TO EACH THEIR HOLMES | mycroft holmes x f!reader (with side sheriarty)
SYNOPSIS : You and James help each other realise your relations with the Holmes brothers might not be so platonic after all.
A/N : SHERIARTY MENTIONEDDDD if you don't ship it I'm sorry this isn't the fic for you
"Feet off the sofa, kid."
James side-eyes you, nose-deep in a book. Probably Sherlock's, you reckon. Sometimes you'll exchange reads with the younger Holmes—you seem to have a similar enough taste. He'd steal books for a few days and return them after you've both paged through, and you'd rent books or ask friends to lend you some specific recommendations that you think he'd like. You have a private system. And James seems to profit from it just fine.
You press your lips into a tight line. It's been quite the long time since you've been meaning to ask; not that it was any of your business. But you see Sherlock as an extension of you, your responsibility, in a way, and it'll be shame if you couldn't help him out. It's what Mycroft would do.
You've seen the way he looks at James. The way their brains seem to dance to a tune only they understand. Maybe a little push is all that's needed to finally cross the line and make something out of it.
"So, the Spring Fair," you begin, sitting on the sofa opposite of him with a read in your lap. The study's windows bathe you both in a cloudy, grey light that manages to dull out everything from the pattern designs on the rugs to the colours of your dress. Neither of you mind, however. It is perfect for reading.
"What of it?" He asks, only half-interested. His attention remains on the book without so much as a glance.
"Well, it's a tradition of sorts to bring someone you fancy," you explain, fiddling with the page corners of your own book. It's too direct, too obvious, and far understimating James' ability to read the situation. You might as well have asked "Do you like someone? Because I think you like someone."
"Oh really?" he says with a quirk of his lip. "I suppose you'll be taking Sherlock's brother, then."
You flush instantly. "What?"
"Please, do you think I'm blind?" he dismisses with a wrist flick, "He blushes like a schoolboy seeing an ankle for the first time when you look at him."
Your mouth snaps shut. He does? You always knew there was tension, but you thought all the faint touches, the compliments, the smiles—it was all a part of his gentlemanly persona. There was no reason to believe Mycroft thought of you as anything more, right?
His brother's best friend doesn't seem to think so.
With a pounding heart, you snap your book shut. "You are no better, my young friend. If Sherlock walked in right now you'd forget I'm in the room."
"And correct," you wave a finger.
"I would most certainly not. That is ridiculous."
"Most certainly you would. In fact, it has happened on a number of occasions."
James snaps his own book shut, now clearly as bothered as you. You stare at each other, an invisible chess board stretching between you.
The move was his, and so, he turns to face you fully and leans both elbows on his knees.
"And if Mycroft walked in I'd have your full attention, my dear friend?"
"If we keep this up we'd be at an impasse."
You smooth out your skirts.
You mumble, not quite brave enough to speak the words. "Mycroft doesn't feel that way about me."
A smirk widens his lips. "If you're so certain, why don't you go and ask him?"
"Only if you ask Sherlock the same."
You continue to bicker like children on a playground, tossing and tugging at every instance you could think of. He brings up how Mycroft always finds an excuse to sit beside you. You bring up how Sherlock makes a decision final only when James has weighed his opinion in. Mycroft's frequent gifts are mentioned; Sherlock's habit of taking James' coats; Mycroft always buying your favourite biscuits despite nobody else in the house taking a like to them; Sherlock's nightmares subsiding when he shares a room with James; Mycroft living more at your place than his own.
It's a back and forth that ends in you both silently overanalyzing memories with new eyes. Refracted by each other's perspectives into seeing something that was always there, but clouded by your denials.
Your cheeks burn to the touch by the end. James' hair is a mess where he'd run his fingers through it out of frustration.
A silent understanding is exchanged. You hope to keep up this camaraderie with him. After all, you can benefit from having someone to talk to about how frustrating the Holmes boys are. Who would understand better than him?
When the doors open, you both stand up like you've been caught doing something you shouldn't have.
Mycroft is the one opening the door, but it's Sherlock that greets you, peeking over his brother's shoulder with a grin.
"Is the book really so bad?" Sherlock snickers. "You look mortified."
Your stomach instantly floods with butterflies when Mycroft's eyes land on you. Damn James and his damn observations and—
"There you are. It's tea time."
"Of course," you answer softly, book long forgotten by your side. Maybe some other time.
Sherlock sneaks under his brother's arm and drags James away by the sleeve, rambling on about some case he'd stumbled across. You wave James goodbye in the most gloating way possible.
You're now left alone with Mycroft.
There's a ticking bomb in your chest.
Looking at him now, you can finally see all the little mannerisms you previously put aside as your own imagination. The light blush. The drum of his fingers on his hat as he turns to address you. The way he really does lean forward when he talks to you.
You walk past him, then stop, turn around, and take his hand. Tactfully, you ignore his wide eyes and lead him out of the room. The weight of his hand in yours only seems to make your heart explode further.
"Are there any of those wholegrain biscuits left? I could kill for one right now."
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