you could be! Was this mission really that important?

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty stands and accepts the papers Mycroft hands him. He then extends a hand for you to take. Begrudgingly, you take it and allow him to help you to your feet. 

At least your ‘mission partner’ was a gentleman. 

You accept Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty’s offer to take you back to the Holmes London estate and sit across from him in the carriage. He opens the papers Mycroft gave him and begins to read. 

“Oh dear…” He mumbles, and you look over from where you had been watching the scenery go by. He has a frown pulling at his lips and creasing his brows. 

“What’s the matter?” You ask, and he turns the papers around so you can read them. 

“It seems we’ll need to be engaged for this mission to work.”

Your engagement was announced within the next week. 

You had even commissioned an artist for an engagement photo of sorts. Granted, it was just for show, but still! You had to stand still for hours in a dress your mother picked out and that you loathed all for one portrait. 

You never understood how royalty could do it. 

Speaking of your parents… 

Part of the facade was to make sure everyone was in on it. Maybe ‘in on it’ wasn’t the right word. Because this was a top-secret mission, after all. So you couldn’t exactly tell your parents that this engagement was fake. But you did have to tell them you were getting engaged lest you incur the wrath of your mother. 

Wanda Holmes was a proper woman. She was everything you weren’t. Prim, proper, ladylike. The only thing you got from her was her height and her temper. She hated that you weren’t the little lady she dreamt of having. But there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. 

In contrast, Timothy Holmes was a bit of a rule breaker. He fostered your love for weaponry and often challenged you to a shoot-off to see if you let your skills rust over. You inherited his knack for getting under people’s skins, and it was a wonder that he was still married to your mother after thirty years. 

Telling them was an… interesting adventure, to say the least. As your carriage rumbled up to the country estate where they resided, they met you outside. Your mother had her hands clasped together, a newspaper crunched in her grasp. Her face was dark with disappointment. 

Like the light side of the moon, your father all but bounded up as you stepped out of the carriage. 

“Dearest daughter!” He bellowed, and you couldn’t help but grin. 

“Dearest father!” You tease right back and step forward into his embrace. He squeezes you tight and lifts you up into a spin. You shriek with laughter and cling to him to make sure you don’t fall when he sets you back down. 

“Darling, at least let her get into the house before you bother her.” Your mother says, and you roll your eyes but don’t say anything. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty steps out of the carriage, and your father’s demeanor changes. His smile is still there, but it no longer reaches his eyes. He extends a hand, and when Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty takes it, you can tell he’s holding back a wince from how hard your father squeezes it. 

“Timothy Holmes. It’s a pleasure.” Your father says curtly, and you can tell Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty can tell he’s being judged. But he offers a polite smile nonetheless,

“Albert James Moriarty. The pleasure is mine, Mr. Holmes.” He says, and it’s then that your mother approaches. Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty shakes her hand,

“You must be the infamous Wanda Holmes. It’s lovely to meet you.”

Your mother’s face smoothes over, and she looks at you,

“At least you’re marrying someone with manners.” This is her only comment, and you can see that the newspaper in her free hand is the one announcing your engagement. 

Perhaps you should’ve informed them by telegram instead of coming to visit for dinner… 

No… That would’ve made her even angrier than she already was. 

She soon ushers you into the little cottage that served as your parents' retirement home. The minimal staff on site has already prepared and served dinner, but you don’t eat just yet because your father catches your shoulder. He has a knowing gleam in his eye, and you can’t help but get a giddy smile on your face. 

Of course, he wouldn’t forget. 

Your mother notices, and her face sours. 

“Can’t this wait until after dinner?” She asks, and now your father scoffs,

“Of course not, my love! It’s tradition!” He crows, and you can see Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty start to ask, but you’re taken out back before anything can be asked. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty follows you out, and by then, your father is setting up targets with you, assembling the two pistols you always used for this little exercise. You brush off your hands on your dress and hand your father the revolver. You take your own and pocket it in the holster strapped to your waist. He does the same and looks to Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty. 

“Mind giving us a signal?” He asks, his tone much more friendly yet still a bit frosty at the same time. 

Your ‘fiancé’ seems to pick up on what’s happening quickly and nods. He allows both of you to take a stance before calling out a signal. 

The game takes less than twenty seconds. 

You whip out your gun and unleash all six bullets in the cylinder and barrel. Your father does the same, and before you know it, both of your guns are empty, and your ears are ringing. Holstering the weapon, you wait for your father to do the same before approaching the targets. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty is called forward to inspect the targets as well. 

“I believe your daughter is the winner.” He tells your father, and you grin proudly. 

“Guess I haven’t lost my touch, Father Dearest.” You tease, and your father slaps his thigh in defeat,

“And I guess I’m losing mine!” He chirps, and your mother calls from the doorway.

“And it’s time for dinner!”

The carriage ride back is quiet. 

“Where did you learn to shoot like that? I’ve never seen someone so accurate in a quick draw.” Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty says, and you jolt lightly. The food you had eaten was sending you into a food coma, and you had been dozing until he spoke. 

“My father. He was known as “Dead-Eye” for a long time until he retired from the military.” You said, and he nodded in appreciation. 

“He taught you well.” 

You smiled and played with your fingers. 

“Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty.” You say genuinely, and he arches an eyebrow, 

“You should call me Albert. We are engaged, after all, my dear fiancée.” His tone is borderline teasing. But you can tell he’s being genuine.

And for whatever reason, it makes your heart race. 

The mission is kicked into gear three months after announcing your ‘engagement.’ 

The gala you are attending is only for married or engaged couples. Everyone was investigated to ensure no one single was sneaking in. Why they wanted to keep single folks out was a mystery to you. But you relented and accepted the invitation as the ‘Future Mrs. Moriarty’ with as much grace as you could muster. 

You produced the invitation from your handbag and handed it to the man checking said invitation. Your free hand was looped through Albert’s arm, resting in the crook of his elbow. He chatted amicably with the doorman until you were announced as a couple and ushered inside. 

The air was already alive with the sounds of music and dancing couples. The two of you make some rounds around the sides of the dance hall, looking for your target. Hell, you even danced the waltz to a few songs! All those lessons you thought were useless were sure coming in handy now… Perhaps you should thank your mother for forcing you to listen to your governess as a child. 

Albert leans down to whisper in your ear as he brings you in from a gentle spin. 

“He’s at the top of the stairs.” He murmured, looking for all the world like he was whispering sweet nothings to his fiancée. But instead, he was walking you through the next phase of the plan. Seeing as your job was to kill your target, he was instructing you on how to get to his office, where he would meet you and find the documents he was looking for. 

Albert was to find the incriminating evidence. You were to kill the target if he tried to resist. 

The office was warmed by a crackling fire. There’s a large mahogany desk in front of the fireplace with documents and papers scattered across the surface. You clutch your purse closer to your chest, feeling the sturdy weight of the revolver inside. It was comforting. 

You had one job, so you would do it, and you would do it well. 

The doorknob turned, and you jumped, sneaking a hand inside your handbag to draw the revolver. The door opens, and the target spots you in front of the dying light of the fireplace. 

“Who are you?!” He bellows, but you know no one would be able to hear him over the sounds of music and talking. 

He doesn’t hear the door shut behind him until Albert slides the lock into place. He whirls and tries to push past your fiancé, but it’s like trying to move a stone wall. 

“What are you going to do to me?!” The target demands, and Albert smiles a terrifying smile. It was nothing like the kind and even tender smiles he had been giving you as of late. This smile darkened his eyes. 

It was almost… Cruel…

“Nothing if you cooperate.” He says darkly and pushes the man to sit in the chair before his desk. You walk behind him and press the muzzle of your revolver to the back of his balding head. He freezes, a drop of sweat traveling down his temple. 

Albert rifles through the desk, and no one says a word for what seems like forever. 

At least… Until the target tries to run. 

The chair has a low back. It’s almost more of a stool, so he throws his head back and cracks it into your nose. You stumble back and fall, tripping over the hem of your dress. The only thing keeping you from firing your gun is the fact that your father had engrained it into you to not keep your finger on the trigger until you were ready to fire.

Albert freezes and reaches into his suit jacket coat, but you’re faster. 

Before the target can even make it two paces, you fire your revolver, and the bullet sinks into his skull. Brain matter and blood spatter across the carpet. The pain sets in as Albert helps you to your feet and hands you a handkerchief for your bleeding nose. 

There’s no way you could go back out into public like this…

And as always, it seems Albert reads your mind. 

“We’ll escape out the window.” He says and pockets a few documents. 

“Did you get what you need?” You ask, and he nods, his smile tender and warm again.

It makes your heart flutter. 

The two of you escape out the window like Albert had said. Luckily, the carriage was already waiting outside, so you were able to retreat without being seen. 

Mission accomplished. 

You scowl at Mycroft as he reads through your very first report from MI6. 

“It’s a bit lackluster, but everything went according to plan?” He asked, and you huffed. 

“Except for the part where I broke my nose.” You say, your voice slightly garbled from the bandages on your nose. Mycroft simply nods, 

“These things are expected to happen. Be glad it wasn’t anything more serious.” He says, tangles his fingers together, and leans his chin on them. “If you’d like, we can feed the newspapers a story about your and Lieutenant Colonel’s parting of ways. You don’t have to be engaged to him anymore.” He continues, and you freeze. 

Not be engaged anymore? 

“What about Mother and Father? They’ll be furious.” You say absentmindedly, and he cocks his head to the side. 

“Since when have you ever cared what they think?” He says, confusion coloring his tone. You avert your gaze. 

“I’m just saying… I don’t mind taking more missions from you from now on…” You mumble and stare at the carpet. But you can hear the smile in his tone when he speaks next. 

“If that’s what you desire, sister dearest. I’ll let Lieutenant Colonel know of your decision.”

[cinebration]

What Purpose? (Sherlock Holmes x Reader) [Request]

hellooo, if you taking requests, you could do sherlock holmes (of enola holmes) x reader fic inspired by theo sharpe and eloise bridgerton?? I’d Sherlock to be very in love with the reader, and tells her something like: when I read something new or interesting or provoking, it is you who crosses my mind. It is you I would like to speak with about those thoughts and so I am wondering if you might also have thoughts of me when you think.—Requested by @kelloggs-world​

I slightly modified the quote. I hope you don’t mind!

Warnings: Mycroft

Gif Source: henrycavilledits

“The society papers say you’re cavorting with Lady Thornton’s personal maid,” Mycroft noted dryly, one eyebrow arching in ill-disguised disdain. “A maid, Sherlock, really.”

“A companion.”

“A glorified maid, then.”

Sherlock snapped the newspaper shut and fixed his brother with a stare. “Do you know anything about her?”

“Yes, the heiress to the modest trapping fortune not dominated by Astor. Which makes it all the more disgraceful that she is an old lady’s maid.”

“If her official title were to change to lady’s companion, would that appease you?” Sherlock shook his head. “I forgot to whom I was speaking.”

Mycroft sniffed and plucked up his snifter of brandy. “Really, Sherlock, what purpose does this woman serve?”

Sherlock straightened in his seat, spine dangerously rigid.

Mycroft snorted. “Every person and every thing serves a purpose, Sherlock. So what good does this woman do? I can’t imagine it’s much.”

The words slipped out through clenched teeth, barbed. “She does more than you.”

A brusque laugh tumbled out of his brother. “I highly doubt that, Sherlock. Our own sister isn’t comparable to either of us, and at least she comes from the source.”

Shoving himself out of his seat, Sherlock straightened his suit jacket and shot a glare in Mycroft’s direction. “Enola is more than a match for you, Mycroft. That’s why you failed to bend her to your will.”

A livid flush crept up Mycroft’s neck and into his cheeks. “If I recall, you stepped in as her guardian.”

“Consider that, brother. She convinced me against you.” Sherlock flashed an insincere smile. “More than your match.”

“Here I thought Enola was the problem, scurrying around town like some low-bred urchin, yet I hear you are cavorting with nothing better than a maid.” A sneer curled Mycroft’s lips. “My God, the pair of you. I don’t know why I even bother!”

“No one asked you to bother, Mycroft.”

Sherlock strode for the door, refraining from snapping a goodbye.

“She can’t be worth much,” Mycroft called after him. “Even if she did throw you a bone by sending you on that murder investigation!”

Teeth grinding, Sherlock all but slammed the door shut. Anger radiated in unexpected waves through him, his frustration tantamount to whenever an investigation thwarted him unnecessarily. He couldn’t understand why Mycroft’s words stuck within him. Though his brother was insufferable, most if not all of his barbs passed through Sherlock without so much as an abrasive touch. That he should so infuriate him confused Sherlock as much as it riled up his ire.

Sheets of rain poured down on the city, drowning all light in gray. Hansoms darted down the cobblestone streets, streaming water in their wake, impossible to flag down. The pavement was nearly empty, everyone huddled someplace out of the deluge.

In his haste, Sherlock had forgotten his umbrella. Turning his coat collar up and shoving his hands deep in his pockets, he cut across the street, dodging a hansom he heard before he saw, and stormed in the direction of his flat. The stinging cold of the rain beating into his face and running rivulets beneath his shirt did nothing to cool him of his anger.

“It wasn’t just the murder,” he hissed between his teeth, hands balling into fists in his pockets. Although the death of your last living relative had proven an intricate and thorny case, one that had taken twelve day to solve, it wasn’t as though you were a treasure trove of such cases. In the months since the investigation’s resolution, you had not required Sherlock’s services again.

Lady Thornton, however, had used them in a theft case shortly after Sherlock solved your case, causing you both to cross paths again. Sherlock had taken the time to interview you regarding the theft and any information you might know. As with your own case, you presented facts and evidence in a logical, rational manner, offering up details that surprised Sherlock and gave a glimpse into your perceptiveness, leaving an indelible impression on him.

The theft was resolved in less than two days. Yet Sherlock had returned again to Lady Thornton’s estate to see you. He had recognized a sharp mind desperate to be seen and engaged, and despite himself, he decided he was the man to do it.

The old woman acted as chaperone, but the shrewd and experienced Lady Thornton recognized what was unfolding before even the faintest hint of it brushed either Sherlock’s or your mind. Melding into the shadows as much as possible, a smirk playing on her lips, Lady Thornton contented herself with providing only the barest level of propriety for the sake of the papers, allowing you and Sherlock as much privacy as she could.

Sherlock had found you eager to discuss all manner of subjects. He brought books for you to devour in days so that there was new topics of discourse the next time you met. Your voracious appetite for knowledge and conversation—proper conversation, not the societal niceties that amounted to nothing but superficiality—secretly delighted Sherlock, such that he took great care to select the most interesting of texts to deliver to your door.

What purpose did you serve? The question tasted vile on Sherlock’s tongue, though he hadn’t been the one to ask it. Like a wound, he returned to it again and again, suffering the indignity of it. Did a person have to serve?

As he turned down one street, then the next, he found himself contemplating it. Loathe to admit it, he realized that Mycroft had something akin to a point. Neither Holmes brother wasted time on anyone without reason. For Mycroft, it was blackmail and state secrets, government and high-society connections; for Sherlock, anything to do with a case.

Therefore, why did he spend so much time with you?

The thought spun so quickly through his mind that he grew dizzy with it, pausing to lean against a lamppost. The answer was there, just beyond his reach, and any attempt to grasp it made him ill, the world tilting beneath his feet.

They carried him through the rain until they found a cab unloading an elderly couple. Sherlock flagged the driver and hopped into the hansom, the carriage dipping low beneath his formidable frame. He had to bribe the driver several extra quid to ensure the man drove him out to the estate.

When they arrived, he paid the man and refrained from asking him to stay. Lady Thornton would never allow him to return home in such weather, not without sending him off in her own carriage. Seeing as she wouldn’t subject her own driver to such inclement conditions, Sherlock would be stuck there until the weather cleared.

The staff recognizing him, they let him enter and stripped him of his soaking overcoat and jacket.

“I believe the former master of the house,” the butler informed him in crisp tones, “had trousers you could use.”

“I can dry before the fire,” Sherlock assured him.

He paced in front of the crackling flames for what seemed like an eternity while he waited for you to arrive. When the door opened softly, it took all his self-control to avoid spinning sharply to face you.

“You’ll catch your death, Sherlock, getting caught in the rain like that!”

Suppressing the faint upward twitch of his lips, Sherlock slowly turned to you. The anger at Mycroft’s words melted as he peered into your face.

“What is it?” you asked, reaching up to touch your cheek self-consciously.

“Nothing. I merely…” Sherlock frowned, casting about for words that suddenly eluded him. “Do you believe that every individual in one’s life must serve a purpose?”

Eyebrows arching, you chuffed a quiet laugh. “My, has the weather made you maudlin?”

“No, it isn’t…my brother made an insinuation, and I thought it worth asking you your opinion on the matter.”

