I Don't Wanna Be Free;

The sheets were warm. Heavy. Draped over your lower half like a cocoon, muffling sound and scent and sensation into something darker, more primal. Only your shoulders and head peeked out from the duvet. The rest of you—your thighs, your hips, your cunt—was beneath it. And so was he.

Mycroft Holmes, the man who could bring entire governments to their knees with a phone call, was between your legs with devastating focus.

His hands held your thighs apart with calm authority, thumbs anchored at the creases where your hips met bone. His tongue moved with that same brutal precision he applied to everything else—methodical, relentless, maddening. Every flick, every suction, every deliberate sweep was done like he was solving you. Like he’d memorized your anatomy in blueprints and was now executing a field operation.

You gasped when he flattened his tongue and dragged it upward in one long, slow stroke—only to pause and press his mouth to your clit with a low hum that reverberated deep through your core.

And then—buzz.

The phone.

On the bedside table.

Mycroft didn’t stop.

Didn’t even lift his head.

His hand, still resting over your lower belly, tightened slightly—pressing down in that subtle, possessive way he’d developed the first time he realized he could feel the way your body clenched around nothing when he applied pressure. Like he knew what was coming. Like he was holding it in place. Delaying it. Commanding it.

Buzz.

“Mycroft,” you whimpered, hips twitching as his tongue made another maddening circle.

“Answer it,” he said from beneath the covers, voice muffled but unmistakably steady. “It could be urgent.”

You whimpered. “Can’t you—just—”

“I’m not stopping,” he murmured, mouth brushing your slick folds with every word. “But I want you to read it.”

You blinked, breath catching.

“You want me to—what?”

The duvet shifted, and his voice me again—quiet, warm, amused.

“My password is Triskelion-4-Echo. Capital T.”

You stared at the phone, the lock screen glowing faintly in the low light.

Mycroft Holmes had just given you the password to his phone.

And then gone back to eating you out like it was a footnote.

You were too stunned to move at first. Trust, for Mycroft, was a complicated thing. He didn’t give it. Not easily. Not freely. And certainly not when it involved his device—the one that held the pulse of half a dozen national agencies and enough blackmail to set fire to Parliament if he so chose.

Your cunt fluttered helplessly around nothing, and you whimpered again, trembling fingers reaching for the phone.

“Now,” he said, his tongue flicking just beneath your clit like punctuation.

You unlocked it.

The interface was sterile. Efficient. Barely customized. He had one wallpaper—a minimalist rendering of the Union Jack—and fewer apps than a retired bishop.

A message banner glowed at the top of the screen:

Anthea: TULIP REQUESTS IRON TEA / 9.26 GREEN–RED / BLACKBIRD SINGS / ETA?

You squinted, your brain scrambling to make sense of the phrases.

“It’s from Anthea,” you managed, your voice breaking on the last syllable as Mycroft drew your clit into his mouth and sucked.

“Read it,” he murmured against you.

You did.

Haltingly. Voice shaking. Every word stammered out as he licked into you again—slow and thorough—dragging pleasure up your spine like he was testing how well you could speak with his mouth replacing your thoughts.

“Tulip requests iron tea—nine twenty-six—green-red—blackbird sings—ETA?”

There was a pause.

Then Mycroft hummed in contemplation.

Not sexual.

Not teasing.

Just thinking.

His tongue didn’t stop.

Of course it didn’t.

“Mm. She’s moving the Prague asset early,” he said absently, sliding one hand lower to gently press a finger into you while his mouth stayed on your clit. “I told her to delay until Monday.”

You arched off the bed, sobbing his name.

“Mycroft—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he murmured, his voice a feather-soft blade as he curled his finger and flicked his tongue in perfect tandem. “You will.”

You gripped the edge of the mattress with white knuckles, phone still clutched in your hand, the message glowing in your peripheral vision like some holy relic.

He trusted you.

Not just with his body.

With this. With that.

With everything.

And he hadn’t stopped.

In fact, he’d only intensified.

The sheets were still half-draped over your hips, but the part covering his head had been pulled back just long enough for him to murmur, "Reply. Dictate this precisely." His voice had been devastatingly calm. Steady. Like he wasn’t halfway buried between your legs with your thighs shaking against his ears.

