#malcroft

Unavailability is the only thing that turns you on

Twenty years.

Twenty years since he’d correctly deduced that the swearing, lean and lethal-looking scot at an otherwise boring governmental function was going to the top faster than his coworkers. That the man knew far more than he ever let on, and would be a very useful asset to Mycroft.

Some crack for Phantoms (again). 

Malcolm Tucker has taken over the holiday plans this year— he just needs to make sure Sherlock understands who’s in charge. 

Fandom: Sherlock/The Thick of It

John had never seen this before. He had certainly seen Sherlock wary of walking into Mycroft’s office, and there was a genuine unease when his friend had contact with Moriarty—but this was an actual hesitation as he reached the doors of the office. It took a moment for John to catch on to the reason for the sudden change in is friend’s demeanour.

A very irate Scottish man was swearing. Possibly at Mycroft. But seeing Sherlock’s near-flight response, John decided to take up residence in the uncomfortable chair in the hall after giving his friend an encouraging pat.

“Well, here’s the snot-nosed little fucker now. Thank you for finally gracing us with your presence; now sit the fuck down so I can make sure you understand the fucking plan, too.”

Sherlock, now abandoned by John, took a deep, calming breath— even the Holmes family knew better than to get into a fight with Malcolm Tucker— and sat in the chair across from Mycroft’s desk. He risked a look at Mycroft, who sat just as stiffly in his own seat, a diary opened on the desk and the (apparently) most important date of the year already noted and marked in Malcolm’s script.

“Eyes on me, junior, because I’m going to make this fucking quick.” Malcolm already had his Blackberry out, a calendar page opened, and notes being taken. “You know what you’re here for.”

“I was led to believe this was about the family Christmas. You—“

“It’s all been arranged. The car is picking up you and your little hedgehog of a boyfriend on Christmas Eve.”

“I’m not—“

“Listen, you fucking princess: this is non-negotiable. You are going to be the angel here. I’ve got my hands full sorting out your brother’s schedule, and he’s a fucking joy to work with. So you’re going to behave, and smile, and act like a fucking normal human being or I’m going to ram the goddamn tree so far up your arse that you’ll be the topper next year. You got that?” Malcolm barely looked up from his phone to make sure Sherlock was staring at him with the appropriate amount of fear. “Don’t open your mouth, you cunt. Just nod if that sunk through your thick fucking skull.”

Sherlock glared back, but gave a quick nod in understanding.

“Good. You fucking behave this year. You keep your fucking arsenic in your own meal this time. ” Like the furious whirlwind that he was, Malcolm Tucker made another note in Mycroft’s diary. “Mycroft, get it sorted, yeah? I’m got to go keep the fucking transport minister away from a microphone before he starts some sort of fucking revolution with half the cabbies who are actually paying attention to the shit he’s trying to implement. I swear the bastard’s drunk when he comes up with his policies. See you at home, Myc. Don’t destroy Parliament.”

The sense of impending doom left with Malcolm into the hallway (already screaming for Sam the second he’s left the office in a state of post-Tucker shock), leaving the Holmes brothers to finally address each other. Composing himself, Mycroft closed the diary in front of him and pushed it to one side.

“I don’t believe there’s a need for a formal invitation this year?”

“Why are you letting that madman make the dinner plans?”

The ringing of the phone echoed through Mycroft’s office, awakening him from the light drowse he’d fallen into while going through the latest budget changes to cross his desk. He thought, for a moment, of not answering it—it was nearly 3am, after all—then realized suddenly that it was his MI6 line that was ringing, not his general office phone. 

“Holmes,” he drawled as he answered the line. 

“Mycroft, it’s Gareth. I need to see you. Today—this afternoon.” 

Mycroft swallowed hard, his throat gone dry from the surprise of hearing the familiar voice over the line. 

“Certainly, Gareth. Come for tea at my office. 3 o’clock.”

Mycroft hung up the phone and immediately went to lie down on his leather couch, head full of memories: the first time he’d met Gareth as a boy of 13. How he’d been the only one who hadn’t called Mycroft “My Cake” after his disastrous birthday party. The slow building of their friendship—the shared lunches and late study hours where they slowly revealed more of themselves. And finally that last year where, as roommates, they had…

Mycroft pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until his vision sparked, thinking of the kiss he’d shared with Gareth the last time they’d seen one another. The tenderness that had turned to passion, only to be quickly cut off by the need to say goodbye.