#got reference

Fanfiction is Not Real Life

Ever since you read about it on AO3 last week, you haven’t been able to get the idea out of your mind. It was a Game of Thrones AU fanfic that featured Sansa Stark sneaking into the apartment of a wealthy, older man, stripping off, and helping herself to a luxurious dip in the unsuspecting man’s bathtub. One thing led to another, and Holy Hell, was it hot!

You know the Tywin/Sansa pairing isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, even when the age gap is narrowed, but it somehow works for you. Something about Tywin’s calm, cool demeanor reminds you of someone you know. Someone powerful and brilliant. Someone calculating and untouchable. Someone like Mycroft Holmes.

In reality, you know there’s no way you are ever going to be in Mycroft’s league, even though you are currently living with his younger brother. Both Holmeses only see you as Mrs. Hudson’s silly little niece, who wears clothing from the vintage store and spends her spare time reading dirty stories on the internet. If you were to show up naked in Mycroft’s bathtub, you can only imagine the look of shock he would give you before he laughed you out of his house or had you exiled to Siberia. You’d never make it in the tundra! You’re far too delicate.

Anyways, you came to the realization a long time ago that Mycroft was not the one for you and relegated him to a fantasy. You can read your stories and imagine his face all you want, but fanfiction is not real life. Little did you know, Sherlock was about to change your mind on that, and life would never be the same again.

———————————————————————

*Boom!*

An explosion of smoke and ash blasts out of the kitchen of 221b, followed by a noxious smell of epic proportions. You run downstairs from your bedroom, covering your mouth with your sweater in an attempt to breathe some clean air, to find your roommate swiftly running around the room, throwing open the windows as fast as he can.

“Dammit, Sherlock!” You shout through your makeshift mask. “What the hell did you do?”

“Why do you automatically assume it was me, Y/n?” The detective shouts back petulantly. “Anyone could have caused that explosion.”

“And yet you and I are the only ones in the apartment, and only one of us likes playing with dangerous chemicals. What were you trying to accomplish anyways? And why does it smell so bad? Were you cooking garbage or something?”

“Toes,” he replies, affixing a random clothes pin to the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry, what? Did you say toes?”

“Hmm, yes. Molly gave me some toes yesterday and I wanted to see how long they could withstand being in a pressure cooker.”

“Pressure cooker?… MY pressure cooker? You put toes in my Instapot? Why?! No, don’t answer that. I don’t care why. How long were they in there, Sherlock?”

The detective looks at his watch. “Just under 6 hours.”

“6 HOURS??” You could have killed us all!

“I rather think that’s a bit of an exaggeration, Y/n. Oh… I see. You’re upset because I used your cooker without permission.”

“Sherlock, I don’t give a rats ass about the Instapot! I’m upset because our apartment, and likely everything in it, now smells like imploded toes!”

“Exploded.” Sherlock responds.

“What?”

“The toes. They exploded, not imploded. An implosion is when the pieces of an object collapse into the center of the object instead of being expelled. An explosion is a process where an object is reduced to smaller pieces, and the pieces are being expelled from the original place.”

“Are you seriously giving me a science lesson right now?” You cough into your sweater. “I don’t care if they imploded or exploded or flew away to the moon, Sherlock.” You cough again, eyes starting to water. “I just want to know what you’re going to do about it!” You are struck by a severe coughing fit and double over, trying to catch your breath.

“Tsk. The toes could never reach the moon..” he mutters to himself before finally noticing your plight. “Y/n, are you alright?”

“No! It stinks in here and I can barely breathe! Did you put formaldehyde in there too? We can’t stay here any longer; it’s too disgusting.”

“You’re right. It’s a good thing Mrs. Hudson is gone this weekend. I’ll probably need to have the whole building aired out. I’ll get that arranged and then we can go stay at John’s for a few days.”

“Sherlock, we can’t do that! They just had a baby. They don’t have time or room for house guests. We’re going to have to get a hotel or something. I think you owe me that much for decimating my Instapot.”

Sherlock stared at you for a long beat, giving you that look John always says is “a bit not good.” It’s one part genius, one part psychotic, and ALWAYS a bad idea. You can tell already, whatever Sherlock is about to suggest, you’re not going to like it.

“You’re right Y/n. I do owe you. Pack a small bag if you can and meet me outside in five. I’ve got somewhere we can go.”

“Are you sure, Sherlock?” You ask warily. “I can always call one of the girls from work.”

“No, no. I’ve got this. Hurry up now; the smell is getting worse! Meet me downstairs.” He turns away from you with a flourish and is out the door in seconds. Strange he didn’t pack anything…

———————————————————————

“Sherlock… no. This is not a good idea,” you scold your friend as he keys in a code to a lock on a very big house. “Do you even know who lives here?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Of course I do, Y/n! Would I lie to you about something like that?”

