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while i was watching young sherlock, i found myself wondering how we did not hear about sherlock being all over the local papers, which lead me to this idea. so here is the first part (if you all want to see more) of a mycroft fanfic with a reader that works for a newspaper. fair warning that this includes two original characters because its basically impossible for a woman to live independently in this time period. please let me know if you want a second chapter of this <3
hustling for the good life, never thought i’d meet you here (m.h.)
Working as an assistant at The Oxford Journal was a wonderful occupation for a woman of her stature. Truly, it was. It was just that her duties expanded beyond an assistant. She was a typist, a copyist, a ghost-writer, and often the reason that the Journal got any stories. She had met her superior, Mr. Gilden, when she still performed at the opera. She had marched into the newsroom with an abundance of evidence that the manager of the opera house was involved in a trafficking scheme that was being covered up by local police. When asked how she found such evidence, she simply replied that she collected it herself. The story of the corrupt Impresario was swiftly published the next morning, and Mr. Gilden offered her a job that same day. From that moment on, she was "Miss. Gilden", supposedly a "distant niece" that helped Mr. Gilden on his stories when he couldn't be bothered (which was always).
Of course, despite her pay being very well, she could not be a journalist by name. Not outwardly, at least. Above all else, she was still a woman. No matter how lively her mind was, she would always be a woman.
"Prima, my dear, how was the trip to campus?"
Prima. Not her name, of course, but she had insisted that Gilden stop calling her "Primadonna" after the first week of her employment.
"Very good, sir," she replied, handing in a report of Oxford's recent happenings. "Princess Shou'an's scrolls have been stolen from the library. I do not believe the news has spread very far. Professor Hodge had only just learned of the break-in when I arrived. I was wondering if I could- well if you would wish for me to… investigate further."
Gilden put down the book he was reading on elephant migration, leaning forward on his tatty old desk, pointing a long finger at her, "You are my best reporter, do you hear me?" he pushed his chair back and rounded the desk, beaming widely at her as he placed his hands on her shoulders, "You go back out there and see what you can gleam, yes? I'll have Wallace do the copies today, God knows he can't write for the life of him."
And so she left for Oxford once more, which is how she ended up subtly following Constable Lestrade of the Oxford City police force all the way to the prime suspect.
"Sherlock Holmes!" Lestrade called out as he raced towards two men, one a porter, and the other a gentleman in a bowler cap. She scribbled the name down.
Suspect- Sherlock Holmes.
She had learned in her time at the Journal that the quickest and most efficient way to gain information was to eavesdrop. So she settled upon listening outside the cracked window nearest to the men. It took her a moment to get there from where she had been tailing the police, but when she did she leaned in to listen.
"-reprimanded by your chief officer, who happens to be my bridge partner, and is, as you know, a stickler for due process," she did not recognize the voice as one of the two officers she had been following, and he spoke too confidently to be a porter. The man with the bowler hat, she concluded, had been the speaker.
She was momentarily disappointed as he had seemed to scare the constable off with his talk of chief officers, but was enlightened again when the porter spoke, asking the other man to help him get into the library after ensuring that he had been wrongly accused. The connection between them was established when Sherlock thanked him, saying, "I am in your debt, brother dear. James is sulking in his room, but he will meet us there."
"You have been in my debt for as long as I can remember, brother dear," the other man said, sounding aggravated.
She scribbled in her notes.
Gentleman- Suspect's brother. Works for the foreign office. Strained relationship?
James - ???
Her next stop, it seems, would be the library. Though, she knew she would be unable to get in. It had been closed off since early that morning. No, it would be useless to follow them there. She would do better to find James. The next step was simple, wait outside the staircase for a sulking, perhaps aggravated man, and follow him instead. Then, at least, she could put a face to the name.
James was a handsome man, who did indeed look sulky, but also was in quite the rush as he followed the same corridor the other two men had taken. James was distinctly not a porter, but presumably a student. Though, he was not in uniform.
