#max+irons

“What are you working on?”

Mycroft leaned back. “It’s…not important.”

“You’re still awake at two in the morning. It must hold some consequence.”

He sighed, “It’s for Sherlock. He…needs my help.”

“Legal?”

“More so than the last time.”

You smiled, leaning down to wrap your arms around his shoulders. 

Since you had known the Holmes brothers, Mycroft had always looked out for Sherlock. Even if it meant giving him gray hairs before he was thirty. 

“Think it can wait long enough for you to get some rest?”

He sighed, pushing the papers forward in order to stand from his chair. “I don’t see why not.”

Snuffing out the candles, you took Mycroft by his hand and gently dragged him to bed. 

It wasn’t until a year into your marriage that you both started to share a bed. Nothing other than sleeping, and the odd cuddle, occurred. But it was nice. 

It was nice to know you both had someone.

In the beginning, it had been only a little less than awkward. Maybe if you hadn’t known each other for so long beforehand, it would have been easier. Maybe. 

But, one night when you’d both finally gotten home from saving Sherlock’s neck once again, you’d collapsed onto the master bed. Mycroft had landed beside you and asked you to stay. 

After spending the last three days searching for one family member, he didn’t like the thought of being separated from another, even if just for the night. 

From then on, it just…stuck. 

You both already talked and dined together. Once a week, you’d both go out and have lunch or dinner at a tea shop or restaurant. You were already a friend of the family before marriage so there was no bad blood. 

Sherlock did seem…off for a while when the engagement was announced. But, after a few weeks, he came around to the idea. 

Sharing a bed, just to sleep, didn’t seem too big of a stretch. 

“I’m meant to see Lestrade today,” Mycroft told you when you’d both finally woken up. 

Rubbing your eye, you turned your head to look at your husband. Mycroft had a strange ability to look devilishly handsome, even in the morning.

“And?”

“I have a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach…”

“Sherlock?”

Mycroft nodded. “I do worry about him.”

Reaching up, you laid a gentle hand on the side of his face. “He’s your brother. And, he does often find himself in precarious situations.”

“But if he’s on Lestrade’s radar…”

You rubbed your eye, again. “Then…hope for the best. Prepare for the worst.”

Mycroft nodded. “You’re right.”

“I know.”

“Are you alright?”

You rubbed your eye for a third time. “I think there’s something in my eye.”

“Let me see.”

Leaning closer, Mycroft gently brushed his thumb under your eye. “There’s an eyelash. Hold steady.”

“Ow.”

“That didn’t hurt.”

“It’s not your eye.”

“Stay still…there.” Mycroft leaned up a little. “Better?”

“Much. Thank you.”

Mycroft smiled, his own hand resting on your face gently. His eyes traced over your own, before he felt his breath catch in his chest for a moment. 

Just as his eyes dropped to your lips and started to wonder the same thing he’d been wondering for weeks – what would it be like to kiss you? – there was a knock on the bedroom door. 

Like most mornings, you both put distance between yourselves and went about your day. You met him at the bottom of the stairs before he left for work, fixed his tie and kissed his cheek. 

The entire way to work was spent with thoughts of you. Even on your wedding day, you didn’t share a kiss. A pillar candle inside the room had fallen from the table when the officiant stepped back, distracting both yourselves and everyone else from the final piece of your marriage agreement. 

The kiss. 

Mycroft couldn’t lie to himself; though you were his wife, you were his friend. And he was yours. Although no verbal agreement had been made, there was an unspoken understanding that the marriage was strictly business. If either one of you were to fall in love with someone else, it would have to be kept secret until you could both find the least messiest way out of the marriage. 

But that was three years ago. 

Since then, you’d saved both his and Sherlock’s neck countless times. He’d been there for you, even when you tried to push everyone away. You had made sure he took care of himself, in the time he forgot he was human. He had made sure to take care of you, even when you said you could do it yourself. 

“I hate to pester but when am I going to get grandchildren?” Cordelia asked you. 

You and Mycroft exchanged a glance before he took the lead of the conversation. Every Sunday, you both took a trip to Appleton Manor to visit Cordelia. And, every Sunday, the conversation always landed near or around the topic of children. 

It was unusual to be married three years and not have a child. Most couples you both knew were on their third child by now. 

“I know you both said you’re waiting for the right time, but Mycroft. You’re more than secure at your job, and Y/n…children-”

Reaching out, you held her hand. “I know. I know. But…we’re just taking our time, right Mycroft?”

He nodded with a reassuring smile. “Yes, dear.”

Mycroft couldn’t lie to himself. He did often find himself wondering what it would be like to have children, especially with you. But, again, you were friends. Marriage in name, alone. 

You couldn’t lie to yourself, either. You had found yourself thinking what it would be like to actually have children, especially with Mycroft. You were an only child, growing up. Sherlock had become not only a friend, but a brother of sorts, when you were kids. 