Head cocking to the side, you scrutinized Sherlock’s features. “What sort of insinuation?”

“Well…” Sherlock laughed, shook his head. “Mycroft is uncannily skilled at insinuating more than one thing with few words. It would take hours to parse everything he means from what little he says.”

“You are stuck here until the weather improves, so we have the time to spare.”

Sherlock met your gaze, your eyes sincere and curious. Struck suddenly with the urge to fidget, he turned back toward the fireplace and leaned against the mantle, his soaked trousers and collar slowly drying.

“I think,” you answered carefully, “that whom we choose to spend our time with speaks to their importance in our lives.”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at you.

“For Lady Thornton, my purpose is to be a companion. She may compensate me for it, but I would be her companion for free, because I enjoy spending time with her. Her purpose for me, if it matters to know, is as mentor and friend. That is sufficient.”

The words sunk into Sherlock’s thoughts, quieting them. The flames popped behind him, crackling as the logs shifted.

“Mycroft asked me what purpose you served,” he heard himself say. “He doesn’t understand why I spend my time with you.”

Your throat moved as you swallowed reflexively, your gaze dropping away from his. “Frankly, I’m inclined to agree with him. I don’t understand why you spend your time with me.”

Sherlock frowned, his chest tight. Were there words to explain why? He considered it for several moments, his heart an uneven metronome in his ribs.

“When I read something new or interesting or provoking,” he began, the words passing softly over his lips, “it is you who crosses my mind. It is you I would like to speak with about those thoughts. So I come here and I share them, and I enjoy hearing your replies.”

You glanced up at him, your gaze sharp and hesitant simultaneously.

“And I find myself wondering…” He swallowed thickly, the words on his tongue as if they had waited his whole life to be there, his thoughts roiling in confusion but the conviction that this was right, inevitable, felt firmly in his deepest self. “I am wondering if you might also have thoughts of me when you think.”

Your lips trembled, caught between a smile and panic, triumph and anxiety. Pressing your fingers against them, you inhaled sharply and attempted again, this time managing to speak. “I think of you often, Sherlock. How could I not?”

Something sharp buried itself in his chest, but the feeling was not altogether unpleasant. Sucking in a breath, he gripped the mantle with both hands, knuckles white with the pressure. He didn’t know how to proceed, the confession having worn out any social manner he had been forced to learn.

Gently clearing your throat, you offered, “So when next you see your brother, tell him the purpose I serve is…as your other self, as you are my other self.”

Your hand touched him lightly on the elbow. Shifting, Sherlock watched your hand slide down the length of his forearm, fingers gently entwining with his. The touch sent shivers through his arm and down his spine, startling him with their strength.

“He will never understand that,” he managed to say, his voice thick.

“Then we should pity him.”

Meeting your gaze, Sherlock laughed, unable to let the sharp ha! stay buried. You smiled, flashing teeth in a beautiful face. He hadn’t realized you were so beautiful…or perhaps you had been beautiful all along, and it had taken all this time for him to see it.

[lilmoonbunny]

First Kisses; BBC Sherlock

Includes: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Moriarty.

Sherlock:

It wasn’t rare for Sherlock to come out with the strangest things, but there were times when his requests were so unexpected that one would choke.

“I need to test out a theory,” Sherlock broke the silence between himself and Y/N one day.

“…Okay?” Y/N replied simply, preparing to tell Sherlock that he can’t put a head in the microwave again.

“I require your help.”

That was odd, he rarely ever trusted someone else to help him with an experiment, not even John.

With a raised eyebrow, she responded. “How so?”

“You need to kiss me.” Whilst his words were as blunt as always, Y/N couldn’t help the way that she choked in surprise, all whilst he rolled his eyes. “It is not that serious, Y/N. I simply need to see if it solves these thoughts.”

“These thoughts?” Came her confused response, watching him as he walked towards her seat on the chair opposite him.

“That is what I said, yes. Do keep up.”

Rolling her own eyes, she stared up at the detective who had an impatient look on his face.

“I mean, okay? If that’s what you want.” He smirked slightly at her attempt to seem nonchalant at his request; he didn’t expect her to actually do it.

“I just need to see if t-“He began speaking, only to have his sentence cut short by her lips pressing against his own.

Sherlock’s eyes widened as her hand gently gripped his cheek as kissed him. He was frozen in place, heart racing, and chest heaving once she pulled away.

“Did that help?” She asked, looking up at the startled and silent man as she seated herself back where she was previously. She waited for a few more moments to see if he would respond before giving up. “Anyway, I need to get going. Tell John I said hello whenever he returns.” Y/N said as she reached the door, Sherlock still frozen in place, at least, until the door clicked, and he snapped out of his haze.

“Hey, Y/N, wait!”

John:

Despite his initial dislike for the youngest Holmes sibling, John couldn’t deny the feelings that he had grown for Y/N Holmes over the past few months. It was obvious to everyone besides the woman herself who was, unlike her brothers, oblivious to any and every sign of affection towards her.

It was just the two of them in 221B going through the latest case files whilst Sherlock attended a crime scene. He had originally asked John to accompany him, but the man refused after realising that Y/N was remaining at the flat, something at which Sherlock simply rolled his eyes, having already deduced his friends crush on his sister long before he even knew himself.

It was a trickier case than usual, hence why Sherlock had to return to the crime scene, leaving John and Y/N to search through mountains of files looking for one specific word.

“This would be so much easier if these files were all on a computer.” Y/N yawned, flipping the page over to the other side, John doing the same.

“Agreed.”

“Wait, this might be what we’re looking for!” The woman shot up onto her feet in excitement, turning the paper towards John and pointing at what she was looking at with a smile which was soon returned as he agreed.

In excitement, Y/N’s arms wrapped around John, and she pulled him in for a hug, only to pull away once she realised what she had done.

“I’m so sor-“ she began, only to be silenced by John wrapping his hand around the back of her neck and pulling her into him for a moment, lips pressed against each other.

“Finally,” a deep voice sounded from the doorway, making the pair pull back away from each other in both shock and embarrassment. “Now if you two lovebirds are quite finished, what have you found?”

Lestrade:

It was odd for Greg to enjoy working with Sherlock.

Whilst he didn’t mind John’s company, Sherlock was an absolute nightmare, but their friend on the other hand, Y/N, she was wonderful and Lestrade could not get enough of her.

She was everything that Sherlock wasn’t. Kind, sweet, funny, genuine, and it came as no shock to him, or anyone else for that matter, when he began developing feelings for her. However, despite how obviously reciprocated his feelings were, the man refused to believe that she could ever like him back, even after Sherlock himself told him that she likes him too.

The two had become fast friends, having clicked as soon as they met, and a friendship with Lestrade meant coffee. All the time. Coffee was his favourite time of the day, especially if there were doughnuts involved.

“Your coffee is in the kitchen.” Y/N called as Greg let himself into her apartment, a common occurrence amongst the two, and he shot her a thumbs-up as he passed her to grab his drink.

“Thank you very much.” He grinned, taking a seat beside her on the sofa and turning his attention to the football for a moment. He knew she had no interest in the game, so why she had agreed to watch it with him, he didn’t know.

“It’s no problem, Greggy.” She teased him with the new nickname, one that always earned a blush from the older man.

“Do you have to call me that?” He muttered, both his cheeks and ears tinted red in embarrassment.

“Yep!” She smiled, pinching his cheek as he continued to stare at her, or, more specifically, her lips as she licked them.

He knew he shouldn’t have done it, but he couldn’t resist. He leaned over, his hand resting on top of hers, and pressed his lips against hers, something which she gladly reciprocated.

In his panic, he abruptly pulled back before registering that she had returned his kiss and began rushing out apologies.

“I’m so so sorry, oh my God, I should definitely not have done that. I am so sorry!” He rambled, previous blush darkening as she pushed himself to the other side of the sofa, disgusted with himself.

“Greg.”

“If you don’t ever want to talk to me again, I get i-“

“Greg.” Y/N repeated his name to try and catch his attention.

“I’m just so-“

Sick of his unnecessary apologies, the woman reached out to grasp the fabric of Lestrade’s shirt, pulling his lips back onto hers, her other hand landing on his shoulder.

“There’s no need to apologise.” She whispered against his lips as she pulled back. “I wanted that.”

Greg, too confused and happy to even register what she was saying, just listened to his brain go oh!

Mycroft:

Mycroft Holmes had two soft spots, his brother and Y/N, the latter being one that he was unwilling to admit to himself, let alone anybody else.

“Morning, Mycroft,” Y/N greeted him as he entered the café, one which he was a regular at; only for her, of course, but she could never know that.

“Good morning, Y/N,” came his simple response as she brought him his usually coffee, having already anticipated his arrival; he was nothing if not punctual, after all.

Neither of you knew how your friendship had evolved into him driving you home once you finished work, but there was never a single complaint heard about it. The moment you ended up at his home, however, that was when something shifted.

It wasn’t uncomfortable, just… odd. Having never been this close to someone besides his younger brother, Mycroft wasn’t entirely sure how to act, especially when the tension in the room reached its peak and your lips ended up pressed up against the others.

It was awkward, as to be expected considering that the older Holmes had never kissed anybody before. However, the awkwardness had its own charm about it, especially when he pulled away with flushed cheeks and immediately changed the subject, ignoring what had just happened for his own peace of mind.

“Should we like, I don’t know, talk about it?” You asked him the next time he entered the café, watching him closely for any sort of reaction.

“Talk about what? Nothing weird has happened recently, nothing at all. Nothing out of the ordinary.” Mycroft rushed out, desperately praying that you were oblivious to the shade of pink that now covered his cheeks.

He had no idea how it even happened, it just… did. Myrcroft was never one for affection, or even friendships, so he didn’t know why he kissed you and even worse for him, he didn’t know why he wanted to do it again.

“If you say so,” you chuckled at his embarrassed demeanour. “Either way, I finish in an hour if you like, wanted to go for dinner or something.”

Maybe he would wait around an hour, not for any specific reason. After all, nothing weird had happened.

Moriarty:

For as long as they had worked together, Y/N and Jim had always flirted with each other.

It started off small, almost unrecognisable, but gradually grew into full-blown flirtations with invitations that were never accepted. Co-workers turned into friends, and a friendship turned into longing, it was just how the cookie crumbled.

The two stared across at one another, Y/N pushing a plate of food in front of the criminal. “Eat it, or I’ll shove it down your throat, do not test me.” She warned, although there no malice in her voice; she just wanted him to eat something for the first time in a few days.

“Do I have to?” He pouted like a young child, earning a giggle from Y/N.

“Yes!” She laughed, leaning in closer. “Or I’ll force feed you it.”

“With your mouth, I hope.”

A blush dusted the woman’s cheeks as an idea formed in her mind, one which would solve many problems, including his refusal to eat.

As she leaned in closer, Moriarty couldn’t resist the joke falling from his lips. “Ohh, are we about to kiss right now?” His words were teasing, he didn’t actually expect her to do so, but as she leaned in and pressed her lips against his, he couldn’t stop his eyes from widening.

Despite his initial shock, he was quick to respond to the kiss, his hands moving to cup her cheeks and pull her closer into him, deepening the kiss whilst one of Y/N’s hands moved to his shoulder and the other to his neck.

“I suppose we are,” were the only words spoken with a cheeky smile before she pulled him back in for a kiss to shut him up.

[fancyfeathers]

I had a thought about Yandere Mycroft Holmes after watching the movie Amsterdam last night, a spy/government agent darling

His darling is from another country, perhaps America or France, because in the Victorian Era those governments were not exactly on good terms with the British Empire, but for the sake of this let’s say she is from America. She is merely sent to keep tabs on the overpowering nation, do what is necessary and sent updates to her superiors. She lives there, picking up new jobs and identities when needed, and keeping her eyes and ears open. Then one day she gets a new assignment from her supervisor, she is to retrieve documents that are in the possession by British Military Intelligence that have confidential information on American Military Personnel which could potentially expose her and other projects.

She picks up a new identity, getting paired with one of her fellow agents, a young man, the two of them dressing up as a wealthy young couple who has relatives in an American firearms company, a possession that would be less suspicious when they begins to ask questions. Her partner has to attempt to obtain a membership to the Diogenes Club or obtain a meeting with member there in the Stranger’s Room so he could look there for the documents. Meanwhile she had the back up plan of becoming friends with the wives of the men who worked in Military Intelligence so they could be invited to a party so they could sneak around and find the documents that way.

It is a long shot but both of them succeed in their goals, he is accepted into the club and she is welcomed into the social circle of women. She is unable to find the documents herself and he has an inkling that the documents are in the office of the founder of the club, Mycroft Holmes, and it is no secret of who he is. It is risky to poke that far and they think about potentially leaving it to the diplomats but if they do it will give the British Government to investigate the documents and find out where and who they are and their jobs as agents will be done and dead, the best case is being sent back to America and receiving a reward for their efforts and other jobs, worst case is that they are arrested and kept across the sea, far away from home. So the two do what they have to in order to get the job done.

One day when she is writing an update report back to their supervisor, her partner returns home and she almost calls out to him and tells him exactly what she is doing but he manages to interrupt her first from the other room…

“Dear, we have company.”

She wastes no time shoving the papers away before making her way into the front entryway to see her partner along with the one they have suspected of having the documents, Mycroft Holmes. Apparently Mycroft had approached her partner just outside of the club and wondering if he could spare some time to talk about potential business opportunities with the so-called firearms company they had relatives in. Her partner asks Mycroft to wait in the drawing room while he speaks to his wife. He takes Mycroft’s darling to another room and tells her to go to the now closed Diogenes Club and sneak into Mycroft’s office to get the documents and she is slightly confused and…

“He knows about me at least, I do not know if he knows that I know he- just go, say you are going out to meet a friend, but go.”

She listens to him, rushing out the back door while her partner goes to deal with Mycroft. She goes through a broken window to get into the club under the cover of night and certainly picks a few locks to get into Mycroft’s office but when she is rummaging around she finds nothing, not just the documents, but there is literally nothing there…

Then it hits her…

He knew this would happen…

It was a trap!

It clicks in her head when she hears the clicking of a draw back of a gun. She looks up to see another man, no doubt who works for Mycroft, across the room with a gun pointed at her, but judging by his smile she knew he was not intending to pull the trigger. She is frozen and has no where to go-

“Ah it seems she got quicker than planned, thank you for holding her up, Albert.”

Mycroft does not do anything like arrest her but rather just asks her to sit down with him in his office. He acts as if nothing is wrong when he takes out the very documents she was looking for from his jacket and sits down across from her, addressing her by her real name which she has never told him so clearly they had figures out the documents and it was all exposed.

“I knew from the start, your partner’s discomfort with his wedding band signaled how you were not married for four years, he kept on fidgeting with it in the club.”

The way he kept on pretending was just humiliate them in the end and the meeting was really just to inform her of this and also…

“You will not be returning to America.”

“W-What?”

“I negotiated a trade with the embassy last night, the promise and return of these documents and that we will never use them against your nation and in return we receive one of their top agents any of the knowledge they have on any potential threats to our nation.”

She really has no other choice but give Mycroft all of her old mission reports along with any oral knowledge she has. Her old partner was sent home and she asked him to tell her family what had happened while she works on transferring her life’s work over to another government. This could take weeks or even months of constant supervision and questioning and then when it is over and she has given what she has and wants to go home and asks her captor…

“No, the trade was made for you not just for your mind, besides they traded you over so willingly, clearly they go not care about you how you cared about them.”

She could not deny the fact that he was right.

[strangesthirdeye]

Listen Before I Go (SH x Fem! Reader)

Summary: A quick call won't hurt, right?

Warning: It's Sherlock everyone like him..heavy angst? Attempt Suicide, mental breakdown, mental health, You are loved by people, don't do that. You need a hug, pleading, high ceiling, hanging rope, almost suffocating. The Empty Hearse episode.

As usual, I'm sorry if there are any wrong sentences or typos or grammatical mistakes, please forgive me and again English is not my first language, so I try to improve my language and writing in this way.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

One more loop and the knots are strong enough to support your weight. You sighed heavily. The creaking sound of the chair under your feet is heard when you make some motions on it. You look around your living room. Everything is scattered and unmanaged. Papers and books on the floor not to mentioned chairs are scattered around the living room, just like your wooden table.

you exhaled a heavy breath and looked up to see the noose hanging from the ceiling of your house. Well, here it is. After running around in your own mind and going through all the painful and stressful things in the real world, you are finally lost. Those things successfully kick your ass. Not to mention what happened to Sherlock two years ago. He committed suicide and claimed he was a liar, but that was not true. Why did he do that makes it a question mark for you, John, Mrs Hudson, Greg, Molly and Lestrade. Mycroft? hmm, he's just quiet. There was no news from him after that.

As if he has disappeared from existence.