You had gaped at him, eyes wide, cunt fluttering helplessly as your grip tightened on his phone. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he’d murmured, not unkindly. “Anthea is waiting.”

And then, in his voice—cool, exacting, maddeningly composed—he began to dictate:

"Proceed IRON. TULIP confirm RED. Keep singing. ETA now 09.42. Use window."

You typed with fingers that barely obeyed you, your lower half spasming as he resumed—no, doubled down—on his efforts. His mouth moved with surgical precision, tongue slow, then quick, then slow again. A rhythm designed to disarm. To fracture. To control.

The kind of precision only Mycroft Holmes could maintain while issuing covert clearance codes mid-cunnilingus.

Just as you were about to press send, he paused.

Lifted the sheet off his head again.

His dark hair was slightly mussed, lips slick, eyes sharp and glittering with calculation. He looked at the message. Then up at you.

“Do not misspell ‘proceed.’ Or ‘confirm.’ If Anthea sees a typo, she’ll assume I’ve been compromised and activate the Burn Protocol.”

You blinked at him.

He blinked back.

“I’m—" you croaked. “I’m being eaten alive.”

“Yes,” he said simply, his fingers now stroking softly along your inner thighs. “Do focus.”

You stared at him.

And he—without breaking eye contact—smirked. Just barely. Enough to make your blood fizz.

And then, without another word, Mycroft pulled the sheet back over his head and resumed.

With enthusiasm.

You whimpered, voice cracking. “You—bastard—”

The only reply was his tongue flattening against your clit, followed by a pointed swirl that made your hips twitch clean off the mattress.

He was ruthless. Not hurried, not hasty—but relentless. Intent on making you fall apart while your thumbs hovered over a piece of encrypted communication that could destabilize an entire operation.

You forced your vision to focus on the screen again, blinking hard as you read over the message.

Proceed IRON. TULIP confirm RED. Keep singing. ETA now 09.42. Use window.

Your fingers hovered over send.

And then he sucked.

Not lightly. Not teasing.

Possessively.

You screamed—half into the pillow, half into the air—and your thumb hit the screen almost by reflex.

Message sent.

You collapsed back into the sheets, body trembling, the phone falling from your hand and landing somewhere on the duvet.

Beneath the blanket, Mycroft exhaled a soft sound—barely audible—but you could feel the pride in it. The smugness.

And then he spoke, lips brushing your soaked folds.

“You taste sweet,” he murmured, tone scholarly now. “Like your lips. Possibly sweeter.”

You whimpered, twitching.

“Must be the fruit,” he mused, almost clinically. “You’ve eaten nothing but peaches and nectarines for a week. I’ve been waiting to see if it would affect your—”

You kicked under the covers, gasping, “Mycroft—stop analyzing—”

He laughed.

Soft.

Maddening.

And then licked again.

Slow.

Languid.

Possessive.

You shoved the sheet off his head in fury—grabbing a handful of his dark hair—and glared down at him.

He looked up at you from between your legs, still poised, composed, that single arched eyebrow lifting as if to say, Yes?

“You’re evil,” you hissed.

“And yet,” he murmured, his voice dragging over your skin, “you’re about to come on my face again.”

You didn’t get a chance to argue.

Not when his mouth closed around your clit again—low, precise, demanding.

You screamed his name.

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t need to.

You were his.

It had been a few months since you and Mycroft started dating.

Much to Sherlock's disapproval, of course.

Your relationship—public enough now that Mrs. Hudson had commented on it with a wink and a tray of biscuits—had become a quiet source of friction between the Holmes brothers. Not explosive, not volatile. But present. Like a fault line beneath the surface of every conversation. Sherlock, for all his arrogance, did not hide his disdain well. He scoffed at your presence, at Mycroft’s increasingly frequent appearances at Baker Street, and at what he called “this ridiculous attempt at emotional domestication.”

You ignored him.

Mycroft didn’t.

Part of him still felt guilty. Not just because of Sherlock—but because for the first time in his life, he had taken something simply because he wanted it.

You.

