Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x fem!reader
Summary: You can't quite understand Mycroft's newfound hostility toward you.
Warnings: Mycroft being a misogynistic prick.
Author's note: I fear this is more about Mycroft than Sherlock... but, oh well. Also, props to anyone who can find the slight hunger games reference
When Sherlock suggested courtship, you hesitated. You weren’t sure why—you absolutely adored him and had thought of being courted by him before—but something didn’t sit right. You accepted despite that, assuring yourself it was silly nervousness. The feeling disappeared during those first few weeks of courting.
That is, until Sherlock and you were invited out by Mycroft. At the restaurant, things were cordial so long as Mycroft was engaged by the various patrons he intentionally associated himself with for their social connections.
Then the entrée arrived, and things became tense.
“I don’t expect you to understand the nuances of politics,” Mycroft said to you, dabbing politely at his mouth and mustache, “as anyone in your standing ought to be more concerned about the household. However, I do believe even your opinion is valid on the subject of these upstart ‘women’s rights’ proponents.”
You stared at him, unsure you had heard correctly. He had never insulted you before—and never so directly. Sherlock exchanged a glance with you as you fought to find words. “I suppose that women deserve some say, given that they make up half the population. Their needs matter, too.”
“What would you ever need outside a home?” Mycroft snorted and sipped from his champagne flute.
“Mycroft,” Sherlock warned.
You placed a hand on Sherlock’s sleeve. “Perhaps I should return home.”
“Indeed,” Mycroft mumbled into his glass. “It is your domain.”
You fought hot tears as you rode in the hansom back to your family home. You had known the Holmes brothers for years, and not once had Mycroft ever been hostile or oppositional to you. He had sometimes chafed against your ideas, but sparring over ideologies was different than direct ad hominem attacks.
“Mycroft was inebriated,” Sherlock explained as he walked you to the door.
You knew that wasn’t true. If anything, Mycroft had barely been tipsy. You appreciated Sherlock’s effort, however, and rewarded him with a soft kiss on his lips before entering your family home and crying quietly in your bedroom.
You convinced yourself that Mycroft perhaps had been feeling poorly or combative due to problems in his political life, but all hope of that was dashed when you saw him again and he flung a few choice snide remarks in your direction. Appalled to be treated so unusually by someone you had once considered a friend, you withdrew into yourself, distancing yourself from him.
That seemed only to incentivize him to attack you more savagely each time he saw you.
“Enola will be there,” Sherlock assured you as he helped you into your coat.
“That’s good,” you mumbled. Anxiety coursed through you at being in Mycroft’s presence once again. Dinner was being held at his home, and only family, including you, were expected. Without the safety of a public outing — one where a public spectacle would tarnish Mycroft’s reputation — you were sure to be subjugated to even more ridicule than usual.
You refused to ask Sherlock to keep his brother in check. The last thing you wanted was to cause unnecessary strife between the brothers.
So you straightened your shoulders and proceeded to the dinner in faux high spirits.
Seeing Enola did brighten your evening at first, at least. She was full of brilliant energy that dazzled you whenever you saw her. For someone so young, she was vibrant and overwhelmingly intelligent. You expected nothing less from a Holmes, though she did seem the smartest of the three.
She eased the tension between you and Holmes brothers merely by virtue of being herself. The conversation momentarily turned somber when she brought it to the subject of their absent mother, a topic that easily engaged Mycroft’s displeasure, but it wasn’t long before Mycroft turned his sights on you.
“Perhaps you have some illustrious insights into our mother’s fickle nature,” he began.
“I couldn’t say,” you answered.
“No? Surely you two are similar birds of a feather.”
A frown tugged at your mouth. “In what way?”
“You being a female of the species…with your fickle natures. You chose at your own whims and with complete disregard for any other’s consequence.”
Before you could answer, Enola leaned forward, her young face furrowing. “Excuse me?”
“I wasn’t talking to you.”
“No? But I’m a ‘female of the species’.”
“Hardly,” he scoffed, and he swept a sharp glance over her, tutting at her less-than-ladylike appearance.
“You can’t talk to her that way!” you scold Mycroft, despite yourself.
“I can talk to her in any way I deem fit! I am the man of this house.”
“Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped.
“I’m sorry, can the lady’s fragile constitution not withstand truth?” Mycroft looked at you pointedly.
The muscle in your jaw jumped as you clenched your teeth, your hand tight around your fork. You couldn’t tell if you were going to scream at him or burst into tears, your whole body vibrating with emotion.
“What is your problem?” Enola cried.
“I am merely highlighting the problems inherent in the women of this era—”
Enola slammed her knife into the table, making the glassware rattle. Mycroft stared at her in horror.
You pushed yourself away from the table with a mumbled excuse. Hastening from the room, you stopped in the entryway to the house, trembling.
Sherlock’s distinctive tread approached you. Steeling yourself, you tried to put on at the very least a neutral, unaffected expression.
“I apologise for his behaviour,” he said.