Every dark plagued plays in your mind. All those rude people who curse Sherlock and proudly claim that Sherlock is a fraud. Not to mention those people have started bothering Sherlock's friends including you as his girlfriend. Those people don't know the meaning of grief.

You then look down. This is high enough. As long as your feet do not touch the floor is enough. Suffocate is not the first thing in your mind but because you don't want to commit suicide dirty with blood, you immediately decide to hang yourself. At least your life is taken slowly and in that time you can see all the happy memories at the end of your time.

You stand on your tiptoes and stick your head into the noose. The noose gently ends around your neck. Your hands started to tighten the noose around your neck so that it would be tight and not come loose when you hung it later. You sighed for the second time.

You are not afraid but nervous. Well, at least you know what your destiny is. You then close your eyes and your legs are ready to push the chair. All of the sudden, your phone rang in your pants pocket. You were shocked and almost pushed the chair under you but luckily the chair didn't slip.

You fish out your pocket and take your phone out of your pocket. You gulped your saliva slowly when you saw the contact on your phone.

John.

You immediately slide accept and open the speaker.

"Y/n"

"Hey, John"

"Where are you now? I need to tell you something.. Might be a surprise from me to you... I guess" John chuckled a little. Following with his hype tone means that John is in a good mood. Good. You're going to ruin his mood if you tell him what you're up to.

"what is it that you want to tell me? Is it Mary tho?" You pretend to hype your voice just to hide your crack tone.

"Well, I prefer to tell you at a cafe around your house only if you're not busy" John reasoned.

"well, i can't go out now.. can you just tell me on the phone instead? i kind of not really having a mood to go out anymore" You bit your lip slightly.

John was silent for a moment. You can imagine his confused face in your mind. Classic John. Gonna miss him.

"Are you alright?" John asked.

"mhmm.. I'm always alright" You replied.

"really? cuz' that's not how your 'alright' voice sounds like" John said suspiciously. "is it about Sherlock again?" John added.

Dammit. Why does he have to be the one who is always right? You are silent.

"It's been two years, Y/n. You have to let go that 'feeling'. It's not good for you" John said as if a father was advising his children to be useful human beings.

"you don't understand, aren't you? It's not easy. You have Mary.. while I don't have no one. No one to help me. Not even Mycroft. And I don't want to bring Mrs Hudson into this. She's already got a lot of plates in her hands." you paused you stand on your tiptoes.

"well, at least you don't have to deal with me anymore. I know what I'm doing now is a very useful thing. You don't have to worry about me." you added, the voice started to crack.

"What are you doing right now, Y/n. Don't you dare say that to me. I know exactly what you are trying to do. I'm coming" John's voice seemed to rush.

"tell me, John" you spoke up.

"what" John snapped trying to stop himself from yelling at you not to say negative things again.

"tell me what you want to say to me. That you expect me to be surprised" You closed your eyes. Tears streamed down your cheeks.

John let out a heavy breath. "I- oh god! this is not the situation I expected to tell you what it is. Taxi!" John yelled. John's voice then became muffled for a few moments before it became clear again. John then hurriedly told the cab driver your home address. Although the location is quite far from your house, John doesn't care about the fare. As long as he can save his other friend this time.

"just hold on. Don't end the call" John informed you firmly. John then sighed anxiously. "I-I plan to propose Mary tonight"

You smiled sadly. "is it going to be fancy? big?" you questioned him.

"fancy but simple.. oh gosh, why can't you just.. not doing all these things? You have many other things out there to go through! why now do you want to end it?" John is furiously rich.

"I think this is the end of my story. I've got nothing out there to go through. You have Mary. She's the one, John. Marry her. Make her half of your life. Have a family." You said lowly. your toes little by little push the chair under you.

"don't you dare say that. Think about it again. Sherlock doesn't want all this. He doesn't like any decision to end your life. He despises it. He wants you to move on and live a normal life. Normal life! Don't you want that? Find someone who can be with you for the rest of your life. Please.. I don't want to lose my best friend again" John begged.

Your line is quiet. Only the sound of the cab that John was riding in was heard. You look down. The hanging rope around the neck feels tight.

You know he's right but why don't you move away from the noose that is now resting on your neck? Sherlock doesn't like this. He despises it like John said earlier. Why then don't you open the rope and get off the chair? It's not going to work you know. Kill yourself. It's not.

Every thousand possibilities play in your mind as you hold the phone tightly in your hand. You bit your lips hard.

"I can't hold it anymore. The feeling of pain, grief and lost. It's not easy like what you say. It's just- Move on? no.. it's not working." you sobbed.

"No.." John paused. Probably is choosing and arranging the next sentence. "No, it's not easy. But, Sherlock wouldn't want that, right? So whatever you're doing now just drop it. Please. For the sake of Sherlock Holmes" John added in a tone of hope.

You paused and closed your eyes. Thumbs up on the screen. "I'm sorry, John" and you ended the call.

'just get on with it' whispered the demon in your ear. You choked on your own tears in your throat. You tossed your phone aside and stared for a moment then without hesitation you pushed the chair down so fast that it landed on the floor. But you don't fall, you float in the air with a hanging rope around your neck.

And there goes your oxygen is cut off quickly as you gasp for air while thrashing in the air. Both hands on the noose around your neck while your eyes darted around the living room. Mouth part away trying to get even a little oxygen. Your skin's colour is getting paler and your brain is in a state of shock when the oxygen is getting less and less to the brain.

You almost lost consciousness and then you see it. Life flashes before your eyes. Happy and sad memories. All in one. As the last piece of memories played in your eyes, you finally lost consciousness. Both your hands limp to the side while your head lolled forward. Your hair frames your pale face. But not before you hear the door of your house burst open by someone. Someone who you didn't get to see as your eyes are now tightly closed. Welcoming the feeling of a blanket of darkness.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Eyes opened slowly as you gasped to take enough oxygen into your body system. Every thought plays in your mind. Why can't you just go in peace? Why do people have to bother you?

You look around the living room. Now you are lying on the floor. Eyes on the ceiling while your breath is still panting. Everything is hurt especially in your neck. You can still feel the texture of the hanging rope around your neck.

You curse whoever messed up your suicide attempt. It could be John but the taxi John took could not be able to get here quickly. So who? You glared at the person who was kneeling next to you but then as soon as your eyes landed on the silhouette, you widened your eyes.

there he is, a man who claims to be a sociopath and never believes in sentiment but then falls into the terms boyfriend and girlfriend. His brunette hair, his eyes, his cheek bones and his face are still the same but at the same time he looks a little mature. While his eyes hold emotions that are very heavy plus panic and concerned etched on his face.

Sherlock Holmes. The so called 'fraud' is now on your side.

"What were you thinking?!" Sherlock said loudly.

You are stunned. Sherlock then touched your shoulder and shook it a little trying to get you out of the trance.

Oh, God. What you think is a dream is actually not a dream but real. The feeling of him touching your shoulder and his deep raspy and smoky timbre makes you miss him so much. Your eyes start to glaze over with tears.

"Sherlock?" you whispered his name.

Sherlock looked at you with concern and tried to help you sit up. "what were you thinking? Suffocate yourself to death? why? just why?"

"because you died! For two years. I thought you were dead once your body hit the ground in front of the hospital. Two years, Sherlock. Two years. And you think I can live without you just like that?" you yelled while slapping him on the chest several times.

Sherlock deflected your blow by holding both of your wrists to his chest. He looked at you with sympathy. "I want to save you and the others. This is all I can do. Moriarty will do worse than what you don't expect that's why I have to do that. Two years I tried to take down his network and now I'm here. What you did earlier there was the most horrible thing for me. I don't want to come back home knowing that you are dead."

You thought for a moment. Your red eyes looked at Sherlock's face with realization on your face. And then you sniffed and leaned your head on his chest.

Sherlock then put his arms around you. His right hand was placed on the back of your head and stroked gently while his head was placed on top of your head.

"You saved me.. oh, how stupid I am to do that" you sobbed.

"no you're not stupid. Don't say that. You are the most brilliant and courageous woman I know. Your intelligent and kind attitude makes me adore and fond of you more.. listen, I don't always say this but you are the only reason I'm coming home. Please.. don't do that ever again" Sherlock said while kissing your hair.

"John will be here soon." you say. Your voice is muffled in his chest.

"let him. might as well make it a surprise for him." Sherlock joked trying to lighten up the mood.

You chuckled tearfully and then hugged Sherlock tightly. Sherlock smiled gently and tightened his arms and rocked you left and right with his eyes closed.

[frost-queen]

Outmatched //Part 9 (Reader!Holmes x Anthony Bridgerton)

Forever tag: @missmelodramatic, @merlin-dahlia, @alex--awesome--22, @elllie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve, 

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Summary: When old habits resurface has it doomed everything? Perhaps one is never meant to touch love? Appearing as none can handle the task on their own, a set of schemes have come into place. Read part 1  & part 2 & part 3 & part 4 & part 5 & part 6 & part 7 & part 8 & part 10

Your hands pulled instantly away from him, stumbling a bit back. Slightly shaking your head you saw how Lord Hill’s face stood with confusion. – “Miss Y/n.” – Lord Hill started while you bumped with your back to someone else. You slightly turned, holding your hand up as an apology. Lord Hill kept coming closer, offering you his hand again. No more. Fully turning around you took a run for it. Pushing a way through the crowd. Sherlock grabbed Mycroft by the suit, pulling him along. – “Go that way round!” – he ordered pushing his brother in a direction.

“Wha… Sherlock?” – Mycroft said bumping against a man. Sherlock pointed firm in the direction he needed to go. – “Mycroft!” – Sherlock rose his voice, pointing even firmer. Mycroft nodded shakily, pushing his way through. – “Out of the way!” – he ordered separating a couple to get through. Sherlock went his way, squeezing through the crowd to get to you before you’d head out. You were making your escape to the outdoors.

A flash of lighting making you freeze for a second. Looking over your shoulder, you caught a glimpse of Lord Hill. Shaking your head, you didn’t want to be tangled up in this. You pushed through, making your way across. If it rained it didn’t matter. If lightning struck you, it might end your agony and you’d be blissful about it. This was the very reason you detested the social season.

If you could’ve gone back in time, you would’ve prevented your younger self from agreeing on behalf of your brother. No matter how much you loved him, you should’ve remained headstrong. If only Mycroft wasn’t so cold hearted. If only he dared himself to be vulnerable, he might find happiness or love. If only Sherlock wasn’t so sophisticated. If only he found pleasure in engaging more with others. If only he wasn’t so complicated talented. He’d might find someone too that could keep him company.

Someone equally matched with his wits and brains. Someone who would understand that he needs time of his own. Finding comfort in it. Security. If only your brothers were better, it wouldn’t have to fall all upon your shoulders. Squeezing yourself through a couple, you were haunted by it all. Tears captive in the corner of your eyes. Vision turning glossy, making you blink rapidly to see clearer. You reached the large, windowed doors leading to the gardens.

Grabbing the handle you opened them. Panting loud as the smell of rain whiffed through the open crack. A firm hand pressed itself onto the glass, shutting the windowed door shut before you could fully open it. Startling you. – “Sherlock let me open this door.” – you called out, fussing at the handle. The hand kept the door from moving.

“I cannot.” – a response came, only it didn’t sound as your brother. Blinking surprised you slowly turned your head to the side. Eyes widening at Lord Anthony Bridgerton. His breathing loud, staring rather serious at you. – “My lord…” – you said breathless, caught in his gaze. He took a step closer to you, lowering his hand onto the handle. His intense gaze taking a hold of you. – “Do not do this…” – he whispered, gaze lowering onto you, resting briefly on your lips.

You lifted your chin up, taking a stance of stubborn proudness. – “Why not? What concern am I to you?” – you asked him. His gaze flashing up to your eyes once more. He stared bewildered at you, flung back to his nightmares. The nightmares he had after he had found you in the rain all alone. Sprained ankle. Broken perhaps he thought at the point. The smell of rain so distinct in his mind. The terror swirling around him as he feared the worst. His hand trembled gripped on the handle.

He opened his mouth wanting to rant out words, not the kindest when his pride held him back. He sucked in a breath, turning his head, fighting every urge to scold you. Scold you for being so reckless and taunting his heart. For it can only take so much. – “Am I to expect an answer or do you lack the capacity to be honest with yourself?” – you responded with a little bit of disrespect. Anthony tensed his jaw, opening the door. The cold breeze and sound of rain welcoming.

“Do proceed then!” – he answered loudly, gesturing at the outdoors. – “Forget I was ever caring.” – he outed. – “If you might overlook your own pride, you might have noticed it.” – he ended with a sarcastic smile. – “Caring?” – you said in disbelieve. – “Forgive me my lord but am I to mistake insults for care?” – you replied full of wit back. – “If I am not mistaken you were the first to insult me!” – he reminded you off. – “Only because you were conceited.” – You spoke back, shutting the windowed door to keep the cold out.

Anthony puffed loud. – “Conceited!” – he replied at the brink of losing his mind. – “Take a look in the mirror Miss Y/n.” – he said coldly moving his head up and down on you. You were shocked. – “Thank you for explaining so fully!” – you said back. Anthony and you turned away from each other. Facing away from him, you looked to the side, peeking over your shoulder. A sadness falling over you.

How you didn’t mean all that, but your pride was one to stand in the way. Anthony looked up, slowly lowering his head, gaze casted down. Pride what a vicious thing. If only you could see how much he truly cared. If only he was brave enough to say it. He took in a deep breath, almost thinking about apologizing. Shaking his head, he ignored the matter of his own feelings. He took off, leaving you alone.

Moving your arms over each other, you sulked in pity. – “Y/n!” – lifting your head a bit up, you saw your brothers come near. Sherlock wrapped his arms tight around you. – “You are alright.” – he said out of breath. – “For a moment we thought you were going to do something foolish.” – Mycroft pitched in. – “Perhaps I already did.” – you answered looking pitiful at the ground. – “Sister?” – Sherlock said tilting your chin up for you to look at him. He wanted to look at you. To understand what you meant.

He could always read so much in your eyes; they were like an open book to him. You casted your head aside, not wanting to look at him. – “I messed up…” – you said, lip quivering. A loud sob emerged from inside you as your face fell into your hands. Quietly crying at your own demise. Sherlock wrapped an arm around you, soothing you. Mycroft looked uneasy around. Seeing how you caught some attention of unwanted see-ers. Mycroft snapped his finger at Sherlock for attention.

“We leave for home.” – he made clear, stroking his moustache. Sherlock agreed, escorting you out of the ballroom. The carriage ride home was silent. Not one daring to start the conversation. At your return home, father was rather perplex as to why you had returned so early. Mycroft shook his head, letting him know to drop the matter.

You took the stairs up without a word. Both your brothers giving each other a concerning look. In your nightwear you sat by the window, silk shawl around your arms for comfort. Your mothers silk shawl. There was a gentle knock on the door. – “Go away.” – you said softly not in the mood for any company, yet the door opened anyways. – “You know how stubborn I am.” – Mycroft said popping his head in. – “A simple go away doesn’t do the matter.” – he added with a chuckle, closing the door behind him. You were a bit surprised to find Mycroft entering your room.

It was out of character. If you expected anyone to enter it would be father…or Sherlock, but never Mycroft. He took in a deep breath, watching your room from afar. Moving a bit up, you made room for your brother to come and sit down. He walked over, sitting down by your side. He stared out of the window for a moment. Setting his words right as everything was always calculated with him. Each and every word with precision.

When he looked at you, the words lingering on his tongue vanished into thin air at the sight of mother’s shawl. He smiled saddened, reaching out to feel the fabric on his fingers. – “Mother’s shawl.” – he said brought back to so many sweet memories with her. Despite being a difficult child to show affection, he did very much love her. You smiled faintly back at him. Mycroft exhaled deep, looking up to the ceiling. Whatever pre-calculated words he had in his mind were gone.

“What happened?” – he asked thinking of how mother would approach this. You looked with tears in your eyes at him, trying to keep smiling. He noticed how close you were to breaking apart. – “Let us say I am my worst own enemy.” – you told him doing your very best not to cry. Mycroft took a deep breath, moving his arm around you. Pulling you closer so that you could lay your head on his shoulder.

“That indeed we are.” – he responded, rubbing his jaw against your hair. The door opened slightly revealing a saddened Sherlock. Mycroft sighed loud, waving him over. Sherlock shut the door behind him, coming over. He sat down on the other side of Mycroft. Sherlock moved his arms around Mycroft and so on around you as well.

“We are a broken family… aren’t we?” – you asked staring in front of you. Mycroft looked up, laying his other arm over Sherlock. All too afraid to answer the question, but knowing deep down it might be true. Outside the rain clattered against the window, washing away any stains.