He’d made a career out of restraint. Of sacrificing what he wanted for what was necessary. Of sublimating desire in the name of order. Power. Family. Country. But now—

Now he had you.

And so, even as his brother seethed and sulked and made thinly veiled barbs, Mycroft tried—truly tried—not to dwell. He told himself that he could have you. That he deserved you. That your hands in his hair at night and your voice at the other end of the phone and your toothpaste on his sink were real, and his to keep.

It helped that you never asked him to explain it.

You didn’t push.

You just welcomed.

Which was how Mycroft Holmes—a man who once considered his own home a fortress of precision—had found himself spending more and more time in your apartment. A tiny, cramped, sunlight-drenched flat with creaky floorboards and questionable plumbing.

And it was messy.

Not dangerously so. Not unhygienic. But lived-in. Shoes kicked off beneath the coffee table. Stacks of books under the bed. Tea cups in odd places. Sweaters draped over chairs and unread mail pushed to one side of the kitchen counter.

It made his eye twitch.

He never said anything.

He just… tidied.

You barely noticed at first. Things simply vanished and reappeared in the right place. Cups returned to cabinets. Crumpled receipts ironed themselves into folders. The fridge was stocked. The towels aligned.

But you noticed now.

And sometimes you laughed.

“Mycroft,” you said once, arms crossed as you caught him silently organizing your spice rack, “are you nesting?”

He straightened, cheeks faintly pink. “Your oregano was next to the cinnamon.”

You grinned. “And this kept you awake last night?”

“…Yes.”

Still, for all his subtle neuroses, Mycroft didn’t complain. Not when your flat smelled like lavender and laundry. Not when your legs tangled with his in bed. Not when he saw the framed picture of the two of you on your bookshelf—slightly crooked, a little dusty, but placed at eye level like a talisman.

What he did complain about—internally, quietly, in a way he never actually voiced—was the dancing.

Tonight, for example.

You were barefoot in the kitchen, hair tied up in a half-messy bun, a sweatshirt draped off one shoulder, as you bounced from tile to tile like some chaotic sprite. The microwave hummed behind you—last night’s pizza slowly revolving—and you were humming along to a playlist Mycroft didn’t recognize.

You spun.

Once. Twice.

And then slid across the floor in socks, poorly, like someone who had watched Risky Business once and taken it personally.

Mycroft stood in the doorway.

Silent.

Bewildered.

Utterly captivated.

He said nothing.

Just watched you.

Because what were you doing?

He could not for the life of him understand what on earth would compel a person to move like that in a kitchen—alone, no music loud enough to mask your voice, no audience, no structured purpose to the act. You weren’t working out. You weren’t rehearsing choreography. You weren’t even doing it to seduce him.

You were just dancing.

Waiting for pizza.

Humming to yourself.

Carefree and slightly off-rhythm.

He leaned against the frame, arms crossed.

Eventually, you noticed him.

You paused—mid-spin, one socked foot lifted—and grinned.

“Hey,” you said, flushed from the motion. “Hungry?”

Mycroft blinked. “I don’t understand you.”

You laughed. “That’s a terrible way to begin a romantic evening.”

“I mean it,” he said, stepping into the room, voice softer now, more puzzled than stern. “You… dance in the kitchen. You name your houseplants. You eat cold cereal in the shower.”

“It saves time,” you said with mock solemnity.

“You keep the shower curtain open to avoid feeling ‘trapped.’” His tone was not judgmental. Merely… mildly traumatized.

You just shrugged. “It’s a tiny bathroom. The curtain sticks to my leg.”

Mycroft looked at you. The way your sweatshirt kept slipping. The way your face glowed with warmth and leftover laughter. The way you made him feel like none of it—the pizza, the dancing, the toothpaste stains—was abnormal.

He exhaled slowly.

“You’re very strange,” he murmured.

You approached him, sliding your arms around his waist.

“And you,” you said, pressing your cheek to his chest, “are a repressed, beautiful automaton with the soul of a librarian and the emotional instincts of a calculator.”

Mycroft stared down at you, long-suffering.

You looked up at him. “And yet, somehow, we work.”

He leaned in.

Kissed your forehead.

The microwave dinged.