Unable to get past the police outside the library entrance, she waited behind a pillar. Soon, a collection of people exited the library, including Bowler Hat Holmes, Professor Bucephalus Hodge, his assistant, and Constable Lestrade. No Sherlock and no James.
"I do hope that the Princess' judgment is correct, Mycroft. On your head be it if it is not," Hodge told the gentleman. She edited her notes.
Gentleman Mycroft Holmes- Suspect's brother. Works for the foreign office. Strained relationship?
Mycroft? Her brow furrowed at the unusual name. No more unusual than Sherlock, she supposed. Their parents must be eccentric.
To-do: Search archives for Holmes family.
"I must get to my meeting," Hodge grumbled, "I will meet you back here for the gala, Holmes."
The gala. For the new science building. She would need to attend that anyhow, the added bonus of Mr Mycroft Holmes' being there was simply a welcome surprise. She looked up from her notebook as Hodge and his assistant were walking away, leaving Mycroft in the sunny courtyard. He was still for a moment, before turning to look at her, as if he could sense eyes upon him. Her breath hitched as he met her gaze, looking puzzled. He was truly a very handsome man and her face went hot. She cocked her head at him innocently, batting her lashes. He visibly swallowed, giving a polite and strained smile before shaking his head slightly and taking his leave.
The interaction lingered in her head long after he left. The feeling she had when he looked at her was like nothing she had ever felt before. It unsettled her so much that she had to close her notebook and take a solitary walk around the campus' gardens. When she returned, she went straight into the gala, where she showed the doorman the invitation that had been sent to Mr Gilden. People were only just beginning to file inside. Mycroft Holmes stood near the front of the room next to Hodge's assistant, and he did a double take when he saw her.
She watched him like a hawk as she sat down at a small table in the corner of the room with a few other journalists, all decidedly male, much to her exasperation. They thought she may have been lost, and laughed as she explained she was here in place of her employer.
"Gilden has a woman reporting back to him?" one guffawed.
The others laughed, and she merely gave a humorless smile in return. "Our papers are selling very well, sir," she replied, electing not to choose a fight.
Her explanation was not enough for them. "I thought he may be going soft but I did not think he was mad!" another man jested.
She was unable to school the expression on her face into one of indifference as they insulted Mr. Gilden. A strange man he may be, but a good one he most certainly was.
"Mr. Gilden is the very best of men," she glared at them. She looked down at the man's name card. "You're here for a student magazine, Mr Lloyd. I would not be belittling serious publications until you manage to find a seat in one."
Mr Lloyd was, as it so happens, not at all happy with her assessment. His smile fell, and his embarrassment was only exacerbated by the other men at the table, who laughed heartily. His expression turned into one of rage.
"What would a cunt like you know about real reporting?" he hissed.
"Grant, mate-" the man next to him put a placating arm on his shoulder.
Her face split into a grin. She had bested him. "More than you, I'd wager, my good sir, considering I am being paid for it."
His sweaty palms balled up into fists, the redness in his face extending all the way to his neck. "Why I should-"
"What is the matter, gentlemen?" a familiar voice cut into their lively conversation. She turned her head, and stood before her was Mycroft Holmes, with a concerned furrow between his brow. He nodded at her, "And ladies, of course."
"Nofing-" Lloyd growled.
"This lovely man is calling me a cunt, Mr. Holmes," she smiled, a pleasing flush spread across her cheeks with excitement.
Mycroft looked scandalized at her language, and turned to Lloyd, "Sir!" he said firmly, "I must ask you to leave."
"I'm not going nowhere!"
"You should work on your grammar, Mr. Lloyd, or you may never graduate," she added.
"Mr Holmes," the man whose hand was on Lloyd's arm spoke up, "It will not happen again, I promise. He only needs a moment to calm down."
Mycroft looked unconvinced, but even she knew that forcing this man out of the gala would cause a scene.
"Miss Gilden," Mycroft spoke. He must have read her name card. "Would you like to stand up with me? It will allow you a better view."