The next morning you were playing chess with Sherlock. – “It is your turn.” – you said looking up to your brother standing with his back to you. Thinking. He hummed confused, turning his posture. He barely glanced at the board as he made his move, taking a pawn of you. He then returned to his brooding. You observed the board closely, thinking of every possible way. If you did this, he might do that. Biting your lip, you weren’t sure what next move you should use. – “Try your horse.” – Sherlock said without looking. – “I can think for myself.” – you answered bothered.

Yet you took the horse, setting it down. – “What are you even thinking off? Your turn.” – you said. Sherlock approached the board once more moving his tower side-ways. – “Your turn.” – he answered smirking. You sighed loud when he stepped away once more. You were observing the board once more, thinking off what to do next. – “You might want to keep an eye on your king.” – you heard him say, annoying you. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. – “Then simply play chess with yourself!” – you announced.

It was after all kind of what he was doing already. Sherlock sighed once, pulling his chair back to sit down. – “You think too little.” – he told you, moving your pawn in your turn. – “You too much.” – you responded as he moved his queen across the board. – “Check.” – he called out pleasantly. You got up, scraping your chair back over the floor. – “Good the game is finished then!” – you responded. – “Far from sister, you can still…” – Sherlock answered but you wouldn’t have ears for it.

Anthony sighed deep sitting rather lowly in his armchair. Sulking in his own misery. Violet was watching him while drinking her tea. Anthony sighed again as she couldn’t take it anymore. She set her cup of tea down, getting up. She gave a kick against his legs for him to sit up straighter. Anthony obeyed, sitting up straighter with confusion. – “I think you’ve wallowed in self-pity enough now Anthony!” – she called out. – “I have not!” – he answered rather childish. – “That is enough!” – Violet shouted, losing her temper. – “I am going to be very clear with you Anthony and I want you to listen!” – Violet spoke loudly making Benedict press his lips together in delight.

Eloise tapped him on the shoulder, coming to sit near him. – “Mother is about to scold Anthony.” – Benedict whispered to her. – “Now that is a sight I would love to see.” – she responded in a hushed tone. – “If you do not start acting up right now, you will lose all your chances at happiness.” – her firm gaze staring back at him. Her expression softened upon seeing him turn inwards. – “You deserve to be happy… do not deny yourself from it. Please for your dear mama…” – Violet came sitting on the edge of the armchair, wrapping an arm around him.

“You are good enough… but you must fight for it Anthony… nothing comes when you stand and wait. You must find the courage to speak up and fight for what you love, for that is true bravery.” – Anthony looked up to her with tears in his eyes, nodding. They hugged as Benedict and Eloise were rather unsatisfied. – “Dissapointing.” – Eloise puffed out.

The wind rippled over the water in the pond. Leaves gently dancing with the flow of the breeze. You stood by the pond admiring the waterlilies. A frog hopped on a leaf making you smile. Hearing some rumor behind you, you turned to look. By the trees stood Anthony Bridgerton. He noticed you as well, making you both look ashamed away. – “Go on then.” – Sherlock whispered to himself from afar. – “Go to him sister.” – he muttered out, gesturing with a little push. – “Anthony… do so…” – Violet said standing not far from Sherlock.

He hadn’t noticed her yet, too focused on you. – “Yes… yes… good sister.” – he mumbled to himself seeing you take slight advantages into approaching him. – “Good Anthony… now go.” – Violet spoke urging her son from afar to do so. Sherlock and Violet watched how both of you attempted to come near yet given up. Shaking your heads, you both turned away, dismissing the matter. Sherlock groaned loud in frustration.

Violet sighing deep. It was then that they acknowledged each other. Slowly turning to each other. Violet came nearer as did Sherlock. – “It appears Lord Holmes… we’ll have to assist a bit in the matter.” – she told him. – “It appears so Lady Bridgerton.” – Sherlock responded. Violet sighed. – “It won’t be easy… my son…” – she sighed again. – “My sister too…” – he answered with a sigh of his own.

Both looked at each other and laughed. Sherlock offered her his arm as she took it. – “Say Lady Bridgerton, what schemes do you have in mind?” – he asked. Violet smiled delighted. – “I have plenty of idea’s to force the opportunity on those two.” – she told him. – “Good.” – Sherlock responded. – “For I am counting on this union formed by love.” – Sherlock continued.

“It is so obvious.” – Violet said as Sherlock accompanied her on a stroll. – “It appears the only two unable to see the love for one another are themselves.” – Sherlock nodded agreeing firmly. – “Shall we begin planning?” – Sherlock proposed as it appears the only way to bring you closer is by the hand of a gentle assistance.

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

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[themirokai]

Never say never on returning to wips you love.

In late 2020 and through 2021, I was writing a Mystrade series called His Professional Capacity in which Mycroft is a spymaster. I had the first chapter of a sixth (and probably final) story for the series written, but I never quite figured out where to take it and I moved on to other fandoms.

Now, three years later, I’ve written a five chapter story that nearly doubles the length of the series. It’s getting proofread and beta’d now, but I hope to start posting it soon. Because the vast majority of you followed me after 2021, and I want to entice as many people to read this as possible, I’m going to start posting the stories in the series here. First up:

What He Does

Greg encounters Mycroft's security detail and comes to understand the reasons for it.

~ 2,601 words. I've tweaked some minor things from the AO3 version, which was not Britpicked, but kept the rather American conception of when someone might be carrying a gun, since it's integral to the plot. Please enjoy despite inaccuracies.

Read it below or on AO3.

~*~

Greg pondered whether he should take Mycroft’s arm. Or his hand. Or offer Mycroft his arm. Or put his hand on Mycroft’s back. This whole “dating” thing was confusing. Greg hadn’t dated for decades, and back then it had been women. Not a mature, somewhat intimidating, incredibly posh, devastatingly gorgeous man. He wasn’t quite sure how to act.

Greg would admit that dinner had been a success. The conversation was comfortable, interesting, and somewhat flirty, just as it had been for their previous two dates. And the several meals and drinks they’d shared before that - before Greg had gotten up the nerve to ask Mycroft on a real date. They had chemistry. That was certain. And when the meal ended and Mycroft had suggested they go for a walk to enjoy the fresh fall air, Greg had jumped at the chance to keep the date from ending.

He pondered the possibility of a good night kiss, but wasn’t sure if that should come before or after holding hands or linking arms on a walk. What were the procedures for physical contact with a man who made your stomach do somersaults every time you thought about him? How were those procedures different when the man in question held a highly secretive and incredibly powerful government position? Were they different? Greg settled for moving a little closer to Mycroft as they walked along, allowing the sleeves of their coats to brush against each other.

Mycroft finished the anecdote he was telling about Sherlock as a child, and Greg turned to smile up at him. As he did, movement caught the corner of his eye and Greg glanced behind them. There was a man walking half a block behind them. Greg frowned.

“Shall we take this left?” he asked Mycroft.

“If you like,” Mycroft responded with a soft smile.

They turned and Greg waited about half a block before glancing back. The man behind them made the turn as well. Greg risked a slightly longer look this time and realized with alarm that he recognized the man from the restaurant. His mind immediately ran through possibilities. Mugger. Someone after Greg because of a case he’d worked or was currently working. Someone after Mycroft for whatever shadowy reason. Someone after either or both of them as a way of getting to Sherlock.

“Gregory? Is something wrong?”

No sense in worrying him. Greg could handle this. “No, uh, no. Let’s just - do you mind if we turn down this alley for a moment?”

Now Greg did take Mycroft’s elbow to guide him into the small alley, mentally kicking himself that the first time he touched the man was out of fear and necessity.

“Gregory, what-”

“Please, just stay here a moment and keep quiet, I’m sure it’s nothing, I’ll handle it.”

“Gregory!”

But Greg was not listening, he could hear the man’s footsteps speeding up and getting nearer, and drew his gun. From his peripheral vision, he thought he saw Mycroft reaching for him, but he was already committed to whirling around the corner and slamming the oncoming man against the wall, holding him with an arm across his chest and leveling the gun to his cheek. “That’s far enough, mate. Who are you and why are you following us?”

The man slowly raised his hands, but a female voice suddenly cut in. “Drop the gun! Now!”

Greg did not drop the gun, but turned to look down the barrel of another weapon held by a well-dressed woman who Greg was also fairly sure he had seen at the restaurant. Before Greg had a chance to respond, Mycroft stepped out of the alley.

“Stand down, Ms. Bell.” Mycroft sounded tired.

“Sir, please stay back!” the woman responded.

“Ms. Bell, Inspector Lestrade is not a threat.”

“Respectfully, sir, then why is he hustling you into an alley and drawing a gun on your security?” Ms. Bell kept her own gun trained on Greg, who was frozen.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because he did not know that I have security and thought Mr. Spooner was following us with malicious intentions.” Mycroft squared his shoulders, and put the tone of command into his voice. “Stand down, Ms. Bell. That is an order.” The woman grimaced and holstered her weapon. “Gregory, kindly unhand Mr. Spooner.”

Greg stepped back, but was not quite able to pick his jaw up off the floor. “They work for you?”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said, as Mr. Spooner, with a face like a thundercloud, started brushing off his clothing. “Mr. Spooner and Ms. Bell are … associates of mine and - for the time being at least - they have been charged with ensuring my safety.”

Greg holstered his gun. “Do you always have security?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said simply.

“So the other times we’ve been out together?”

“They were there and you did not notice them. Which is how it should be,” Mycroft lowered a meaningful look at Spooner, who squirmed.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Greg asked, still wrapping his mind around the fact that he was apparently trying to date someone who merited two armed guards at all times.

Mycroft sighed. “In retrospect, that was clearly a mistake. I-” he paused, looking at the three of them, then shook his head. “The bar in the hotel across the way is nice and quiet. May I buy you a drink, Gregory? I’m afraid the walk has been a bit ruined.”

“Sure… yeah, a drink sounds good.”

Fifteen minutes later they were ensconced in a booth at a swanky hotel bar. Greg had a single malt Scotch, and Mycroft was twisting the stem of a glass of red wine in his long fingers. Beautiful fingers, Greg thought. Spooner and Bell had taken a table on the other side of the bar where they were too far to hear the conversation, but had clear sight lines to Mycroft.

“So how long have those two been your bodyguards?” Greg asked, nodding at Spooner and Bell.

“They’ve only been on this rotation for about a week. They’ll spend a month with me, before moving on to another assignment and being replaced by another two. And I wouldn’t call them bodyguards. They are field agents.”

“Ms. Bell sure seems like a bodyguard.” Greg took a swig of his drink.

“Ms. Bell knows that she will be held partially accountable for Mr. Spooner’s carelessness. This assignment is meant to give a more experienced agent - in this case, Ms. Bell - an opportunity to train a less experienced agent - Mr. Spooner - in the field. It also allows me to observe agents in the field to get a feel for their strengths and weaknesses. I’m afraid tonight revealed some weaknesses.” Mycroft sipped his wine.

“It’s not their fault you decided to go out with a cop,” Greg grinned.

“Yes, but-” Mycroft stopped himself and smiled. “Yes, you’re right.”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “You expect them to be better than me. It’s alright, you can say it.”

Mycroft considered Greg for a moment before responding. “I expect them to be able to follow their mark unnoticed, even if their mark is accompanied by a particularly intelligent and observant detective.”

“Fair enough, and I’ll take the compliment,” Greg chuckled. “So is that the only reason you have security? For training and observation?”

Mycroft twirled his wine glass in his fingers again before responding. “Gregory… I have enjoyed our time together, and if you are willing I would like to continue to see you.”

Greg grinned. “More than willing.”

Mycroft smiled. “Thank you. There are many things I am unable to talk about with you, for your safety, and mine, and that of others. And even with this I must tread a bit lightly, but … I would like you to go into,” he gestured vaguely between the two of them, “this, with your eyes open.”

“I’m listening.” Greg sat a little straighter.

“The work I do, the work I have done in the past, has risks. I… have enemies. Enemies who would prefer that I were no longer operating. While I am generally able to take care of myself, I am not as young as I was and there have been … close calls, as it were. And so now my security detail is part of the field agents’ rotation.”

“How close were the close calls?”

“Too close.”

“How too close?”

“A few centimeters from a major artery, too close.”

“Ah.”

“Yes.”

They both sipped their drinks. “Well then I’m glad Ms. Bell pulled her gun on me. She was probably right to,” Greg said after a minute. “Don’t be too hard on her tomorrow.”

Mycroft smiled and hesitantly reached across the table to touch Greg’s hand. Greg immediately took the opportunity to grab hold of the long, slender fingers. “You don’t… mind? That I live a life that requires that I am under surveillance?”

“I mean you have some privacy, don’t you?”

“Yes!” A blush was climbing up Mycroft’s cheeks. “Yes, of course! I - um - they - well, I mean-“

The sight of Mycroft Holmes stuttering like a schoolboy melted the last of Greg’s discomfort and he grinned, then squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “Can I safely assume that if I go to kiss you when we leave here that I won’t end up looking down the barrel of Ms. Bell’s gun again?”

Mycroft gaped at him momentarily before recovering. “No - um - no, that would be fine.”

“Just fine?” Greg cocked an eyebrow, leaning in to the newfound confidence.

A slow smile played over Mycroft’s features. “More than fine. Welcome.”

Greg settled back into his seat with a grin. There was one thing sorted.

Greg squinted across the restaurant. “Is Bell wearing a wig?”

Mycroft took a sip of his drink. “Gregory, kindly do not peer at her. She is more effective if it is not clear that there’s a connection between her and I.”

Greg turned his eyes front, but not before he saw Bell glower at him. “Sorry,” he grinned at Mycroft. “Is it a wig though? It’s awful. Don’t you all train in costuming or something?”

Mycroft coughed and wiped his mouth carefully with his napkin, avoiding Greg’s eyes. “I believe she dyed her hair.”

Greg’s jaw dropped. “No. Mycroft, no. Not that colour.” Mycroft cut another bite of his meal without looking up. “Did she do it because of me?” Greg asked, astonished. When Mycroft neither confirmed nor denied, Greg clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh.

“You’ve been… a little too good at spotting her,” Mycroft said after a minute. “But her new assignment starts in a few days. I believe the change in hair colour is more related to that.”

“There is no way that shade is good for any kind of undercover work, darling, you’ve got to get her to change it. It looks like it doesn’t know whether it’s red or purple.”

Mycroft started a bit at the pet name, and watched carefully as Greg applied himself to his meal. After a moment, he relaxed with a smile. “I’ll speak to her.”

“Mycroft.”

“Mm?”

“The chap on the bicycle.”

“What about him?”

“Is he your new security?”

A heavy sigh, then, “Kindly leave your gun holstered, Gregory.”

About a month, a number of dates, and many quite pleasant kisses after their first, Greg and Mycroft lay naked in Mycroft’s bed following their first time having sex. Greg was gently tracing his fingers over one of the several scars that broke the plane of Mycroft’s pale skin. He had seen the scars when he had undressed Mycroft - a lengthier affair than he was used to, with far more buttons - but had been preoccupied at the time. Now he took his time to study them.

“More of these than I was expecting,” Greg said, tracing what he suspected was the remnant of a knife wound to Mycroft’s side.

Mycroft started moving away from him. “I’m sorry. If it bothers you I can-” He was stopped as Greg wrapped an arm around his waist.

Greg pulled Mycroft close. “Don’t be daft. You’re beautiful and I want to see all of you. It’s not like I like the idea of you being stabbed,” he touched the knife scar, “or shot,” his fingers found the scar from a bullet wound on Mycroft’s shoulder, “or shot again,” the scar on Mycroft’s left thigh, “or burned,” the matching marks on the forearms, “or … what is this?” Greg fingered the vaguely triangular scar just above Mycroft’s right hip.

“Stabbed, I suppose you could say,” Mycroft replied quietly. “It was an ice pick.”

“An… ice pick.”

“Indeed. The result of an error in judgment of a much younger man.”

“Just to be clear, you were the younger man with poor judgment, right? There’s not some young tosser running about who caused you to get ice picked?”

“That’s correct. I read a situation erroneously and suffered the consequences.”

“With an ice pick.”

“Just so.”

“Any chance I could get more of the story behind that?”

Mycroft considered for a moment. “If two governments were to permanently fall… no, even then it wouldn’t be unclassified in either of our lifetimes.”

Greg leaned up to kiss Mycroft’s chin. “You’re fascinating. Does anyone actually believe you work for the Department for Transport?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Yes, Detective Inspector Lestrade. People from whom I have not had to take away investigations, and who have not had to deal with my brother, and who have not seen me in a state of undress - essentially everyone in the world who is not you or who has not otherwise encountered me in my professional capacity - generally believe that I am a minor government official.”

Greg planted a kiss on his chest. “People are daft, then. You dress too well to be a minor anything.”

Mycroft’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “Thank you. I think.”