You yelled triumphantly—“It’s ready!”—and scampered to the microwave, the squeak of your socks on the tile nearly drowning out the ding. Steam burst out as you opened the door, the scent of garlic and regret filling the kitchen.

“Victory!” you declared, plucking a slice from the plate with your fingers like a barbarian. You turned, offering one toward Mycroft with a cheeky smile.

He eyed it. Then you. Then the slice again.

“No, thank you,” he said, adjusting his cuffs like he was declining caviar at a gala. “I had dinner at work.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Did you.”

“Yes.” His tone was clipped. “A diplomatic briefing over chicken Kiev. It was dreadful.”

You squinted at him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “So… not dinner, then. Just edible paperwork.”

He gave you a look. That carefully blank expression of mild disdain he reserved for when you compared the UN to the Mortal Kombat tournament. But you didn’t push it. You simply shrugged, turned around, and grabbed a second slice anyway—plopping it down onto a napkin before setting it at his usual spot at the table.

Just in case.

He didn’t comment.

But when you weren’t looking, he sat.

And when you joined him—curling one leg beneath you, biting into your slice with theatrical delight—he glanced once at the offering beside him.

And slowly, subtly, picked it up.

You pretended not to notice.

He took a bite, chewing with the resigned elegance of a man who had once filed a formal complaint about the quality of government-provided canapés.

There was a pause.

Then—hesitant, almost casual—he asked:

“How was work?”

You blinked.

Then snorted. Loudly.

“Oh, work, was it?”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. “Yes?”

You swallowed your bite, licked a smudge of tomato sauce from your thumb, and sighed.

“Not much to do, really,” you said. “Sherlock stole another case from my department. Again.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “Stole?”

“I use the word generously,” you muttered, tearing another bite from your slice. “He barreled in, insulted three lab techs, solved the crime in seventeen minutes flat, and then left without signing the incident report. I was still halfway through my analysis.”

Mycroft sighed. “Of course he did.”

You gestured with your crust like it was damning evidence. “I think he’s doing this for revenge.”

“Revenge?”

“For this,” you said, pointing between the two of you. “Me. You. He’s spiraling.”

“Sherlock doesn’t spiral,” Mycroft said flatly.

You gave him a look. “You’re joking.”

Mycroft blinked.

You leaned in. “He gave a lecture to an intern about mitochondrial DNA today. The intern works in accounts. I think he was trying to summon me.”

“Subtle,” Mycroft muttered, biting into his slice.

You chewed the crust of your pizza thoughtfully before saying, “If things keep going the way they are, I’ll be fired from Scotland Yard.”

Mycroft looked up sharply. “That won’t happen.”

His voice was clipped—flat with certainty, as if the very idea were absurd. His slice of pizza paused mid-air, the absurdity of processed cheese and righteous authority briefly coexisting in one elegant hand.

You swallowed. “Don’t, Mycroft.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t interfere.”

His expression stilled, calcified into that mask he wore in meetings with heads of state. “I wasn’t going to—”

“Yes, you were,” you said quietly, watching him. “You already are. Every time Sherlock steps over my work, every time someone looks at me sideways like I’ve got a government safety net strapped to my back—I know what they’re thinking. That I’m only still there because I’m dating you.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “That is patently untrue. You are brilliant at what you do.”

“That doesn’t matter to them. Or to me,” you said, your voice firm now. “I want to be where I am because I earned it, not because the embodiment of British intelligence has a soft spot for me.”

“That’s not fair,” he said coldly, setting the pizza down with surgical precision. “You think I would compromise your work to soothe my conscience?”

“No,” you said, “I think you would compromise yourself to protect me. And I’m asking you not to.”

“I won’t let Sherlock sabotage your career just to entertain himself.”

“Then let me handle it.”

There was silence—sharp, brittle.

Mycroft’s jaw worked once.

Then twice.

And then he stood.

Gathered his coat.

His gloves.

His umbrella.

You blinked. “Wait—what are you doing?”

He didn’t meet your eyes. “I’m clearly not welcome when I act like myself.”

“Don’t twist this into something it’s not,” you said.

His movements were precise, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. “You don’t want me to use my influence. You don’t want me to protect you. Tell me—what do you want me for, exactly?”