And Cordelia wasn’t the only mother-in-law asking for grandchildren. Your mother had been waiting longer than three years to see you married with children. 

The thought both excited and terrified you at the same time. Because, for as much as you were married, yourself and Mycroft had never…crossed that line. With all technicalities, you hadn’t even kissed each other. 

By that logic, children were…a long shot in the dark. 

“Well, whenever you decide to have children, there is an empty room at the top of the hall for a nursery.”

Yourself and Mycroft smiled at Cordelia before you both realised what she had said. 

“Let me show you.”

Less than five minutes later, yourself and Mycroft were opening the door to an old bedroom. It was the nursery Mycroft had stayed in as a baby. After Bea grew up, the nursery became a collection room for old trinkets and sheets. 

Except, as you both stood looking inside, it was…freshly painted. 

The cot had a fresh coat of wood-stain and wax, the mattress was new, as were the sheets and curtains. Old wooden toys had been refurbished to look like new. 

It was…perfect. 

“O-Of course, I would expect your mother would want to be close, too, whilst you were recovering. And London is no place to recover in peace. But I understand if-”

You were on the brink of tears. “Cordelia, this is…”

“Mother, this is truely…”

“I’m lost for words.”

“You can just say if this was a bad idea-”

You shook your head, quickly. “No. No, no, no. Of course, not. No. I just…it’s a lot to take in. Thank you, Cordelia.”

“Yes, mother. Thank you.”

“You both like it?”

You nodded. “It’s wonderful.”

Cordelia took a breath. “Oh, thank goodness. Of course, nothing has to happen now. But, I wanted you to both know that there is a place here, for all of you, always.”

The carriage ride back home was quiet. Filled to the brims with a silence that was almost suffocating.

“So…”

“So…”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “We never broached the topic of children, did we?”

“No…we didn’t.”

“Do you, rather, I guess, would you– would you like– to– unless there’s someone– I suppose, unless you have someone else—”

Reaching out, you took his hand. “Mycroft.”

Almost selfishly, it eased you to know that he was dealing with the issue as well as you. Awkwardly, whilst trying to remain normal.

“Please tell me you know what I’m trying to say.”

A small chuckle left you. “I think I do.”

“Dear lord,” Mycroft lifted a hand to his brow. “One would think this kind of conversation would be easier.”

“Yes, I suppose so. If one wasn’t married only in name.”

“Plenty of couples are only married in name, surly.”

You nodded. “But how many are just friends? Friends who might want children?”

“I don’t know. I don’t…know.”

Mycroft laid his head back and looked at you. 

“How about we take this one step at a time?”

“I think we’ve skipped the first few.”

You nodded. “And maybe that is something we have to retrace before we…commit to children.”

“You’re right.”

“I know.”

Mycroft smiled, squeezing your hand. “Retrace. One step at a time?”

You nodded. “I think I can agree to that.”

Despite everything seemingly going back to normal, there was a fresh awkwardness around yourself and Mycroft. Some conversations would die away, others simply would start off too awkwardly for either one of you to stick around long enough.

However, it would only take a few weeks for all of that to change forever. 

First, there was a government gala where one particular member of parliament decided that you were to be his date, electing to ignore the fact you were someone else’s wife. 

It wasn’t the first time you had heard Mycroft call you his wife, but it was the first time it seemed to truly mean something more than just a name coming from his lips. 

Then Sherlock found himself in a spot of danger, which just so happened to pull you into that spot, too. Thankfully, you were unharmed, but Mycroft wasn’t so lucky. 

With a slash across his jacket, a heavy log of wood thrown to bash his rib cage and a grazing bullet left him with: a smattering of scars across his back, a growing purple bruise across his side and chest, and a burn-like scar. 

“I really do think you should see a doctor, Mycroft.”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

You looked across his bare back and chest with sadness. Despite the new scars, you couldn’t help but let your fingers trace over healed ones. They were miniscule in comparison, and decades old. 

“I’m okay,” Mycroft said, his voice gentle. “Look at me?”

With a gentle finger, he pushed your chin up until you looked him in the eyes. 

“I’m okay,” he repeated. 

“You’re still bleeding.”

“All that matters to me, is that you are alive and well.”

“At what cost?”

“A couple of scars that will heal.” 

Reaching up, you went to lay a hand on his arm where you usually would. Only, there was now a fresh scar. 

“It’s okay,” Mycroft quickly took your hand, kissed it, and held it close to his chest. “It’s okay.”

Taking a deep breath, you tried to still your tears. 

“Don’t cry, darling.” Mycroft held you closer, wiping away the falling tears. 

“When I heard the shot…Mycroft…I thought…”

“I know. I know. For a moment, I did, too. But everything’s okay. We’re both safe.”

Reaching up, you wrapped your arms over Mycroft’s shoulders and neck, being careful to not disturb his clean wound. Meanwhile, his own arms wrapped around your waist securely. 

The final push came a few days later. 