“Anyway,” Greg picked up his prior thought. “I don’t like the idea of you being hurt. I hate it in fact. But the scars are part of you. And I like you. I like all of you. Very much.”

Mycroft drew Greg up so that they were face to face and kissed him deeply. “I also like you very much, Gregory,” he breathed when they finally broke apart.

Greg pulled himself tight against Mycroft’s side and rested his head on the other man’s chest. The angle put the bullet wound on Mycroft’s thigh in his line of sight. “This is the newest one,” he murmured, touching it gently.

“Very astute, Gregory.”

“Not a youthful error of judgment, then?”

“No. That one is the reason I have a security detail.”

Greg covered it with his palm. “A few centimeters from your femoral artery.”

“Mm,” Mycroft acknowledged. “The circumstances were such that if my assailant’s shot had been better - or worse, I suppose, given your perspective - I likely would have bled out before assistance could reach me.” Greg hugged him a little tighter. “That caused my superiors to insist that I be under guard,” Mycroft finished.

Greg frowned. “You have superiors?”

“One or two. It’s a bit … complicated.”

Greg huffed. “I bet it is.” He planted a kiss on Mycroft’s chest. “You’ve certainly led an interesting life.”

“I believe the corollary to the traditional curse is ‘may you live an interesting life.’”

“Do you feel cursed?” Greg asked, craning his neck to see Mycroft’s face.

“On the contrary,” Mycroft smiled, “the fact that in spite of all this, or perhaps as a result of all this, I have ended up here, with you, has me feeling incredibly fortunate at the moment.”

“Me too,” Greg grinned.

~*~

Thanks for reading! The next story is now up over here.

[user-needs-new-hyperfixation]

Louis and Albert: *cuddling on the couch because I adore fluffy snuggly omegaverse family dynamics*

Mycal: *commence snarky flirting*

Louis: *yeets Albert across the room* I tHiNK I lEfT thE StOvE On

“How did you find a staff so loyal and fond, Mycroft?” Mycroft sets aside his paper. Albert can feel his attention straightening and sharpening, and he bites the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. “And what might you mean by that?” “Well, at first impression you are generally either taciturn or smug. A good portion of my work as M was merely to be a pleasant smile and a strategically weak handshake to put people at ease.” Louis makes a small confused noise, his grip on Albert loosening slightly. But Mycroft leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees and fingers loosely interlocked, lips curling and eyes glinting. “’Taciturn or smug,’ hmm? And yet you were at my door volunteering your services when there was no M to soften me.” “You were clearly in desperate need. I’m a sympathetic creature at heart.” Louis stands so abruptly that Albert almost falls over sideways. “I should be getting home. I’ve just remembered something I need to go over with von Herder tonight.”

[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 3) Chapter Six

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter Six: Wedding Preparations

Summary: Sherlock and (Y/N) mentally prepare themselves for Mary and John's wedding.

            (Y/N) was laying on the couch with a lollipop in their mouth in perfect silence. Sherlock was pacing back and forth while periodically typing on the computer. (Y/N) had a book propped up next to them and periodically flipped through it.

            The door to 221B burst open suddenly, and Lestrade ran in with a whole host of armed men. (Y/N) raised their head and furrowed their brow in confusion.

            “Sherlock, what’s the matter?!” cried Lestrade.

            “Gary! You’re here,” said Sherlock. “How do you write a best man speech?”

            (Y/N) sighed.

            Lestrade stared in shock and anger.

l

            “Dad, did you really have to call Lestrade?” asked (Y/N) after they managed to get the officers and a furious Lestrade out of the apartment.

            “I was having trouble,” said Sherlock.

            “Just look up best men speeches,” said (Y/N). “Copy that.”

            “I want to make it good for John,” admitted Sherlock.

            (Y/N) cocked their head. “John asked you to be his best man. He knows you’ll be terrible at a speech. He doesn’t care.” They considered. “Not enough to choose someone else.”

            Sherlock groaned. “I hate this sentiment stuff.”

            “Weddings are full of it,” said (Y/N). They twirled their lollipop in between their fingers. “I’m just going to amuse myself figuring out the drama between guests.”

            Sherlock closed the computer and picked up music pages. “I have been composing for the wedding, however.”

            “That’s why John keeps you around,” said (Y/N).

            Sherlock smiled slightly at the joke.

            “Oh, are you making music for the wedding?” said Mrs. Hudson, walking into the room. “That’s sweet, Sherlock.”

            “Why are you here?” asked Sherlock.

            “I’m bringing you your morning tea. You’re usually asleep,” said Mrs. Hudson.

            “You bring me tea in the morning?” said Sherlock, blinking.

            Mrs. Hudson chuckled. “Where’d you think it came from?”

            “I don’t know. I just thought it sort of happened,” said Sherlock.

            (Y/N) smiled in amusement.

            “Your mother has a lot to answer for,” tutted Mrs. Hudson, but she handed him a cup.

            “Mm, I know. I have a list,” said Sherlock. “Mycroft has a file.”

            “Do you want some, (Y/N)?” asked Mrs. Hudson.

            “I’m okay,” said (Y/N).

            “Don’t forget to eat,” she said before leaving the room.

            (Y/N) hummed noncommittedly.

            “Are you eating?” said Sherlock, looking up from his work.

            (Y/N) thought carefully. “…Yes.”

            “Proper amount at regular intervals?” said Sherlock.

            (Y/N) decided to go back to their book.

            Sherlock narrowed his eyes and made a mental note to monitor more carefully now that he was back. He couldn’t have his kid not taking care of themself.

l

            Still, after all the drama and troubles (and a crazy stag party for John from Sherlock and bribery for some relatives that needed to be reigned in), the wedding arrived. At least they had time for tea, peace, and quiet before the whole thing began.

            “So, it’s the big day, then!” exclaimed Mrs. Hudson.

            “Two people who currently live together are about to attend church, have a party, go on a short holiday, and then carry on living together. What’s big about that?” said Sherlock.

            “It changes people, marriage,” said Mrs. Hudson.

            (Y/N) furrowed their brow. “How could it do that?”

            “It just does. It changes you as a person in ways you couldn’t imagine,” said Mrs. Hudson.

            “As does lethal injection,” remarked Sherlock, and (Y/N) chuckled lightly.

            “My best friend, Margaret, she was my chief bridesmaid. We were going to be best friends forever, we always said that, but I hardly saw her after,” sighed Mrs. Hudson.

            “Weren’t you and your husband a bit busy with a drug cartel?” remarked (Y/N).

            “I had no idea he was involved in anything,” said Mrs. Hudson firmly, walking out of the room to get ready for the wedding.

            “She definitely made sure to get her share of money,” said (Y/N), smiling.

            “There’s a reason we tolerate her,” said Sherlock fondly.

            “Would you ever get married?” asked (Y/N).

            “What do you mean? For a case? Yes,” said Sherlock. “And then divorce when it isn’t necessary.”

            “I know that,” said (Y/N). “I’m talking about really marrying. For ‘love’ and all of that.”

            Sherlock looked at them. “I’m like you. I find sentimentality very difficult in the romantic sense.”

            “ ‘Only the deepest love with induce me into matrimony,’ ” quoted (Y/N). “Understandable.”

            “Pride and Prejudice,” identified Sherlock.

            (Y/N) nodded and looked at Sherlock. “If you did get married, would you…leave me? I know some people don’t want to be with people with kids, and I’m not even legally yours.”

            “You’re my kid,” said Sherlock firmly. “And you come first.” He leaned back and took a sip of his tea. “Besides, I’d have to find someone to put up with me if I wanted to marry.”

            “The odds are not in your favor,” said (Y/N), but they were smiling again.

l

            (Y/N) stood to the side in black slacks, a black tie, and a purple button-down. They smiled as the church bells pealed and Mary and John, finally married, posed with their groomsmen (including Sherlock) and bridesmaids.

            “Congratulations!” said the photographer, lifting his camera. “Okay, hold it here—I wanna get another shot of the newlyweds.”

            “(Y/N), come on,” said John, waving them up.

            (Y/N) was surprised, but John and Mary motioned for them again. They were a part of John and Sherlock’s little found family. They deserved to be included. (Y/N) walked up, and they stood beside Sherlock and smiled for the picture.

            “Okay—three, two, one, cheese!” said the photographer.

            Throughout the rest of the celebration as the sun set, the photographer continued to capture the moment. John, Sherlock, and Lestrade got a photo together with a pageboy, (Y/N) and Sherlock were together, (Y/N) trying to sneak away and getting caught by John, and a variety of others. Janine, the Maid of Honor, and Sherlock even got one as she walked up to him.

            “The famous Mr. Holmes,” she exclaimed. “And you must be (Y/N). I’m very pleased to meet you.” She leaned over towards Sherlock as the photo was taken. “But no sex, okay?”

            (Y/N) made a grossed-out face, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows in confusion. “Um, sorry?” he said.

            Janine just smiled and laughed. “Calm down, I’m only messing. Bridesmaid, Best Man…it’s a bit traditional.”

            Ew, thought (Y/N). They decidedly didn’t like how Janine looked at their dad.

            “If that’s the sort of thing you’re looking for, the man over there in the blue is your best bet,” said Sherlock, nodding to another table.

            “Recently divorced doctor with a ginger cat, a barn conversion, and a history of erectile dysfunction,” said (Y/N), observing the man for a moment. “Actually, probably not that good.”

            “More than you expected?” said Sherlock. (Y/N) shrugged in response.

            “Mr. Holmes, (Y/N)…You’re going to be incredibly useful.” Janine smiled and walked away.

            “Weird,” said (Y/N).

            “She was attracted to me,” said Sherlock. “Some people have strange approaches.”

            “Yeah. Weird,” said (Y/N). They looked around and saw Mary and John outside the venue, greeting people. “We should make sure our…arrangements worked out.”

            Sherlock nodded, and the pair walked out to support their friends.

            “Hello, lovely to meet you,” said Mary with a tired smile as another of John’s relatives shook her hand.

            “You look beautiful, Mary,” they said before moving on.

            “Save me,” murmured John, obviously exhausted with all the people and just wanting to celebrate his marriage with his wife.

            “You signed up for this,” said (Y/N) brightly as a man in a weird purple tie walked up.

            “David!” exclaimed Mary, going to hug him.

            David leaned away and laughed nervously. He opted to just pat her arms awkwardly. “Mary. Congratulations. You look, um, very nice.” He shook John’s hand. “John, congratulations. You’re a lucky man.”

            “Thank you,” said John.

            “David, this is (Y/N) and Sherlock,” said Mary, smiling.

            “Um, yeah. We’ve, um, we’ve met,” said David awkwardly.

A few days ago…

            David sat in the client chair of 221B while Sherlock sat across from him in his armchair and (Y/N) lounged on the couch.

            “So, what exactly are my duties as an usher?” asked David.

            Sherlock folded his hands. “Let’s talk about Mary, first.”

            “Sorry, what?” said David, glancing between the pair.

            “You went out with her for two years,” said (Y/N) matter-of-factly.

            “A-Ages ago. We’re just good friends now,” said David nervously.

            (Y/N) rolled over and sat up. They cocked their head, and David flinched at the little smirk and calculating look in their eyes. Sherlock was simultaneously proud of the reaction they got from him and worried that (Y/N) was a bit too good at intimidation.

            (Moriarty, screamed his head, and Sherlock smothered that voice. He had greatly disturbed the relationship between Sherlock and (Y/N), and Sherlock refused to let it continue).

            “Whenever she tweets, you respond within five minutes regardless of time or location, so you have her on text alert,” said (Y/N). “That’s a lot of attention you’re giving her.” David shifted uncomfortably.

            “In all of your Facebook pictures of the happy couple, Mary takes center frame while John is always partly or entirely excluded,” said Sherlock.

            “You two can’t assume from that I’ve still got some kind of interest in Mary,” chuckled David awkwardly.

            “You volunteered to be a ‘shoulder to cry on’ three times.” (Y/N) leaned forward, and David swallowed nervously. “Do you have anything you can defend yourself with?” He was silent, and (Y/N) tsked.

            Sherlock made a note. “I think from now on we’ll downgrade you to ‘casual acquaintance.’ No more than three planned social encounters a year, always in John’s presence,” he said decidedly. He looked at David intently. “We have your contact details.”

            “We’ll be monitoring,” said (Y/N), smiling sharply.

            David looked at them with wide, frightened eyes. “They’re right about you two. You two are bloody psychopaths.”

            “I’m a high-functioning sociopath,” said Sherlock.

            “I’m autistic,” said (Y/N).

            “And we have your number,” said Sherlock, grinning.

            David let out a nervous breath, got up, and made a hasty, nervous exit.

Present…

            David made some nervous noise and quickly went indoors. Satisfied, Sherlock and (Y/N) watched Mary and John greet more people.

            The ringbearer, a young boy, arrived at the front of the line and smiled.

            Mary smiled brightly. “Hello, Archie!”

            He ignored her and ran straight to Sherlock to hug his legs. Sherlock looked down awkwardly and patted his head. “Mm, yes, well done in the service, Archie.”

            Archie’s mother smiled. “He’s really come out of his shell. I don’t know how you did it.”

            (Y/N) and Sherlock exchanged glances.

A few days ago…

            Sherlock and (Y/N) faced archie on the client chair.

            “Basically, it’s a cute smile to the bride’s side, cute smile to the groom’s side, then the rings,” said Sherlock.

            “No,” said Archie instantly.

            “And you have to wear the outfit,” said Sherlock.

            “No.”

            “You really do have to wear the outfit,” said (Y/N).

            “What for?” said Archie obstinately.

            “Grown-ups seem to like all that stuff,” said (Y/N).

            “Why?” asked Archie. He and (Y/N) looked at Sherlock.

            He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll ask one.”

            “You two are detectives,” said Archie slowly.

            “Yep,” said Sherlock.

            “Have you solved any murders?” asked Archie.

            “Sure. Loads,” said Sherlock, and (Y/N) nodded.

            “Can I see?” asked Archie.

            (Y/N) looked at Sherlock and shrugged. He nodded. “Yeah, alright.” He opened the computer to show pictures.

            “What’s all that stuff in his eye?” asked Archie.

            “Maggots,” said (Y/N).

            “Cool!” exclaimed Archie.

Present…

            “He said you had some pictures for him as a treat,” continued Archie’s mother.

            “Er, yes, if he’s good,” said Sherlock awkwardly.

            “Beheadings,” said Archie eagerly.

            “Lovely little village,” lied Sherlock when he saw Archie’s mother’s expression.

            She looked confused but walked inside with Archie. Mary and John turned to Sherlock and (Y/N). Mary had an expression of confusion, and John narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

            (Y/N) and Sherlock pretended to look innocent.

Taglist:

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@im-making-an-effort

@ilse235

@schrodingers-intelligence

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[futureplayboibunnie]

‘Cover’

Sherlock x fem!reader

- ugh my sherlock smut fics are always the longest thing ever. i know this idea is a lil cliche but do i care? fuck noooo. this one had me blushing by the end not gonna lie. also btw i love y’all sm u guys reblogging and replying to my stuff makes me want to scream in the best way xx

You were opposite Sherlock. Sat in John's christened seat. He wasn't in right now, you were unsure if that was a good or bad thing as of this moment. You were both staring at each other intently, not saying anything, legs crossed. Insanity began to seep into your bloodstream. You were pressing your luck the longer you stayed here but you were too drunk off of his presence to care.

Sherlock was a different man all together.

He was a pompous, self entitled prick and you were stark raving mad- it wasn't a harmonious coupling but the electricity was just pulsing through the air probably due to the events earlier.

—————

Sherlock was needed to go undercover to a prestigious black tie event that he didn't want to go to in order to blow the lid off of drug smuggling ring; it was honestly a juvenile task for him but he had to grin and bear it. He was informed that he needed a plus one.

The only person that popped up in his mind was you. You were capable of handling it. Determined enough. Bold, daring...beautiful- you could be helpful to him.

The days leading up to him asking you were hell on Earth, his nails bit into his seat everytime he thought of it. You on the other hand put yourself forward and leapt at the opportunity, without his knowledge of course- Mycroft made sure of it. It was his twisted form of inflicting torture upon his brother, racking his nerves when he least expected it as a form of entertainment. Mycroft hadn't seen Sherlock this nervous in a while, he was concerned it would effect his perfomance on the field but it didn't matter, it would be entertaining to watch altogether.

When he asked you on the evening the event was actually on, you were impassive.

Sherlock was confused when you only replied with a brusque 'I know.' You were pacing around your apartment wearing a pretty slip dress, not too formal, not too casual- just right. He thought it was just for the date with one of the chief detectives that you were putting off, maybe his incessant asking got to you and you gave in. The thought soured his mood but he had no right to feel that way. He brightened when he found that you were actually accompanying him this evening, although any other day he would have been seething at this unexpected surprise...but the surprise was you.