You flinched. “That’s low.”

He turned toward the door.

You didn’t stop him.

Didn’t beg.

Didn’t reach.

You picked up your half-eaten slice, chewed it slowly, staring at the pepperoni like it had all the answers in the world.

Mycroft’s fingers paused on the door handle.

His shoulders drew tight, like a man steeling himself against something stupid.

And then he sighed.

Low.

Miserable.

Because he didn’t want to go.

He didn’t sleep well alone anymore. Not after nights tangled around you, your body warm against his, the soft sounds you made in sleep grounding him in ways Ambien never could. Not after hearing you hum nonsense songs in the kitchen, or feeling your legs drape over his thighs while you graded crime scene reports in bed.

He hated your shower. It was too hot. The curtain stuck to his knees.

And he hated that he’d just hurt you. With words. When he swore he never would.

His hand dropped from the door.

And he turned.

But you were already moving.

You jumped him—barefoot and furious and still clutching a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand—and kissed him.

Hard.

He stumbled back against the door with a grunt, catching you reflexively, hands flying to your thighs to hoist you up.

You dropped the pizza mid-kiss.

Neither of you noticed.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth crashing into yours with the kind of force that came from fear and relief and fury all tangled into one.

You broke away just long enough to mutter, breathless, “Don’t leave. Not like that. Not ever.”

He exhaled against your cheek, forehead pressed to yours, fingers digging into your thighs like you might vanish if he loosened his grip.

“I wasn’t going to interfere,” he said, voice hoarse. “Not really. I was just... I hate seeing them treat you like this.”

You kissed his jaw. “Then hate it. But let me fight for my own job.”

His grip tightened.

And then, finally, slowly, he nodded.

“Alright,” he murmured. “But if you get fired—”

“I’ll make you buy me a forensic lab in Bermuda.”

He let out a low, stunned laugh.

You smiled against his throat. “I’ll name a microscope after you.”

“Mycroft-oscope.”

“Oh my God.”

He kissed you again—slower this time, reverent. As if apologizing. As if anchoring.

And later, when you were curled together on the couch, the pizza long forgotten, his arm draped around you and your head tucked beneath his chin, he whispered into your hair:

“You terrify me.”

You smiled, half-asleep. “Good.”

And Mycroft Holmes—man of power, of poise, of endless secrets—held you tighter.

Because despite all his precision, all his caution...

Morning came quietly.

Too quietly.

Mycroft Holmes woke before the alarm, as he always did—eyes opening at precisely 05:47, breath steady, mind already cataloguing the day before his body had fully registered consciousness. The curtains were still drawn, the room faintly grey with early light, the air cool and sterile.

For half a second, he forgot.

Then memory returned with surgical clarity.

The lobby.

Sherlock.

Your mouth caught mid-kiss.

The necklace at your throat.

His jaw tightened.

He reached for his phone on the bedside table with habitual precision, already preparing to scan overnight briefs and alerts. The screen lit up.

Notifications.

Ten of them.

All from you.

His thumb hovered, unmoving, as he read.

Are you coming to dinner? Mycroft? Sherlock’s here, by the way. Please don’t be weird about this. Did I say something wrong? Are you okay? Can we talk? Just for a minute? Mycroft? I need to talk to you. Please.

He stared at the screen, pale face utterly still, dark hair neatly disordered from sleep. His stern expression did not change—but something behind his eyes hardened, set into place.

For a brief, treacherous moment, he considered replying.

Something neutral. Something dignified. Something like: I saw. No need to explain. I hope you’re well.

He even typed half a sentence.

Then his mind replayed the image again—uninvited, unrelenting.

Sherlock’s hands on your face.

The familiarity of it.

The ease.

Mycroft closed his eyes.

No.

This was how it always went when he hesitated. When he allowed sentiment to linger where strategy should have prevailed. He had misjudged the variables, and now the correction had to be clean.

Immediate.

Final.

He deleted the draft.

Then, without ceremony, he opened your contact, scrolled once, and blocked the number.

The phone went dark.

He set it aside carefully, as though it were no longer relevant to the operation at hand.