Shaking your head, you stared down at the lush carpet runner lining the length of the hallway. “I don’t understand. Why is he so… changed?”
“Have you asked him?” the question slipped out before you could stop it. “No, don’t do that. I don’t want to cause any more harm.”
“Harm? You’ve done nothing.” his hand moves to rest against your cheek, thumb rubbing against your cheekbone as if to sooth you.
“Clearly I’ve done something.” finally you look up at him, the tiredness evident in your eyes.
“He’s jealous of you and Sherlock,” Enola called from down the hallway.
You stilled. Jealousy? Why hadn’t that occurred to you?
The pieces clicked into place. Of course he was jealous. Mycroft had been the one you were closer to as children, always together, running about in the gardens and spending endless days in the kitchens together. He may not have possessed his younger brother’s nerve to court you — not yet, at least — but he had to have been planning on it, surely. That much you gleaned from a quick catalog of your memories leading up to Sherlock’s overtures. Now that he was no longer a viable candidate, overshadowed yet again by his younger brother, he was lashing out.
You pressed a hand to your mouth. “Sherlock…”
“It isn’t your concern nor your fault,” he answered immediately. “Mycroft will have to adjust, or I will resolve the issue.”
“I don’t want to be the source of—”
“He is acting like a child,” Sherlock looked at you pointedly, holding your chin in his soft grip, “and therefore he is deserving of punishment.”
Enola snorted down the hall.
“He insulted you. Greater men require less to defend a lady’s honor.”
Passing a hand delicately over your face, you sighed. “This isn’t what I wanted.”
“What’s a little enmity between siblings? Enola and Mycroft already don’t get along.”
“That’s right,” Enola agreed.
“Another sibling shouldn’t be too catastrophic to him.”
“Alright,” you whispered. “But- may I speak with him first?”
“Absolutely.” Sherlock answers reluctantly.
Slowly you re-enter the dining room, careful not to disturb the quiet that has now blanketed the room, emphasised with the soft crackle of burning logs in the fireplace. Mycroft still sits in his chair — the head of the table, the head of the household — yet his body is slumped, the weight of his own thoughts crushing him beneath them. He hasn't heard your steps nor seen your shadow approaching from behind him.
“Would you have done it?” At the sound of your voice Mycroft’s body goes taught and straight, as if a string has just been pulled from his head, like a marionette. He doesn’t turn.
“Done what?” he snaps back.
“If Sherlock hadn’t done so first, would you have asked that we courted each other?”
With that one simple word you are reminded of the hesitation you first felt when Sherlock asked you, all those months ago — of the weary feeling. It was for Mycroft. You two had always been the close ones, your entire childhoods were spent together. Sherlock was always the ‘odd-one-out’ for lack of a better word, while you and Mycroft spent your days in the park, he was hauled up in his room pouring over old cases of newspaper clippings. You had no idea when one was traded for the other, when Mycroft became Sherlock — maybe when Mycroft began spending more time at the library than in the park or when Sherlock realised the importance of things other than solving a case.
“Then-” it seems awful even to ask it, but you do, “Then why didn't you?”
“Because-” he now stands, “because I never stood a chance!”
“A chance against what?” you ask incredulously, “There was never anything in your way!”
“My father? That is absolutely ridiculous, my father has loved you since you were in diapers — if anything, it is Sherlock he has something against!”
“There were other men who-”
“How dare you insinuate that of me?” Now it was becoming clear, Mycroft never had any intention of admitting he was late purely of his own fault, “That I entertain the minds of every man I meet? I never even had a caller before Sherlock!”
“If you'd have just waited…” he whispers.
“Waited?” you blood boils at the audacity, and you stride up to him, “How many more days…? How many more months…? How many more years? Were twenty two not enough for you?” your voice softens, taking pity on the solemn face he now wears, “He asked me properly, there were no other prospects.”
The words seem to anger him as his face shifts, and he finally looks at you, “No, he’s my brother, the entitled bastard gets everything, why should he get you?”
“Because for once I was finally being looked at. Because he didn't demand that I make a fool out of myself for his attention. Because I finally had a chance to silence the voices calling me a future spinstress, and for once I decided to be selfish. Because for once I was finally being seen and I liked who he saw. Because I love him!” you all but shout it at him, surprising even yourself at the confession. The tension in the room settles in the silence and when it seems Mycroft has nothing left to say, you turn to leave.
Your feet stop beneath you, “No.” a whisper, as he takes slow steps towards you. His body is warm against your back as he leans in, reaching a hand up to stroke your cheek, you recoil away from the touch
“No, you're- you're being mean—”
“Would you have waited, had you known I was there waiting for you?”
Your confidence overtakes you, “Would you have spared me from the demeaning insults you deem necessary to pellet me with? Or would I have had to find out later, when I had no escape, just what kind of man your emotions mold you into?”
The room grows silent without any rebuttal from Mycroft, unable to configure a pitying response. Slowly you nod, taking the absence of an answer as confirmation.