‘’Is this good enough for you?’’ You asked while putting on your earrings, heels clacking against the laminate, wildly looking for the validation you were sure he wouldn't be able to provide you. God knows every single female interaction Sherlock had ended up in him offending them.

‘’Uh...yes. Good.’’ Sherlock said. You weren't sure what his tone carried or held, he was very passive.

Sherlock's felt his peripheral blur slightly as the sight of you. You were stood there panicking about something you shouldn't even have a second thought about: your own beauty. The first thing he deduced out of you was that your insecurity was glaring, clear as day- yet Sherlock couldn't figure out why. You were incredibly confident with your work, you knew exactly what you were doing, impossibly assertive and determined when you needed to be. so why did you worry so much about how you looked?

You looked stunning. He was left hopeless. Sherlock shook the thoughts out of his head before it consumed him.

‘’It better be because we need to leave.’’

Sherlock was very abrasive the entire evening, it irritated you. Your mind was pacing to uncover what was going on in his, he was the mystery you were keening to unravel but then again not even John could pry secrets out of him. How could you ever get close to figuring it out?

What was he thinking?

What did he want?

How is he feeling?

What is he doing?

Why were you feeling this way for someone so distant?

You hooked your arm against his while you were nearing the ballroom floor, the feeling of his tailored suit making your body wirr and buzz already- you were sure he could feel it. Sherlock definitely did, he was wondering if it was out of nerves; he definitely couldn't deal with a jittering version of vou throwing a wrench into all of his plans for tonight. He let out an exasperated sigh and it only made your face contort into a frown.

‘’You're being incredibly curt this evening.’’You said, annoyance lacing your tone.

‘’I'm not I just want to get this over with.’’ He replied, eyes locking with yours in a perpetual and longing battle. A plead for an answer you'll never get.

‘’Dance with me.’’ You said breathlessly, pulling on his arm to tug him to the dance floor where all the other couples were gazing wantonly in each other's eyes while whispering sweet nothings into every ear.

Sherlock felt himself trip up for words as you pulled him into your embrace.

‘’Put your hands on my waist.’’You breathed into his ear, the feeling of eyes watching your every move. You needed to sell whatever it is you needed to sell to the people you had to take down. ‘’Hold me.’’ Your tone was that of an instruction, Sherlock was never one to listen but in this instance he was willing to listen to you. It felt as though Sherlock was adamant on putting his hands on you, the thought darkened your already straying mood.

Sherlock was afraid that if he had his hands on you, he simply wouldn't able to let go.

He did though. His large palms met with the small of your back and your hands went to his broad shoulders, your breath halted slightly. A twinge of electricity coursed through your entire body at his secure touch. The man had so much power over you, it was embarrassing.

The cinematic strings were plucking creating a symphony of beautiful classical sounds as you danced together, swaying to the music.

‘’We don't have time for you to shove your intelligence into everyone's face.’’ You muttered seriously into his ear, face dipping near the crook of his neck.

‘'Not possible. Let me just get this done and I'll pick you up once it's finished. These people are pretentious enough to turn a blind eye towards me. In this case, I think that will work in our favour.’’

Sherlock was trying to get this over with, his mind was preoccupied with something else: you. He was dancing with you. He was touching you. He was feeling territorial over you even though he had absolutely no right to. He was in your air, he was enamoured by the scent of you, your sweet perfume clouding the air he breathed. You looked enchanting but he simply couldn't let himself tell you that. Sherlock was supposed to care for no-one, for nothing- he was married to his work, that complex mind was too rough to let alone care for.

‘’Is this what this is about? Wanting to go solo?’’ Your tone was accusatory as you lifted your face to meet with his scorching eyes.

‘’No. Mycroft is breathing down my neck and I need him to get the message that I can handle my cases.’’ He gritted.

Your fingers played with tufts of his hair as your lips were dangerously close to his ear. ‘’You know what I think?’’ Sherlock felt his heart hammer slightly as your fingers continued their ministrations.

‘’It's all a cover.’’ You whispered, gazes interfering once more, that cool breezy blue boring into yours, faces merely inches apart. Sherlock's face was hard and his lips thinned into a straight line.

‘’Cover? How so. Enlighten me.’’ He said lowly, eyes not straying away from yours for a single second.

‘’John was a cover. He was a cover to show that you do have a heart, some twisted sense of humanity but I don't think that's true anymore. You'll always want to be alone, you'll always want to do this alone. I'm not saying it's your fault but...the people in your life that care about you deserve to be more than just a cover for you.’’

Your face was etched in compassion, with care, with longing. You looked so beautiful and it concerned him to an immeasurable degree, his face was lifeless as he glared into the deep abyss of your eyes. Sherlock hated the way you saw through him, it was deeply startling for him to hear the words from those delicious lips, those lips that can be dangerous and do more harm than good. Especially in terms of Sherlock's ego.

‘’I'm being a cover for you right now. We're undercover.’’ You added, almost saddened by the thought even though Sherlock believed the opposite. ‘’Dip me.'’ You ordered and like the fool he was, he did.

Sherlock twirled you and dipped you, his grip on your waist as he stared down at you was akin to that of a iron grip- as if to never let go. As if your life was in his hands. The look between you was that of pure desire, looking through the hubris, the frailty between you both. It was potent. Heady. Intoxicating.

Your fingers carded through his soft curls, your slight exhales the only thing that could be heard.

Sherlock straightned you up to stand, faces barely inches apart, lips almost grazing each other. His eyes flitted to your lips, those lips that can make or break him. Right now, you were breaking him. Sherlock kept you close, it was evident the way your chest was pressing into his, your breathing was becoming heavier with every second he had you like this.

‘’You're wrong.’’ He said huskily. ‘’You're not a cover.’’ His breath fanned your face, eyes heavy as if to reflect his heart.

You didn't know what to say, all your mind was on was his lips. His lips were so close to yours and you were unsure of how to handle yourself like this. It took an eternity for your tongue to remember how to speak.

‘’Don't make me be so resilient.’’ You said under your breath, it was only just audible but it made his ears prick up in a heartbeat.

Sherlock's mind was reeling and then all of a sudden it drew to a blank. He had you right in front of him, pleading, begging for him to make things easy for you. To be soft for you. To want you. Maybe you were trying to catch him out, find a moment of weakness within him. His trust was compromised. With a heavy heart, he had to let you go. The case was begging for his attention more, he'd only disappoint you. He wouldn't be able to give you what you need, what you asked of him.

He let you go and left you in the wind. He walked away.

All he could do is walk away from you.

Your heart shattered inside of the crest of your body, the shards falling into your lungs making it difficult to breathe. All you could do is suck it up.

Sherlock Holmes was never prone to falling for someone, how could you be stupid enough to believe that you could actually mean something to him? You scoffed at the thought. He left you high and dry in the middle of the dancefloor and it just proved your point.

He wanted to go alone. That's all he ever knew.

—————

Now you were in his flat. Alone. With him. Only him. Sherlock was able to apprehend the drug smugglers and bring them into Mycroft fairly quickly from the time he fleed you from the dance floor. The thought made your soul wilt a little but you were reguivinated by the fact you were in his space, you were with him right now. Sherlock asked to go somewhere private to talk, you didn't think it would be to go to his flat. You were unsure what he wanted to talk about, he made his intentions very clear earlier.

You just glared at each other silently, knowing how calculating he was you were sure he could read your thoughts. You could cry to the clicking of time it was going so slow.

‘’You look beautiful.’’ Sherlock complimented, his voice sincere. It made you square your shoulders and eyelashes flutter, it could only be noticed if he looked at you close enough and knowing him... of course he does.

‘’Thank you.’’You replied bashfully.

‘’I'm sorry.’’

‘’For what.’’

‘’Leaving you.’’ Sherlock's tone was serious and hard, remembering the moment was awful for him. He never really cared for other people's feelings, he always did what he had to do, but in this case it made him irate. He cared too much for you. How could he leave a woman like you?

Achilles Heel.

He was sure you would be his downfall.

But for tonight...just for tonight, he could show you just how much the man that supposedly had no heart cared.

‘’You did what you had to do. I didn't like it but I respect it.’’ You replied, trying to retain a modicum of humility in his presence.

‘’No you don't.’’ Sherlock caught you out so easily, it was like you were making it easy for it. ‘’Don't lie and say you respect it, because we both know you don't.’’

‘’I don't.’’ You acquiesced. '’Just don't leave me like that again.’’

You let the words hang in the air for a little, but it only just electrified the engery swinging through the room even more. Oh God, you wanted him on your lips, touching you with his fingertips.

Suddenly, Sherlock stood up and straightened his suit jacket; you watched him intently, wondering what his next move was going to be. He finally grabbed you by the arm and flung you from the sofa and tugged you into him so you were against his chest, you were disarmed immediately. Like the moment where he held you so close to him earlier tonight. An impossible ache began swirling in your stomach and you didn't know how to quiet it, it was becoming even more of a problem when his hands found home on your waist.

‘’Do you want me to promise that?’’ Sherlock grumbled, eyes roaring with an incandescent flame at the sight of you.

‘’Promise it if you think you can actually live by it.’’ You said softly as you stared at his lips. ‘’Don't say it because you think it's what I want to hear.’’

Sherlock pondered your words for a moment.

‘’What do you want to hear?’’ He asked, light as a whisper.

‘’How badly you want to fuck me.’’ Your voice was as deadpan, impassive. Sherlock was impressed with how you were containing yourself, your body was just begging to be touched by him and he was more than willing if you trusted him enough. ‘’How much you need me.’’

Sherlock gazed at you, completely lost in your request. His lips crashed against yours like stormy waves on the seashore. Lightning against the coast when his mouth tasted at yours. You didn't care if Sherlock uttered sweet little lies, his were the lies you would consume with no remorse. You tasted divine, a myraid of luscious tastes, cherry, peach, lust. You tasted like the world.

Your fingers flew to his bowtie and you pulled him closer with it, you let your lips ease against his as you pulled back to gawk at him, to revel in his reaction.

‘’I don't even need to tell you how much I need you...can't you feel it already?’’ Sherlock questioned and your mouth dried, you were drowning and only he could throw you a line.

‘’Take me to bed. I'll be good I promise.’’ You said whistfully, breathy and Sherlock grabbed you by the hand and whisked you to his room. His hands were fucking massive, his grip tight. How could he deny you when you promised him so sweetly?

He couldn't, and he didn't even want to stop himself. Sherlock had waited long enough for you.

He didn't even have the decency to slam the door shut, he wanted you to be as loud as you wanted. It was only him that could hear you. Unrelenting, you grabbed his head and kissed his lips roughly, a sweet moan echoing through the soul he lived in. His hand meandered all over your body, from your hair, down your back and to the curve of your ass. He was marvelling at your figure, you were a star that fell to earth, a light cast in the darkness of his head.

Sherlock grabbed you and pushed you on his bed, his whole body stirred and desire coursed through him to the end of his cock. He was just so ready for you, he has been for a while but he didn't want to disappoint you. He was falling to pieces while he was with you, Sherlock simply just didn't want it to end too quickly.

‘’Beautiful. So beautiful. Can you even begin to understand how much I want you?’’ Sherlock admitted and it made your whole body alight, it was humiliating. His nose grazed against yours, he wanted to see that look in your eyes when he said.

‘’No. I don't.’’ You breathed.

Oh no, this will simply not do.

‘’Let's change that shall we?’’ Sherlock promised huskily, you were keening to experience it, every single motion he made, every sigh and gasp he illicits.

Sherlock peeled you of your dress far too easily, your body bare and all for him to mark up as he pleases, all for him to claim as his. Lord you were enticing. He wanted to memorise every single dip and curve, every single reaction he can get out of you. It was like you were designed just for him.

Your nimble fingers flew to his jacket, you shrugged it off easily and then you got to work on his button down.

‘’You don't seem very patient.’’ You teased as you undid the last button and discarded it off him.

‘’You know I'm not.’’

Sherlock ripped your underwear off and shimmied the reminants down your legs.

His heart was thundering at the sight of you, as if he'd never seen a naked woman before. You were unmanning him.

‘’Sherlock...inside....’’ You mumbled, almost drunkenly. So intoxicated by his presence you were slurring your words.

‘’Shh...be patient.’’ He mocked you and again it disarmed you once more.

Your insatiable hands went to his zipper and undid it so rougly it was threatening to break. You stuffed your hand down his pants with a wicked gleam in your eyes, you marvelled at his grunt. It was so goddamn hot. Your slender palm began rubbing against his painfully hard cock once you pulled it out, he was so deliciously massive. It was glorious. Sherlock was sighing, gasping and grunting and it made your self esteem boost tenfold.

Enough was enough, he'd inflict the same torture onto you.

Sherlock's mouth fell against yours again, he was fawning over you, kissing at you like he had nothing to lose. His mouth travelled to your jaw and neck, his face was nestled in the crook of your neck, leaving small bites in his ever immortal wake. The pleasure was too painful to bare, you were about to explode.

He lifted his face to look at the way your face scrunched up in tense bliss, Sherlock's fingers meandered down the skin of your stomach and you shivered at the sensation.

‘’Do you want my fingers?’’' He offered deliciously and you were jumping at the opportunity.

You nodded fervently.

Sherlock delightfully obliged as he dabbled in your increasing wetness. Christ, you were soaked. You made it easy to plunge two thick fingers in you, he stretched you out and it made you go wild. Like a cat in heat.

‘’Mmm...so...good.’’ You stifled out and he chuckled lowly at your reaction.

‘’I know...I know.’’ He cooed.

A strangled scream got caught in your throat when he replaced his fingers with his cock. You were sure you saw the gates of heaven when he did. Sherlock thought you were a malleable and bendy creature, so well moulded to him it was insane. His brutal pace was unrelenting, he plunged in and out of you with abandon. With ecstacy. You felt your insides heat and burn up at his actions, his hands, his body, his mouth- everything was just too much.

Sherlock pinned your hands above your head, staring into your eyes as he fucked into you so animalistically. He would always be left untamed and that's how you like it.

‘’Feel needed now?’’ He gritted through clenched teeth. You kissed him furiously as a response.

He rocked his hips against yours, it was earth shattering. The tension falling in layers with every moment of pure unbridled pleasure and heated desire. Sweat fell down in small pinpricks and beads down your brows, he was working you so hard it was wearing you out.

‘’Sherlock…’’ You whined but you weren't sure what you were whining for, it wouldn't get you anywhere.

‘’Say it louder, it's only for me to hear.’’

‘’Sherlock!’’ You practically screamed as a means to get him to make you cum.

As if clockwork, you exploded onto him. This pent up frustration and pining turning into this insurmountable neediness that only he could draw out of you, he fucked you through your rippling orgasm. Your skin felt sticky and wet and it was just evidence of how desperate you both were. Your moan was practically a prayer. Sherlock lost his mind at the erotic sound, he sloppily came inside of you when you let him go from that final clamp. He let out a gutteral groun as he spilled himself free inside of you, he was too high off of you to care about the mess he was making. You kissed his cheek and he planted himself beside you to bask in your glory.

Sherlock was messy.

He liked leading his life on his lonesome.

But you saw through that.

You weren't his cover, you were never his cover. It just took you far too long to realise that.

[girl-next-door-writes]

535,600 minutes

Characters: Mycroft Holmes x reader

Summary: Snapshots of your first year with Mycroft, and how he adjusts to being part of a pair.

Word Count: 1924 words

Prompt: ‘How about Mycroft doing something seasonal.’

A/N: This one is for the wonderful @theweepingvulcan91. I couldn’t decide on a season, so I went with four, because who doesn’t want a whole year of Mycroft Holmes?

You met the elusive Mycroft Holmes in the spring. The details of how you both found yourselves at this particular gathering were lost to memory, but Mycroft was standing by a trestle table in the terrace gardens of Yardley Hall, failing to conceal his confusion and precisely how horrific he was finding this event. Small children were everywhere, which meant squealing and sticky hands and chaos. They were running around, searching (and ruining) the topiary in their search for small chocolate eggs, while a man, who Mycroft suspected was Colonel Yardley, was scampering about dressed as a terrifying giant rabbit.

“Which of these delights are yours?” Turning to his right, his scowl was met by amusement, causing his sour mood to melt just a little.

“Technically, none.” He took the flute of champagne you offered, mentally scanning your fingers for any signs of a wedding ring.

“Technically? That’s intriguing.”

“My brother’s friend has a daughter and they felt this would be a ‘fun’ Easter activity for her.”

“So, you are here for your brother’s friend’s daughter?” The way your brow furrowed while the corners of your lips curled up was enchanting, and Mycroft found himself momentarily distracted.

“I am merely their ticket in.”

“And yet, you are still here.”