For a moment, he sat on the edge of the bed, spine straight, hands resting flat on his knees. His breathing was controlled, even—but slower than usual, as if his body were catching up to a decision already made.

Then he stood.

The shower was brisk. Efficient. Cold enough to strip away anything lingering and human. He dressed with mechanical exactness: fresh shirt, cufflinks aligned, suit pressed and immaculate. Every movement was deliberate, restoring the familiar armour.

By 06:32, his suitcase was packed.

Nothing left behind.

He checked the room once more—not for sentiment, but for protocol—then exited without looking back.

The lobby was empty at that hour, all soft lighting and polished silence. The concierge greeted him politely; Mycroft returned the nod, signed the paperwork, and checked out without comment. No delay. No questions.

Outside, the morning air was sharp against his pale complexion. He unlocked the car, placed his suitcase in the boot, and slid into the driver’s seat with practiced ease.

The engine started on the first turn.

As he pulled onto the road, the resort disappearing in the rear-view mirror, Mycroft kept his eyes forward.

London awaited.

Parliament.

Briefings.

Containment.

This—whatever this had been—was concluded.

He adjusted the rear-view mirror once, ensuring his reflection was perfectly aligned: sharp, calculating, well-groomed, expression stern and unreadable.

Then he drove.

Miles passed.

Villages blurred.

The sky lightened.

And though he did not look back, and though his phone remained face-down on the passenger seat, one truth settled quietly, unwelcome and persistent, beneath the precision of his thoughts:

Blocking you had been the correct decision.

It had also been the most difficult one he’d made in years.

He reached out and turned on the radio.

The motion was automatic—muscle memory, really—his hand moving with practiced precision while his eyes stayed fixed on the road. The dashboard lit softly, the car filling with low static before a voice slipped through: measured, cultured, entirely unintrusive. Classical music, mercifully. Strings. Order. Something with structure.

Good.

He exhaled through his nose and adjusted the volume just enough to occupy the air without demanding attention.

Silence, he had learned, was dangerous.

You should have kissed her at the abbey, his mind said.

Mycroft’s jaw tightened. “No,” he said aloud, crisp and irritated. “I should not have.”

The road curved gently, hedgerows blurring into green smears at the edge of his vision. He corrected the steering by a fraction of a degree, as if precision might bleed upward into thought.

At least you would have had the memory, the voice persisted, maddeningly calm. The taste of her lips. Something of your own.

“Enough,” Mycroft muttered. “That is quite sufficient.”

His mind, traitorous thing, did not obey.

You were standing right there, it continued. Her hand was in yours. She was looking at you. Not at him. At you.

Mycroft swallowed, fingers tightening briefly around the steering wheel before he forced them to relax.

“We already have that,” he argued coolly. “The memory exists. Christmas. The coat closet. Entirely ill-advised. Entirely conclusive.”

Yes, his mind agreed at once, far too readily. Sweet lips.

The word landed with obscene clarity.

Mycroft’s fingers lifted—without conscious instruction—and pressed lightly against his mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough to register the warmth there, phantom and remembered. The pressure of her kiss. The sharp intake of her breath when she’d realised what she was doing—and who she was doing it with.

He froze.

Then dropped his hand as if burned.

“For God’s sake,” he snapped at himself, colour rising faintly beneath his pale complexion. “Control yourself.”

He straightened in his seat, spine rigid, shoulders squared. The reflection in the rear-view mirror showed exactly what he expected: sharp, calculating, well-groomed. Dark hair in place. Expression stern and composed.

Nothing amiss.

No, the voice said softly, relentlessly. She weren’t his then. And she chose you.

Mycroft’s lips thinned.

“That is a lie,” he said flatly. “She did not choose me. She hesitated. There is a distinction.”

His mind hummed, considering this, then countered with surgical cruelty.

And now?

Now.

The image rose unbidden: the lobby, the light, Sherlock’s hands framing her face with infuriating familiarity. The ease of it. The confidence.

Mycroft inhaled sharply.

“No,” he said again, more quietly this time. “Those lips are not mine.”

His grip tightened on the wheel.

“They belong to Sherlock.”

The words tasted bitter. Necessary. Final.