Who knew that being called a cunt would have such advantages?
"That would be lovely, Mr Holmes." she nodded. She noticed the tips of his ears turning a bit pink as he held out an arm for her to take. She did so, feeling the expensive fabric of his evening coat under her fingers as he led her away. "Thank you, sir. That was very good of you. Though you must know I could have handled myself."
"It would have been wrong to leave you among such company," Mycroft answered quietly. His tone was both gentle and firm, and she had a fleeting thought that she could listen to such a melody forever. He was silent for a moment as they came to a halt and she let go of his arm, before asking, "How is it that you know my name?"
"You are Sherlock's brother, are you not?" she answered.
"I am," he nodded, turning to face her, "You know Sherlock?"
"I have heard of him," she shrugged, cringing internally at her lack of a better excuse. He saw right through her, raising a brow.
She sighed, "I have been… looking into the disappearance of Princess Shou'an's scrolls."
"You were eavesdropping on my brother and I's conversation in the hall," he countered. "And then you followed us to the library."
"Correction," she held up a finger, "I followed James to the library."
"You know Mr. Moriarty?"
She opened her notebook.
James- ??? James Moriarty-
"I suppose not," Mycroft grumbled, watching her write. He scanned the page. "Search the archives for Holmes fam- What is this?" he demanded.
She looked up at him, pursing her lips slightly,unrepentant, "Well, it seems pretty self explanatory sir."
"Self-?" he scoffed and looked down at the notes again, "Our relationship is not strained," he objected.
"My apologies, I must have missed your making up after you told him he was indebted to you his whole life."
Mycroft was appalled, "You are…" he put his hand on his hip, "Rude."
"I am not rude," she mimicked his movement, her hand resting on her side. "If I was rude, I would have lied to you, Mr Holmes. I am investigating a crime in which your brother is the prime suspect, it is only natural I look into your family."
"Sherlock is innocent," he convicted, "You can put that in your paper."
"I will, if it is the truth-"
They were interrupted by the beginning of Hodge's speech. She watched as Mycroft took a deep, agitated breath and turned away.
The speech itself was boring, lots of patting himself on the back, she thought. What was not at all boring was Sherlock Holmes and James Moriarty barging through the wall and declaring that a bomb was set to explode within the next thirty seconds. The reaction from the room was what one would imagine after such an announcement. People raced towards the door, clambering over one another. She, however, kept an eye on Sherlock and James, who were lingering behind, having come from the fireplace itself. Nothing could have prepared her for Mycroft Holmes grabbing her by the arm and dragging her outside himself.
The bomb went off as soon as she stepped foot outside, and Mycroft's arm was around her waist as he once again tugged her farther out into the sunlight. He rounded upon her.
"Are you mad?" he demanded rather loudly, "You could have gotten yourself blown up!"
"I was making sure your brother and his companion made it out!" she argued.
"No, I was making sure my brother made it out!" he pointed inwards at his chest. "You should have been trying to escape!"
"You care an awful lot about my safety for someone who thought I was so rude," she rolled her eyes.
"I- what? Well I do not want you maimed for being rude-"
"There he is," she pointed to Sherlock and James, who were only just now hobbling out of the burning building, "Your brother. He looks hurt." Mycroft's head turned so fast she was surprised he did not break his neck. "You go tend to him, I need to return to my employer. Do stop by for an interview, if you'd like, Mr Holmes."
She walked back into the newsroom covered in soot and sweat. Wallace gasped when he saw her. "Miss Prima!" his thick Scottish accent wrapped around his words, "What happened to you?"
"A bomb, Wallace," she laughed. "There was a fucking bomb at the gala."
He ran over to her, knocking over a large stack of papers. She laughed, "You fix those," she said, "I need to see Gilden. I'll tell you everything later. The pub, maybe?"
She related the entirety of the day to Mr Gilden, who listened intently.
"I'll tell you what, Prima," he sighed, "You go get yourself cleaned up, and I will get this gala story written."