“I am. And you? Which of these delights are yours?” He watched your response curiously, trying to deduce as much as he could.

“Oh, I am just here as a wingman to my friend who has a huge crush on some single father who is here. Honestly, we just kinda crashed, but I am trusting you not to tell on me.” Your eyes glinted with mischief and Mycroft realised he was chuckling.

“Your secret is safe with me, my dear.” Clinking his glass to yours, he wondered how long he could get away with monopolizing your attention. Unfortunately, fate, or rather his brother, intervened.

“Here’s Uncle Mycroft, Rosie. I am sure he will be more than happy to help you discover the last of the eggs.” Sherlock smiled brightly at the little girl, allowing his smile to tighten as he looked at his brother.

“Sherlock, I-“

“John is busy talking to a rather uncomplicated woman and Lestrade just called. As a responsible adult, I am leaving Rosie in your care until John is done. Goodbye, brother mine.” And with that, Sherlock strode off.

“Uncle Mycroft.” Rosie tugged at his coat, and he tried his best to hold back a frustrated sigh. “The bunny has put out more eggs, Uncle Mycroft.”

“Then we shall take your basket and see if we can ascertain their location.” His nose scrunched slightly as the four-year-olds sticky hand slipped into his, then turned to give you an apologetic smile, only to be stunned to find you crouching down to address Rosie.

“Which eggs are we looking for? What colour is the best?” You asked earnestly.

“Pink. They are bright and you can see them more so you can get lots.”

“Ah, so pink is easiest to see. I’m guessing, with that being the case, there are possibly a LOT of green ones still hiding. How about you look for pink, I will look for blue, and your uncle can look for green because I think he should take the hardest challenge.” You smiled teasingly as you looked up at Mycroft, who was suddenly imagining a whole future life with you.

Twenty minutes later, John was standing on the terrace, frantically scanning the garden as he searched for Sherlock and Rosie. His eyes widened with surprise however, when he spotted Rosie sitting on Mycroft’s shoulders as she reached up into a tree for an egg while a rather attractive stranger held the basket up for the treasure to be placed. This was a side of Mycroft he had never seen, and he considered filming a little to send to Sherlock. Mycroft looked happy and relaxed, and John couldn’t help but wonder if that was down to you.

The summer heat was stifling, and Mycroft wondered why on earth you had insisted upon meeting him in Hyde Park at the hottest part of the day. It was so warm he’d already had to remove his suit jacket, hanging it over his arm as he searched the vicinity for your presence.

“Mycroft! Over here!” His head whipped around at the sound of your voice, and the reasoning for such a venue became apparent.

“My darling, a picnic?” He looked skeptically at the blanket you had spread in the shadow of a huge tree.

“I have blankets to prevent you getting grass stains on your suit. Everything is in containers which can be closed while not in use so there will be no surprise insects in your food. We are in the shade, so you won’t burn. I have a fan, so you won’t over-heat. The drinks are on ice, I’ve brought all your favourites, I know how much you despise eating outside, but I was rather hoping you would make an exception, just this once, as the weather is so glorious.”

“How could I ever deny you anything?” He gave you a soft smile, appreciating how much effort you had put into this compromise.

Sitting next to you on the blanket, he rolled up his shirt sleeves and picked up a container of your favourite fruit, already cut into perfect bitesize chunks. Peeling off the lid, he carefully picked up a piece and offered it to you, silently elated when you ate it directly from his fingers. If this was where compromise led, then he vowed to be more compromising for you in the future.

The afternoon was spent laying in the warm breeze, reading and talking. At one point, he was sat with his back against the tree and your head resting in his lap, and he wanted to bottle that moment up and store it away in his mind palace, untainted forever. The scent of the grass and the dry earth at the base of the tree, the mixture of heat and mild caress of the breeze from the fan, the texture of your hair as his fingers toyed with it in a distracted manner, the weight of your head against his thigh, the soft susurration of the pages turning and gentle sighs which fell from you as you read. This moment right here was perfect. You were perfect. The last four months had been perfect. He wanted this to be his reality, his always.

“This is ridiculous.” He huffed, adjusting his collar once more. “If you wanted to get all dressed up then there was a masked ball we could have attended.”

“Mycroft, you look incredibly dashing, and you do not fool me for one instant. You enjoy dressing up just as much as I do.”

“That is-“

“Lady Bracknell.”

“How did-“

“Sherlock.”

“Ah. Sherlock.” He grumbled with a frown.

“It is Halloween, Mycroft. One party.” You hummed as you smoothed down his shirt.

“One party.” He nodded, psyching himself up for the teasing he knew would inevitably come from his brother.

“I think you make a rather stunning Victor Frankenstein.” This compliment had him smiling despite himself.

“Yes, well, you picked out the costume so I would hope so. I do think, perhaps, nobody will be looking at me when they see you. Exquisite, as always, my dear.” He tenderly caressed your cheek before leaning in and placing a gentle kiss to your lips, not wanting to mess up your make-up.

“Maybe next year you could be one of those detectives from those films you like to watch, we could do a little role play.” Your smile was mischievous, and Mycroft felt a heat roll through him.

“That is a role play we would most certainly not be doing in public.” He growled, pressing you close to him.

“Now there’s a thought. Sadly, we have a party to attend.” You pushed him away, leaving your hands on his chest. “But I will absolutely take that scenario into consideration for a later date.”

Watching you sweep out of the room, Mycroft knew he was left standing there, grinning like a loon. Just when he thought you could not possibly get any better, you threw something like that onto the table.  In the back of his mind he thought, ‘I really need to get a ring’.

The howling wind battered the rain against the window, but it was barely audible over the crooning of Michael Buble which filled the room. The scent of pine was far too strong for Mycroft’s liking, and the pine needles littering his carpet were irking him, but watching you carefully unpacking various baubles made his irritations shrink significantly.

He did wonder quite how you intended to dress the tree, as the only light in the room came from the crackling fireplace and the fairy lights he had fought to wrap around the branches not so long ago. Regardless of his misgivings, he observed you assessing the tree before hanging the first of many ornaments from the branches.

“Are you going to stand there all evening, or are you coming to help me?” You asked with amusement, not even turning to look at him. Mycroft instantly moved to lean against the mantle above the fireplace, glass of whiskey in his hand.

“I was rather enjoying your masterclass in tree decorating, my darling.”

“Really? And here I was thinking you were just afraid of the tree falling on you again.” This earned a scoff from him and a light peal of laughter from you.

“It did not fall on me, it just became a little unbalanced.”

“Well, come over here and make sure I don’t become ‘a little unbalanced’ while I try to put the star on the top.”

Mycroft placed his glass down and moved to stand behind you, his hands coming to rest on your hips as you stretched up.

“Here, let me.” He murmured in your ear, his fingers trailing up your arm and taking hold of the ornament slowly, enjoying how you shuddered slightly at his touch. Placing the star on the top of the tree, he smirked as he pressed himself against your back.

“Perfect.” You hummed, turning your head slightly to look at him.

“Is this likely to be a tradition?” He asked as his eyes met yours. The lights from the tree illuminated your skin, making you look ethereal.

“I know how much you like a tradition.”

“I am rather traditional like that.” He smirked, leaning in a little closer as he wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Yes, you are. It is one of the many things I love about you.” You smiled as you placed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“You have a list? That is interesting.”

“You don’t?” You raised an eyebrow as you suppressed a giggle.

“I have a whole filing cabinet full of dossiers.”

“That was smooth, Mr Holmes. Very smooth. Well, before we get into a rather entertaining argument about who has the bigger list, I am going to get the vacuum and get rid of the pine needles. I know that just knowing they are there, hiding, is itching at the back of that brilliant mind of yours.” You moved to leave, only for him to pull you back against his chest.

“And that is another of the multitude of reasons why I love you.” He grinned before thoroughly kissing you. Christmas morning couldn’t come soon enough, he could only hope that your answer would be yes.

[distinguishedkryptonitecreator]

𝕸𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖞'𝖘 𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖇𝖑𝖊𝖒

Pairing: Sherlock x reader

Series: Sherlock BBC

MASTERLIST

I II

Synopsis: You discover that you are in love, unfortunately with the same man your friend loves. How will you survive that.

Note: English is not my native language, so some words may not make sense, apologies in advance.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐈

━━━━♡

The name Thomas Beckett made my heart skip a beat.

“Thomas Beckett? What’s going on with him?” I asked, trying to keep calm as I sat on the sofa. The gears in my mind began to spin rapidly, trying to understand why they were mentioning my boss’s partner.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if my words had bothered him, though he didn’t show it openly. His rigid posture and the way he clenched his jaw revealed that something else was going on. Mycroft, on the other hand, seemed impassive, as if he enjoyed my confusion.

“Miss, it’s quite simple. We know for certain that, despite holding a position not so prominent within the company hierarchy, you have certain connections with high-ranking officials,” Mycroft commented with a tone that carried a hint of disdain. I glared at him.

A position not so important? Really? My role as a senior developer was more than relevant. It wasn’t for nothing that I had spent so much time studying, sacrificing sleep and proper meals, taking various part-time jobs with low wages to pay for my studies, and enduring the distance from my family while living in a noisy shared flat. I was proud of what I had achieved and all I had done to get there, so his words only made me boil with anger.

“You know, I’m starting to think I might not want to collaborate with you,” I replied, crossing my arms firmly. Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but before he could respond, Sherlock intervened, surprising even his brother.

“Listen, I know you got your position thanks to that intern program, and also that...” Sherlock paused, his blue eyes locking with mine as if he were unsure about what he was about to say, “that you have a history with Beckett.”

The mere mention of my past with Thomas made me feel as though the ground was slipping away from under my feet. It was true that Thomas and I had been more than friends in college. We were inseparable, and eventually, we became a couple. Thomas had always been the brilliant and attractive one, so his success with women didn’t surprise me. There was something about his charisma that drew people to him like a magnet.

However, everything ended. We went our separate ways, each with our own dreams. There was no sense in holding back. I would never forget the surprise I felt when, years later, I encountered him in one of the hallways of the place, with his immaculate dark suit and polished shoes. A smile from ear to ear that I hadn’t seen in a long time. The Thomas Beckett I knew as a student was now a man who had built his own cybersecurity company.

“What does that have to do with the case?” I asked, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

Sherlock let out a sigh, as if finding it difficult to explain the obvious.

“Everything,” he replied with a coldness that left me stunned. “Beckett is under suspicion, and we need to know how involved he is in certain activities. Your proximity to him, both personal and professional, could be key to uncovering what’s really going on.”

“Suspicion of what?” I pressed, starting to feel that what I was about to hear would not be pleasant.

Sherlock looked at me with a mix of seriousness and something I couldn’t quite identify.

“Beckett is being investigated for alleged involvement in an industrial espionage network. There are suspicions that he has been selling confidential information from several tech companies, including yours, to foreign competitors. And it’s not just about his disloyal behavior. There are indications that this data is being used for purposes that compromise national security. There have been leaks pointing to connections between Beckett and an organization called Argus, known in the underworld for handling military contracts and cyber warfare technology.”

My heart raced as I processed his words. Thomas involved in something so murky. It was hard to believe, but I knew Sherlock didn’t say these things lightly.

“And what does this have to do with me?” I asked, though a part of me already suspected the answer.

“As a developer, you have access to sensitive information, and your past relationship with Beckett could have facilitated his access to what he needed,” Sherlock replied, his words sharp but laden with a concern he was trying to hide. “We need to know if you have any knowledge of something that could incriminate him or if you’ve been used, even unknowingly, to access that information.”

“Look, I understand this is a shock to you, but we’re not here to accuse you,” John interjected for the first time, his usual calm tone. “We want your help because we know you’re not involved, but also because you could be the key to stopping this before it spirals out of control. If Beckett is innocent, we’ll prove it. But if he’s not, you need to know he could be using his relationship with you for his own ends.”

“Exactly,” Mycroft added with a slight nod toward John. “We need someone on the inside, someone who can verify if our suspicions are correct. And who better than someone who has Beckett’s trust.”

My mind was in full turmoil. I knew that working with Sherlock and Mycroft could lead to unimaginable situations, but I never thought I’d find myself in something so serious, and even less that Thomas could be involved in something like this. What would this mean for my career, for my life? The consequences of collaborating with them could be devastating. I could lose my job, and my reputation would be in ruins. But if what they were saying was true, if Thomas was really involved in an espionage network, ignoring it wasn’t an option.

“If I agree to help, what guarantees do I have that this won’t affect my professional life?” I asked finally, looking directly into Sherlock’s eyes, hoping for some sign that he understood the risks I was facing.

Sherlock held my gaze for a moment that seemed eternal before responding, this time in a much softer tone, almost a whisper:

“You have my word that we will do everything possible to protect you. But we need you.”

I knew that getting involved in something like this could have severe consequences. Not only for me but for my career as well. What would happen if the company discovered that I was helping Mycroft and Sherlock in an investigation that could involve one of its major partners? The collateral damage could be devastating. However, there was something in Sherlock’s gaze, an indication that this case was not just another for him, that made me reconsider.

And although part of me knew I should stay away, that getting involved could destroy everything I had worked for, another part, perhaps the one that still cared for Thomas or the one that didn’t want to leave Sherlock to face this alone, decided to take the risk.

“Alright,” I said finally, feeling a knot in my stomach. “I’ll help.”

John nodded with an expression of gratitude, while Mycroft simply gave a calculating smile. Sherlock, however, did not show any immediate reaction. Only a slight glimmer in his eyes indicated that he had been expecting this response. I wondered if there was something more behind that look, something more personal. But there was no time for reflection. I was about to enter a dangerous game, and there was no turning back.

As they prepared to leave, my phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen to see a message from Molly.

┏━━━━•❅•°•❈ •°•❅•━━━━┓

“Hey! Fancy a girls' night out? We haven’t had one in ages. Let me know!” ✓✓

┗━━━━•❅•°•❈ •°•❅•━━━━┛

━━━━♡

NOTE II:

I'm so sorry for missing out. I've been a little unmotivated and university doesn't help. But I hope you liked the chapter. You will hear from me soon, I promise.

[callsigndragon]

The Christmas Date | Chapter 14: What do the lonely do at Christmas?

Pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Fem!Kerner!Reader

(Ron Kerner is Slider, Iceman’s backseater)

Wordcount: 2.3k

Summary: Y/n “Athena” Kerner and Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw hate each other. Everybody knows. What happens when they have to fake date for a whole week to avoid Iceman and Slider’s matchmaking plans?

(there won’t be smut in this series)

Warnings: angst, mentions of death, mentions of uranium mission, mentions of therapy (is that a trigger? idk), bickering kids, hangman matchmaker era, and i'm sure i'm leaving something out.

A/N: SORRY FOR THE DOUBLE TAG! People didn't get tagged yesterday 😭 okay so THERE'S ONLY TWO CHAPTERS LEFT 🥺🥺🥺Not ready to say goodbye yet

Taglist: @ducks118 @milestellerwife @craftymoonchaos @littlebadariell @xoxabs88xox @alexxavicry @tayrae515  @shrimping-for-all @mak-32 @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @harper1666  @purplevortexx @abaker74 @ssprayberrythings @melllinaa @loveless-simp @k-k0129 @mygyn @castle-bookworms-world @chaoticversion @one-sweet-gubler @loveforaugust

@taytaylala12 @benhardysdrumstick @green-intervention @waatermelon-sugaar @smells-like-perfect-senses @interstellarloneliness @tay-bluey @diggorycullen @dhwanishah09 @inky-sun @luckyladycreator2 @nograce-nomercy @witchybabel @omfg-its-tay @macysorbit @little-wiseone @mxdi0

(TAG LIST CLOSED)

Previous | Next | Masterlist

Rooster tries to go after Thena, but Ron’s hand stops him from getting his car keys. 

“Give her time, Bradley. It’s been a long week for her.” 

Rooster is confused, to say the least. Slider just witnessed her daughter fleeing the house, but he has said or done nothing to him. 

“Aren’t you gonna ask what has happened?” 

Slider sighs, his hand moving to Rooster’s back and guiding him to the kitchen, where all the family is reunited. There’s not even a trace of surprise on anyone’s faces. Not even deception. They just seem to be concerned. 

“You knew,” Rooster whispers, sitting in the closest chair. 

“Of course, we knew,” Iceman scolds, giving him a hot mug of chocolate. “Do you think you can make your family believe you’re dating her, out of everyone, with the amount of history you two have together?” 

“It was real after a few days…” 

Becca puts on her jacket, waiting for Jesse to come from his bedroom with one of his own. “Don’t worry, Bradley. We’ll go with her.” 

“Can you tell her that it’s not what it looks like?” 

She shakes her head, kneeling when Jesse walks in the kitchen, to help him with his jacket. “I know better than to interfere in something like this. You two need to work it out” 

“Uncle Roos.” 

“Yes, buddy?” 