The radio swelled, strings rising into something mournful and restrained. He turned the volume up another notch, as if sound alone might drown out the unwanted thoughts—but they lingered, threading themselves between the notes.

You could have had one honest thing, his mind whispered. One moment where you didn’t calculate the loss before the gain.

Mycroft’s eyes flicked briefly to the clock on the dashboard. Time. Distance. Progress.

“I am not in the habit of collecting moments,” he said, voice controlled. “I deal in outcomes.”

And this outcome?

He didn’t answer.

He let the classical music on the radio fill the air.

Strings, soft and orderly, curled around the edges of the silence like the hems of a freshly pressed suit—neat, unobtrusive, and distant. Mycroft Holmes exhaled and loosened his grip on the wheel by a fraction, the only concession to the ache that had begun to bloom in his chest hours ago and had not faded with the rising sun.

Then, without warning, a thought.

You should buy a video game.

Mycroft scoffed. Audibly.

“What on earth would I do with a video game?”

His voice startled even him in the stillness of the car.

But the voice in his mind was not done.

You enjoyed playing.

“I endured it,” he muttered.

You laughed.

Mycroft’s mouth twitched downward. “Briefly.”

You were happy.

He flinched at that—just slightly.

And then it hit him. Sharp. Petty. Whole.

That game.

What was the name again? asked the voice.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Mortal Kombat.”

Yes, the voice hummed. That one. Bloody. Fun. Loud. Uncontrolled. You didn’t even mind losing.

Mycroft set his jaw. “I did mind.”

You laughed when she killed you with sunglasses.

“She had no form. It was chaos incarnate.”

And you liked it.

The voice—his own voice, his own mind, some traitorous part of him—wouldn’t stop.

He tapped the wheel once. Twice. The rhythm of classical piano continued behind it, maddening in its restraint.

“You’re suggesting,” he said aloud, “that I, Mycroft Holmes—senior civil servant, geopolitical advisor, architect of international stability—should walk into a gaming store and purchase a copy of Mortal Kombat.”

Digital download would be cleaner.

He glared at the dashboard like it had personally betrayed him.

“Absolutely not.”

You nearly beat her.

Mycroft’s hand twitched on the gearstick. “It was a fluke. I miscalculated a combo. That’s not—”

She smiled at you.

He froze.

Silence now, save for the soft, plaintive cello on the radio.

A full minute passed before he spoke again—quieter this time. Less certain.

“She chose Sherlock.”

She kissed Sherlock, the voice corrected. Not the same.

He didn’t answer.

Not aloud.

Instead, he reached for his phone, hesitated, then opened a browser with clinical efficiency. Tapped out a query with two fingers, his posture immaculate even here, alone.

“PS4 digital store Mortal Kombat”

The first result loaded. There it was. 74.90.

He stared.

A long, thin breath escaped him.

He didn’t click.

But he didn’t close the tab either.

Because no matter how tightly Mycroft Holmes gripped control, no matter how coldly he packed his suitcase or blocked your number or calculated the probability of regret—

He had still memorised every one of Scorpion’s moves.

And somewhere, in the quiet of his blood and the back of his throat, he could still hear your voice laughing.

Two months later, Mycroft Holmes sent for his parents.

It was their mother's birthday—a date which he remembered annually without fail, noted on three synchronized calendars and cross-verified by his secretary. This year, he had taken the unusual step of making a reservation at an elegant restaurant in Belgravia, one with a formal dress code, French wine service, and, for reasons unknown even to himself, a modest dance floor.

He’d sent the address to Sherlock with minimal context and received a single emoji in return: 🎩. Mycroft chose to interpret this as acceptance, though whether it was sincere or mocking remained—as always—ambiguous.

His parents arrived by car service that morning. Mycroft’s own driver had taken the day off (“family affairs,” Mycroft had muttered, waving him away). Upon arrival, his father had obediently migrated to the drawing room sofa, where he sat as though posing for an oil painting—spine straight, hands folded, shoes respectfully positioned on the mat, determined not to touch anything. He stared at a bookshelf for over twenty minutes without reading a title.

Mrs. Holmes, on the other hand, immediately made herself at home.