“Yes, you absolutely would. Tell me who lives here. Do they know we are here?” You are absolutely terrified to hear the answer.

“This is Mycroft’s house, silly girl. His casa es our casa, no?”

“Oh no!” You cry, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration. “We can’t! Mycroft will be furious to find us here. Especially uninvited. Let’s just get a hotel,” you beg.

“Come on, Y/n. He’s not even here. He’s gone to Germany this week and won’t be back until Sunday. He won’t even know we were here. Besides, you need a shower, and I don’t think any of the 5-star hotels will let you in smelling like you do.”

“Sherlock!” You shriek, slapping him lightly on the arm. “If I stink, then so do you, but you’re much worse. We can stay for a shower, but that’s it. We can’t sleep over in a house we weren’t invited to. It’s rude!’

“Mycroft is the very definition of rude; I promise he wouldn’t know the difference, Y/n.”

“Fine. But if if he finds out…”

“He won’t! Guest room is at the top of the stairs, on the right. The bed is huge, and so is the bathtub; try to relax while I make some phone calls about the apartment.” He shoos you away with his hands.

“I’m going! I’m going! Sheesh!”

You still aren’t 100% certain Mycroft would be ok with you using his guest room or not, but you are in desperate need of some soap and water, so you decide to risk it. At the top of the stairs, you see a set of enormous oak doors, and behind them is the biggest bedroom you have ever seen. It’s decorated in calming shades of green and beige and has the feeling of a luxury hotel. A massive 4-poster bed is the centerpiece of the room, so high off the ground it requires a set of small stairs to reach the mattress. There’s a mountain of soft-looking pillows against the mahogany headboard, all dressed in crisp, white pillow shams, and a silky-looking duvet to complete the picture. It looks like a bed fit for royalty, which makes it a perfect fit for Mycroft’s taste. Whoever he is hosting in this guest room is extremely lucky.

Across the room, there’s a beautiful wood-burning fireplace with a stunning Chesterfield sofa fitted in front of it. A white chenille blanket is draped over one arm, as fluffy and soft as a cloud, and you can imagine how cozy it would be to do some reading here on a rainy day. You quickly remind yourself that you are only here for a shower and not moving in, so you shake off your fantasies and keep moving until you reach the bathroom.

Oh. My. God. If Mycroft’s guest room was built for a king, his bathroom was built for a deity. Gleaming white marble spreads from wall to wall, broken up occasionally by shiny copper finishes. There’s a double sink at the vanity with enormous, lighted mirrors and a glass stall shower surround that’s big enough to host Christmas dinner in. You can count at least 6 water spouts inside of it and see a beautiful stone bench stretching across one wall. You can’t wait to get in it.

But then you saw the tub… THE TUB is your wildest dream come true. It’s at least 6 feet long and clearly built for two. Freestanding and made of hammered copper, it’s like a shining beacon in the room, tempting you, teasing you with comfort. There’s a small shelf near it, holding various soaps and perfumes, as well as a docking station for a mobile device and music. A perfect place for a lengthy, relaxing soak. Move over, Tywin Lannister; this is a bathtub fit for the wealthiest man in the 7 kingdoms!

You’re still weighing your options for getting cleaned up when you hear a knock on the bathroom door, followed by Sherlock’s voice.

“Y/n? Are you decent? May I come in?”

“Sure, Sherlock,” you reply, pushing the door open. “What’s up?”

“Well, I’ve got some great news.”

“About the apartment? How soon can we get back in?”

“Hmm? Oh…yes. About that. It’s going to be a few days before the cleaners can get in there, so we’ll need to stay here for a few days, but that’s not the good news. Giorgio just called and said he has a case for me! He said it’s at least a 7, so I’ll be leaving in a few minutes.”

“Oh, ok.” You say a bit flatly. So much for spending quality time in the bathroom. “Well, if you will give me 5 minutes, I can shower quickly, and then we can take off.”

“I don’t want to deprive you of your relaxation, Y/n. You can sit this one out. Take a long bath and maybe get some sleep. I feel like I owe you at least that much.”

“But you said it’s a 7…”

“Graham said that actually. You know he’s always wrong about the rankings on my cases. No, you stay here. Take the night off, you deserve it!”

You eye the detective warily for a moment, attempting to suss out his motive. Sherlock doesn’t believe in taking time off… but maybe, just this once, the detective wants to do something nice. And that shower…

“Alright. You convinced me. I’ll stick around here and get cleaned up, maybe get some food. If something comes up and you need me, though, don’t hesitate to call.”

Sherlock smiles widely. “Great. That’s great, Y/N. So, don’t wait up and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

“I’m sure that’s a small list, Sherlock. Will you please at least let Mycroft know I’m here? I don’t want to trip a wire for a booby trap when I open the fridge or something. It’s the polite thing to do.”