Jesse runs to the Christmas tree, getting a box wrapped in red wrapping paper with different sized roosters spread all over it. He would laugh if the situation was different. “Open this.”

“It’s not the time, Jesse,” Rooster pushes the box away slightly, but Maverick moves the gift even closer. 

“Open it, Bradley.” 

He reluctantly opens it, an old Polaroid camera lying inside the box, on top of a brand new album, with all the Polaroids his father had made during his life, perfectly organized and secured inside. He keeps turning pages and pages of old photographs, the last one making him choke on a pained laugh: it’s him, a four-year-old him with Thena in his arms.

There’s a note, he recognizes Thena’s handwriting, with love embedded in every stroke. 

It’s time to add your own memories, nugget. 

Nick takes the box from his hands before it falls to the floor. 

He’s fucked up. Again. 

He’s fucked up his second chance with you. 

And he doesn’t know if you will give him a third one. 

After Becca and Jesse come back, assuring him that Thena is as well as anyone could be given the situation, Rooster gets in the car and drives. He drives for hours, not knowing where, just driving. His heart does know where he’s going, because by the time the sun rises on the horizon, having stopped once to fill the tank at a random gas station in the middle of nowhere, he parks in front of a place he used to visit every week when he was younger. 

The cemetery. 

Muscle memory seems to have brought him to this place, and it’s also making him stroll in the right direction, finding his parents' grave in just a matter of minutes. He sits down, legs crossed and head down, like a little kid who is being reprimanded. Rooster knows that wherever they are, his parents are mad at him. 

“Mom, dad, it’s been a while, isn’t it?”

He sits there for hours. He talks to them, filling them in on the missing parts of his life that they don’t know about. He tells them how he tried to move on from Thena with the first girl that appeared in his life: Mandy. He knew she wasn’t the one. He knew it from the moment he kissed her for the first time. 

One of her kisses didn’t warm his heart the same way Thena’s smile did. 

But he had lost the right to see those smiles long ago. 

So he tried. He tried to move on, but to no avail. She had left an imprint in his soul that followed him everywhere and haunted him with memories of past mistakes. It was like his own personal ghost of the past Christmas. 

When Mandy left him, he actually didn’t care. He felt even worse, knowing that another girl had deemed him unworthy and left him to spend the rest of his days in solitude. 

He tells them about Thena, how she has become an excellent pilot, a wonderful aunt, and an incredible friend. 

And how someone harmed the purest soul he'd ever met just to be like him.  

He tells them how he tried to help her in the best way he could. He even tells them how Slider suggested that Thena shouldn’t be alone in a big apartment. He was the one that told him about this arrangement he had suggested to Thena, and how she was excited and scared at the same time to make such an important change in her life and in their relationship. 

But he had shattered her last shred of faith in him. He does not, however, explain why. That's something he should tell her when the time comes. 

When he has the necessary proof to show her how things aren’t what they look like. 

Iceman and Mav find him hours later, asleep next to his parents’ graves. Nobody knows how this will play out; how will Thena forgive this jerk who has only ruined his relationship with her by doing what he thought was best? 

Iceman knows that time healed this relationship once. 

Only time can heal it again. 

Three months and a half later 

His car. That’s the first thing you see when you get to the Hard Deck. His Bronco. 

You should have known that he would be here. It’s the best of the best, right? Of course he’s here. 

You walk inside, looking for Phoenix. You’ve been her wingman for the past three months, and even though she’s an excellent pilot and your best friend, it’s not the same as flying with Bradley. 

Nothing is the same without him. 

“Thena!” 

Phoenix sprints in your direction, placing her hands on your shoulders in an instant. “He’s here.” 

“I know. I saw the Bronco outside.” You glance around, spotting the back of his head among the multitude. 

“You’re ready for this?” She questions, her eyes never leaving your face, judging if you’re really ready for this. 

“Nat, I’ve been going to therapy for months; I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” 

She nods, placing her hand on your back while she walks with you to see the rest. 

“Athena Kerner? Oh my god, it’s been a whole minute, isn’t it?” Mickey walks directly in your direction, hugging you tightly. 

“What’s with the hair, dude? Didn’t know where to stop?” You joke, making him chuckle. 

“Shut up.” 

You greet each aviator, saving Rooster for last. He looks different. Mature. Observant. Three months can really change a person. 

A deeper dive into his eyes shows you a completely different look. His eyes are gloomy, longing orbs staring at you as if you were the answer to all his prayers. 

Yeah, you still love him after all these months. 

“Hey, Rooster.”

“Hey, Athena.” 

He opens his mouth to say something else, but you’re dragged away from him. Phoenix wants to introduce you to his new backseater.

Or perhaps she just wants to avoid the fight; too many emotions are being held in, unshared, and this can only lead to a fight that would blow up and cause damage to the people involved. 

It's been two days since you came to Top Gun, and you haven't shared a word since that quick and short greeting. Mav, who you only saw the next day, knows better than to put you two together in any exercise. 

Mav talked with you in private, checking on how you're doing and what you've been doing these past months. He even asked you about your therapy sessions—if they've been helpful and if there's something he needs to know. 

It's too soon to see proper results, but at least you don't think of Rooster as a traitor. There had to be a reason—you just never stopped to listen. But at that time, you weren't in the right mindset to do so. 

You've missed him. Not the kisses or the compliments, but his presence. You miss looking at your side while flying and seeing him awkwardly waving at you. You've missed knowing that no matter what, you've always had him beside you. You miss his ugly Hawaiian shirts, his cologne, his incessant humming, his bad jokes, and his smile. 

He left a void in your life that time couldn’t erase. The emptiness is always present, almost like a part of you. Maybe it's time to stop and put you two out of your misery. 

After the mission, of course. 

You run through the academy halls, looking for the infirmary. It's been so long that you almost can't remember where it is. Eventually, you find it at the end of a white, eerie hallway. What's the deal with medical wings and creepy environments?

"They're with the doctor now, we can't enter." 

It's the first full sentence he has said to you since Christmas. You were so focused on finding the right room that you haven't seen him sitting down, waiting for the doctor to leave. 

"Are they okay?" You mutter, not looking at him. 

"I didn't see any blood or injury, so yes. I think they're okay." 

"Thank God" 

You sit in front of him, looking at his boots, the right one bumping up and down. 

"How…how are you?" You ask, your words leaving your lips before you can stop them.

"I've been better," he shrugs. You can feel his eyes on you. "I heard you've been going to therapy." 

You nod, glancing at his hands—big, calloused hands that you want to touch. "I can be in a changing room now"

"Really? Gosh, I'm so glad you're making such a big progress, grouchy"

You both stop breathing at the same time. It's the stupidest nickname ever, but it held a lot of meaning for you. 

"Shit, I'm sorry." He quickly apologizes. 

You waved it off. "Old habits never die, I guess." 

"It's not even old," he whispers, knowing that you can hear him. 

"Roos-" 

The door opens, and a blonde nurse is looking at both of you. "Lieutenant Kerner?" 

You stand up. "That's me" 

"Lieutenant Trace is asking for you." 

She enters the room, and you follow her. You can hear Rooster's steps as he walks down the corridor. 

Another time, then. 

You’re afraid that you won’t be able to talk to him after the mission. This is an extremely dangerous mission; you should have known better than to hold the conversation for so long. Now you can’t stop hearing Maverick’s words, which are repeating over and over in your head. 

He wants Rooster to be his wingman.

You have heard people talking. You’ve heard people say that someone wouldn’t make it. Some of you would come back home in a wooden box. That’s if they can find the body. 

You’re now standing next to Hangman; he’s watching Rooster talk with Maverick before he gets into his plane. 

“You should talk to him before he goes,” he whispers while bumping his arm with yours. 

“He’s coming back, Jake,” you say in a convincing tone, not sure if you’re trying to convince yourself or him. 

“Yeah but… what if?” Jake insists before leaving you alone with your thoughts. 

Two seconds later, your feet are moving toward Rooster. “Hey, Rooster.” 

He double-checks that you're talking to him, as if he can't believe you'd waste your breath talking to him. “Is everything okay?” 

“Yes, it’s just…” you sigh, raising your eyes and looking at him. “No, nothing’s okay. You’re going up there without me, of course it is not okay!” 

Of all the things he expected to hear from you at this moment, snapping at him because he’s flying without you is not one of them. "Amm... well, I didn't choose to be on this dangerous mission, you know." 

“Just…just come back, please.” 

“Athena, I always-”

“Don’t Athena me. For fuck's sake, Rooster, we've known each other our entire lives; we can have a normal conversation!" 

He throws his helmet inside the plane, hands on his hips, and frowns at you. “I’m not the one that runs away every time we’re in front of each other.”

“People keep dragging me away from you!”

 “Oh, yeah, blame the rest. As if you want to talk to me” he scoffs, turning around, ending the conversation. 

“Would I be here right now if I didn’t want to talk to you?” you state. 

“I still don’t know what you want” 

You grab him by the collar of his flying suit, pulling him down until his lips crash against yours. “Come back to me, please.” 

He doesn’t open his eyes when you pull away, only presses his forehead on yours, whispering over your lips. “I’ll always come back to you, fly girl.” 

Tears fall from your eyes, and he kisses them away, covering your face in kisses. 

“Go find Coyote and stay with him, please. Don’t be alone” 

You nod, hugging him tightly before kissing him one last time and getting in his plane. 

“Goose, wherever you are,” you whisper to yourself while walking inside. “Make sure he comes back safely.”

[lilmoonbunny]

First Love; Mycroft Holmes x Singer!Reader [1]

Y/N and Mycroft's relationship was something that she would never forget.

Throughout her career, every single song that she wrote held memories of their past relationship. So when Sherlock finds out she is back in London, he can't resist the urge to meddle.

(Part of a mini-series)

People often say that you will always remember your first love, and for Y/N, this fact was true.

Every song she ever wrote held a memory of the first man she had ever loved, a part of her that she never wanted to let go. Whilst she could act like the lyrics were based on other men – other partners – she always thought of him whenever she would sing, and even as she stood in front of her current partner, it never felt right; he wasn’t him.

James was… nice, some of the time, at least. Sure, he could be rude and toxic, but he loved her, right? He was a good guy, maybe? She wasn’t too sure, but she was scared to leave. Whilst it didn’t feel right being with him, part of her was terrified of his reaction to her leaving. So maybe he wasn’t exactly a nice guy; this was solidified when Y/N discovered evidence of him taunting someone she knew and cared for dearly.

As she stood in front of the door to 221B Baker Street, mask covering her face so no potential fans would recognise her, Y/N glanced up at the window. It had been years since she had seen Sherlock. He was a child when they last saw each other, would he even still remember her?

“You must be John,” she nodded at the short man who came to the door.

His eyes widened, presumably shocked at her knowing his name, and he cleared his throat. “Uhm – yes, come on in.”

With a small thanks, the singer followed John up the stairs to the flat.

“There’s no need to wear a mask, you know. It’s not like you’re going to catch anything,” came Sherlock’s blunt voice, one that had Y/N smiling.

“Trust me, I know,” she responded, removing the covering.

Sherlock froze in place. “Y/N…?”

With a soft smile, Y/N nodded.

“Hold on,” John interrupted, clearly confused. “Y/N, as in the singer?”

She simply giggled and nodded.

“You know her!?” John turned to face Sherlock who simply brushed him off, turning to his former friend.

“Does Mycroft know that you’re here?”

Ah… Mycroft.

Y/N tensed for a moment at the name, and that was all Sherlock needed to see for his answer, even if he did have trouble deducing her in the past; he was young, after all.

“I have something you might find interesting,” Y/N smiled slightly, opening her bag to pass him some papers. “My… boyfriend. I think he’s stalking you.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, lifting himself from the chair and snatching the paper from her, something that earned a giggle from the woman.

“Moriarty… Never heard of him.” Sherlock mumbled as he read over the sheets of information that Y/N had gathered and stolen. There was no doubt that James would notice, but if she was going to potentially save Sherlock’s life, that was worth the risk.

“I really don’t have long, I have a song to record, but I’m hoping that can help,” Y/N nodded, shutting her bag before turning to the door. “Nice to see you again, Sherly. Bye, John.” As she left the flat, she heard Sherlock call to her.

“Tell Mycroft you’re here. I’m sure he’d be glad to see you.”

She simply ignored him.

Having spent the day combing through each detail of the document’s that Y/N had given him, Sherlock was in no mood to deal with Mycroft asking him to take a case that he has no interest in.

“No, I won’t take your case.” Sherlock stated the moment Mycroft let himself into the flat.

“You don’t even know what it’s about!” Mycroft was glad John wasn’t around to hear him almost yell; it would ruin his uncaring façade.

“Don’t care,” he paused for a moment, before a smirk began forming on his lips. “I have something you might want to know. Something about a specific somebody.”

“Don’t care,” Mycroft mimicked his brother’s previous words.

“I think you will,”

“Well, I think you are wrong.”

“Suit yourself, Mycroft.”

Receiving a call from an unknown number always had Y/N on edge, and her recent breakup with James was no help to the matter, yet she still answered it.

“Hello…?” She asked.

“Ah, Y/N, finally.” It was Sherlock. “Dinner, my parents place for Christmas, you should come. If you’re not too busy, that is.” In the background, the woman could hear Sherlock’s friend scolding him for how blunt he was being. Sensing her hesitation, Sherlock added. “My parents would be pleased to see you.”

A soft sigh left her lips. “All right, fine, but you’re paying for my fuel.”

It was a long drive to the Holmes’ place, but it was a pleasant one, even if the drive did have her thinking of her first love.

Would he be there? She couldn’t help but wonder.

Nervousness filled her body as she wandered towards the front door, placing a gentle knock. Sure, she had performed in front of thousands of people, but knocking on this door was the scariest thing that she had ever done.

“Oh my Gosh! I didn’t believe Sherlock could actually do it.” Mrs Holmes squealed, immediately pulling Y/N into a hug as she spoke.

“Hi, Mrs Holmes!”

Inside the house, Sherlock smirked as he glanced towards his older brother who seemed confused. He recognised that voice but couldn’t exactly place whose it was. As though he sensed Sherlock’s gaze, he looked towards him with a raised eyebrow, silently questioning, but Sherlock gave no response.

“Come in, come in! Sherlock’s already here, so is Mycroft!”

Ah, so he is here, Y/N thought to herself, taking a deep breath as she entered the house she had not seen in years.

Following Mrs Holmes into the living room where the others were seated, she was yet to be spotted by Mycroft, at least until Mr Holmes spoke her name.

“Ah, Y/N! Long time no see,” Mr Holmes grinned, smiling up at her from the sofa where he sat beside Mycroft.

Mycroft’s head shot up at the name, eyes shooting towards the door where she stood.

Sherlock… He thought to himself. Oh, how he wanted to kill him at that moment,

“You knew she was here, and you didn’t tell me!?” Mycroft demanded to know as he stood opposite his brother in the kitchen after excusing himself.

“I did try, Brother Mine, but you said you didn’t care.” Sherlock’s reminder of their previous conversation left Mycroft speechless, and he froze as he heard a familiar voice.

“Are you two all right? You kind of seem angry,” Y/N smiled sweetly. “Sorry, your mum sent me to check that you two hadn’t killed each other.” She giggled.

Sherlock knew that his brother wouldn’t speak, too frozen in shock and anger, so he had to. “Not yet, Y/N, but Mycroft wasn’t aware you were coming. I did tell you to go see him.”

“You did.” Y/N swallowed. “I’m sorry I didn’t, Mycroft.”

“Well, I guess this is my cue to leave,” Sherlock said, smirking the moment his back was turned to the pair.

An awkward silence filled the air the moment the door clicked shut behind Sherlock and they both cursed him internally.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N repeated, “I can leave if it’s too weird for you.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “No! It’s… fine.” He rushed out, pausing for a moment before finishing his sentence as to not seem too enthusiastic to be seeing her again. Sure, it had been years, but it didn’t mean that he didn’t miss her occasionally. Although, that was something that he would never admit. Another awkward silence. “I’ve heard you on the radio, you’ve done well for yourself. I’m proud of you.”

Y/N blushed. “Thank you, Mycroft…”

As they stood there, memories of their past relationship began flooding into both their minds.

“Well, I suppose we should be going back to bother Sherlock.” Y/N grinned, desperate to get out of the room, praying that she could last long enough without admitting how much she missed him.

“We should,” Mycroft nodded awkwardly, before moving past her, into the previous room, glaring at Sherlock who sat beside John with a smirk on his lips, before heading outside.

Sherlock’s smirk dropped the second Y/N grabbed hold of his ear, leaning down to whisper “I’m going to kill you, Sherlock,” before moving to sit beside John who seemed shocked at how close she seemed with the Holmes family; he still couldn’t get over the fact that Sherlock knew her.