"Very well, thank you sir," she smiled, giving a curtsy before taking her leave of his office.
She told Wallace the entirety of the story, down to Mycroft's lovely cheekbones, as they walked down to the pub. He listened intently, the good friend he was, as she detailed how vexing he was over their first round of drinks. The topic shifted, and soon Wallace had gotten up and started conversing with another man at the bar. She was quite content to sit with herself while he mingled until she saw the face of the man he was talking to. She scrambled out of her seat and approached them. Wallace's companion looked at her as she approached.
"You were at the gala," he grinned down at her as she stood between them.
"Wallace, this is our savior," she told her friend, "James Moriarty."
He gave a dramatic bow, "At your service, madame."
She laughed. "Where is your companion?"
James huffed, "Would you believe me if I told you he is being personally thanked for his service by Princess Shou'an?"
"Really?" she questioned, "You were not afforded the same sentiment?"
"I am but a lowly Irishman," James said with an exaggerated British accent.
The next few hours were spent in lively conversation. James told them about the bomb in the library and how they found it, and did not mind when she asked if she could write down the details in her notebook. He even walked with them as Wallace saw her back to the small room she had in Mr. Gilden's lodgings at the Journal. She had her own idea of what the two men were getting up to afterwards, but she said nothing on the subject.
She woke the next morning and went about her usual routine. She was reading over the gala article that Gilden had written in that day's paper when the doorbell rang, and a very panicked, flustered looking Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway.
always love it when people ask if the sherlock fandom is “okay” like wtf do you mean are we okay what does okay mean? we’ve preserved through four seasons of benadryl cucumber and martin freeman, shipped johnxsherlock, mycroftxlestrade, and moriartyxmoran (and sebastian ain’t even in the show?). we’ve fallen for the simplest lies and come up with solutions for problems the peasant writers are still pondering. we’ve seen our main character die for two years, seen him take drugs for his flatmate, seen multiple deaths in various ways. the first episode was about suicide. the last one was about a delirious sister and a dead best friend. we’ve walked into hell and found the stairs leading back to earth. we’ve suffered, we’ve lost pieces of ourselves, we’ve collapsed in misery and risen in delight. but nothing, nothing, will ever stop us from being a part of our broken family. heaven can soar away from us without sherlock and we will stare after it, but if sherlock is in hell, we will run into it with outstretched arms, letting out cries of laughter as we rejoice with the members of our fellow fandom.
Summary: Mycroft Holmes x fe!Reader -> When Mycroft asked you to marry him, he thought it would be in name only. However, as time goes on, the lines between being your friend and being your husband seem to blur.
Disclaimer: Mostly fluff, friends to lovers, domesticity, brother's best friend/best friend's brother, one bed trope, hurt/comfort, Mycroft gets wounded, talks about children, marriage of convenience, happy endings.
When Mycroft asked you, one of Sherlock’s only and oldest friends, to be his wife, he thought it would be in name alone.
He needed a stable foundation to secure his place in the Foreign Office and, on many occasions, he had heard you say that you needed security away from your family and the older you got the less likely that seemed.
The ceremony, although slightly shocking, was quick and efficient. Simple vows exchanged, nothing too personal. And nine months later, no child was born. Whether strictly business or love, it wasn’t socially unacceptable.
“Are you still awake?” Entering his study, you took a look at your husband. He should have gone to bed hours ago.
Confused, Mycroft looked to the mantle clock and realised the time. “Oh sh…”
With a tired smile, you stepped inside and stood by his side. You felt him relax under your touch.
“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.
Before you knew it, things were changing. Even more so than they already had.
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What, me? I’m fine. Just thinking about how much the Holmes brothers support each other despite having such vastly different lifestyles.
Sherlock doesn’t belittle Mycroft’s reclusive, idle, and perfectly scheduled daily life, despite he himself being (generally) very active and social. He even brags about his brother to his friend.
Mycroft doesn’t discourage Sherlock from pursuing his strange, unstable career, even financially supporting him, despite he himself having a very high up government job.