“Sure, sure,” he says dismissively as he texts something into his phone. You can only hope he was doing as you asked.

“See you later, Y/n.” He says as he turns with a flourish and makes his way downstairs.

“Later!” You reply, closing the door again with a sigh, turning back to the gorgeous bathroom and its delightful offerings. Bath or shower? You ask yourself silently. Decisions, decisions.

————————————————————

25 minutes later you step out of the bathroom, still reeling from the decadence of Mycroft’s guest shower. Massaging jets, rainforest shower heads, and £25 soap have completely wiped away any evidence of Sherlock’s disgusting experiment and turned you into a boneless lump of happiness. Food sounds like a good idea, but sleep sounds even better, so it’s with childlike glee that you drop your wet towel on the ground and run up the little steps beside the gorgeous bed, hurling yourself naked onto the sheets. You’re asleep in moments.

——————

Your dreams are full of explosions, foul smells, and Mycroft riding in on a white stallion to save you from it all.

“Mycroft…” you mumble as a shirtless dream-Mycroft lifts you by the waist onto the back of his horse. “You saved me… the toes… I love you…”

“Well, that’s nice to hear since you’ve taken up residence in my bed,” says a deep, snarky voice, startling you awake instantly.

“What?! Oh my god! Mycroft!” You screech, fumbling quickly with the sheets to cover your nude form as you sit up. “What are you doing in here?” Your heart is pounding wildly in your chest.

“I thought I was clear,” he begins evenly. “You are in my bed, which stands to reason that you are in my bedroom. What are you doing in here, and where on earth are your clothes?”

Your entire body goes red in embarrassment, and you thank God the room is dark. This is not what happened to Sansa Stark! “Sherlock!” You exclaim. “He said I could use your guest room for a few nights while our apartment is being cleaned. I asked him to tell you. I knew he wasn’t going to! Damn him!”

“He gave you leave to use my guest room, and then you decided it would be better to strip off and climb into my bed instead? That’s very bold of you, Miss L/N.”

“I didn’t know it was your room! Sherlock said it was the guest room!”

Mycroft laughed. “Do you often go nude in other people’s guest rooms? What a fascinating practice,” he teases.

“Myyyycroft…” you whine. “Can’t we just pretend this never happened? I’ll get dressed and go get a hotel right now. I’ll tell Sherlock it was my idea and that I left right after my shower. We never have to speak of this event ever again! It will be like it never happened.”

Mycroft shakes his head in the negative as you continue to plead your case. “No, Miss L/N. I don’t think I can do that,” he says somberly. “You expect me to sleep in this bed again, knowing what happened here?” You hang your head in shame as he continues. “You think I can just forget what my bedsheets look like all rumpled and wrinkled by your soft, silky skin and your luscious h/c hair?” You lift your eyes to his quickly. “I can’t do that, Y/N. I don’t want to do that.”

“Mycroft…” you breathe. “What…?”

“I don’t want you to leave, Y/N. Not now, and not ever, if I can convince you to stay.” He sits carefully on the edge of the bed and reaches out to take your hand. “There’s also the small matter of you saying you love me. Did you mean that?”

Your face heats up again as you look down at your joined hands. “What if I said yes?” You ask him.

“Well, then I would have to tell you I feel the same. I have loved you since the day you moved into Baker Street. I love your crazy vintage sweaters and the strange things you bring home from the charity shops. I love the way you don’t put up with Sherlock’s antics, and how you treat us all like family. Most of all, I love the way you make me feel, Y/N. You don’t look at me like I’m some kind of cold, unfeeling, ice man, but instead like I’m the hero in one of your little romance stories. You are simply wonderful and I am thankful for whatever circumstances brought you into my life and now into my bed!” He laughs.

“Toes.”

“Pardon me?” He asks in confusion.

“Nothing.” You reply. “Never mind. I do love you, Mycroft, very much. You’ve always been the main character in my heart. Those men in my fanfiction stories have nothing on you.” You give his hand a gentle tug to encourage him to lie down next you, and sigh in happiness when he complies.

“Even Tywin Lannister?” He asks as he settles in beside you.

“What???!!” You squeak.

“Nothing.” He smirks. “Never mind. Are you going to tell Sherlock his little plan worked? He knew I was coming home tonight instead of on Sunday. I told him so not 2 hours ago.”

“That little jerk!” You huff. “He wanted you to find me in your bed!”

“Imagine how he’ll feel when he finds us both here.” Mycroft snickers.

“I can’t wait.” You lean over to kiss Mycroft for the very first time, and your eyes close in bliss. Maybe fanfiction can be real life after all.

The end

To my brain: You don’t have time to be tired

Now Dothraki Nightwing?