Until then, your days had been filled with soft and quiet moments that you shared with Mycroft. You kept his wounds clean and made sure they were healing, eventually he told you where the other scars came from. 

Most were from being a child – climbing trees, rolling down twig-covered hills, and the like. But a few – only a few – were from more…serious incidents. 

“My father got angry one evening. I don’t even remember what it was over, but I got in the way. I know he didn’t mean it but…”

Leaning down, carefully, you placed a single kiss against the scar. 

“You’re not your father, Mycroft. You’re not him.”

That night, you held each other until you fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. But that wasn’t the case a few nights later. 

“Can’t sleep?”

Mycroft looked over at you from his space on the sofa, “What? Oh, sorry. No, I guess not.”

With a tired smile, you closed the door behind you and took a seat beside him. On instinct, he lifted his arm and held you by his side. 

“How are your wounds?”

“A little sore, but healing thanks to you.”

“Good.” Looking up at him, he seemed…pensive. “Mycroft? What are you thinking about?”

Suddenly, he turned to you. “We’re married, yes?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

“We’re husband and wife.”

You nodded, again. “That’s usually what happens when people get married.”

“Do you think of me as your husband?”

You chuckled, nervously. “Why are you asking?” Then your stomach dropped. “Mycroft-” You sat up. “Have you…” You tried to steady your voice. “Have you found someone?”

Mycroft sat up, too. “No. I just…I’ve been thinking. I’ve been thinking a lot, actually, and…I think- no. I know…I want to be married. Specifically, to you.”

“We already are.”

“Not just in name,” he quickly added. 

“Oh.” 

You fell quiet as you looked at him. He was waiting for a response, but your reaction told him that your brain had come to a halt. 

“It’s not just because of these last few days. Well, I suppose it gave me the push I needed but...I don’t want to pressure you into anything. I just– and this isn’t about being intimate…I’d like for us to try and be more than just friends.” Mycroft took a strained breath. “I’m really hoping I haven’t read into things wrongly, or made assumptions–”

“No. You haven’t. I just…”

The longer you looked at Mycroft, the more you wanted to invent a time machine to go back to when he first offered to marry you, and hit yourself over the head. Entering into a contractual marriage with the one guy you’d secretly been crushing on, from afar, probably wasn’t the best premise to avoid catching feelings for your husband. 

Mycroft’s breathing seemed strained. Like he was secretly wishing to turn back time, himself. 

But for the wrong reasons. 

Because he wasn’t wrong. 

He didn't make assumptions. 

For as long as he had been thinking about your marriage being more than you both agreed, you’d been thinking about it a lot longer. 

Mycroft seemed confused, and a little concerned, when you reached for him. Unable to think of what to say, your mind landed on one simple thing that could express what you were trying to find the words to say. 

Simply, you kissed him. 

It was a little awkward, at first. Uncertain, testing, searching. After a moment, Mycroft finally moved. 

His hand came to hold your face, gently, as he deepened the kiss a little. Leaning forward, pressing a little harder, your mouth parted just a little. 

With a slight of hand, it wasn’t long before you found yourself straddled across your husband’s lap. 

It wasn’t the first time you’d been dressed in a nightgown and dressing robe in front of Mycroft, but it was the first time he had touched you. Just small and sensitive touches – a skimming of his palm over your clothing, the tender cupping of his hand, a squeeze of your hip. 

A small noise came from the back of your throat as he seemed to shift a little under you. 

“Is-is everything alright?”

Trying to catch your breath, you nodded. “Yes. It’s just…new.”

Mycroft swallowed. “We should probably slow down.”

“Probably,” you agreed, your fingers gently tracing his jaw line. 

It was the logical thing to do. After all, it was past midnight and, despite his injuries, Mycroft was well enough to travel. You’d both promised Cordelia you would go and see her. 

But there was something in his kiss that felt…magnetic. Pulling away from his kiss was harder than leaning closer and kissing him, again. 

So, you did exactly that. 

Not that either of you were complaining. 

Being married for three years granted you both more than a little leeway in terms of intimacy. 

And Cordelia certainly noticed the change in both of you when you arrived at Appleton Manor two hours later than scheduled. 

“We got caught in…traffic! Isn’t that right, dear?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Traffic. There were so many carriages in the city this weekend. It was ram-packed.”

Cordelia smiled. “Mycroft, darling, perhaps you could fetch me my shawl. It’s just in the drawing room.”

“Of course, mother. I’ll be right back.”

The second Mycroft disappeared, Cordelia took you by your arm. “You two are terrible liars. But, I’ll forgive you. I suppose nearly dying gives you both a second lease on life. And a second honeymoon.”

“Cordelia!”

“Oh, please. Before Silas turned out to be a raging psychopath, we were the same. When we were a lot younger. But, I won’t embarrass you further. I just wanted to say…it rather suits you. Being in love. Showing it.”

In your head, nothing had really gone any differently. But, perhaps, there was an atmosphere. Less secret looks, more open ones. A few more noticeable, lingering touches.