She disappeared into the kitchen, returned from a nearby shop, and proceeded to stock Mycroft’s spartan refrigerator with enough food to supply a week-long academic conference. She commented loudly on the lack of butter ("Honestly, Mycroft, margarine? Are you ill?") and wiped down the already pristine counters with a floral tea towel she'd brought from home.

Eventually, she meandered down the hallway, shoes squeaking faintly on Mycroft’s polished floorboards, and found herself in his office.

Ten minutes later, she returned to the living room.

“He has it in a glass dome,” she declared.

Mr. Holmes looked up from his silent contemplation of the wallpaper. “What?”

“The book,” she said, mildly breathless from the stairs. “The Art of War.”

He blinked. “He’s reading that?”

“No,” she said, waving a hand. “He has it on display. Like an exhibit. On that ridiculous black wood plinth.”

Mr. Holmes frowned. “Is it a rare edition?”

“Must be. Or meaningful.” She sat beside him with a slight huff and smoothed her skirt. “I don’t know why, but it’s under glass. Just sitting there. And he never puts sentimental things out. Not since that broken chessboard in ’98.”

Mr. Holmes nodded solemnly. “That was a poor Christmas.”

“I should have glued it.”

“You did glue it.”

“Oh yes.”

They lapsed into silence.

Until Mrs. Holmes tilted her head, peering toward the media console. “Darling?”

“Hm?”

“What is that?”

Mr. Holmes followed her gaze.

A sleek black rectangle sat beneath the television, wired discreetly with almost military neatness, flanked by two glossy black controllers. There was nothing decorative about it. No labels. No discs. Just the quiet hum of a machine that had clearly been used and then—typically—put away without fanfare.

“Looks like a VCR,” Mr. Holmes offered.

Mrs. Holmes narrowed her eyes. “No. I’ve seen one of those at Anne’s. It’s a… what do they call it—PS… PS5? No—PS4.”

Mr. Holmes blinked slowly. “You’re sure?”

“Oh yes. Anne bought one for the grandchildren. They love it.” She smiled tightly. “Of course, I don’t have grandchildren.”

Mr. Holmes offered a quiet, noncommittal grunt and stared harder at the console.

“He doesn’t have children,” she added, unnecessarily. “Too busy. Too secretive. Too emotionally constipated. But—” she gestured toward the device, eyes narrowing with renewed interest “—someone gave that to him.”

“He could’ve bought it himself.”

Mrs. Holmes looked scandalized. “For what purpose? He doesn’t play. I’ve never seen Mycroft hold a controller, let alone chase cartoon men around a screen.”

She stood again.

“Where are you going?” Mr. Holmes asked, mildly alarmed.

“To check for games.”

“Shouldn’t you wait—?”

But she was already down the hall.

Again.

Moments later, she returned with a box in her hand.

“Mycroft Holmes,” she said flatly, “owns Mortal Kombat.”

Mr. Holmes stared at her.

“What?”

She held up the case.

“Mortal. Kombat.”

He blinked at the cover: two blurry figures mid-battle, fire and shadows and something about a “fatality.” It looked like the kind of thing a sullen teenager might play while eating cereal at midnight.

Mrs. Holmes set it gently on the coffee table like it was radioactive. “He must be having a crisis.”

“Perhaps it’s research,” her husband offered weakly. “Something for work. A psychological evaluation. Civil service morale study.”

The box made a soft click as Mrs. Holmes lifted the lid and set it on the coffee table. Inside, in meticulous alphabetical order, lay a neat stack of game cases—all identical in genre, yet distinctly marked by era.

She lifted the first one carefully: Mortal Kombat (1992)—a remastered edition, still sealed in cellophane. Beneath it, Mortal Kombat Trilogy. Then Deadly Alliance, Armageddon, MK9, X, 11, and finally, the most recent edition—Mortal Kombat 1—resting on top of a folded microfiber cloth, as if it were too precious to sit directly on the others.

“All of them?” she muttered.

Mr. Holmes bent slightly forward, inspecting the titles. “Yes… Mortal Kombat 9, Mortal Kombat XL, Mortal Kombat 11, Mortal Kombat 1—why is there a one again? Wasn’t that the first?”

“They rebooted it,” she said absently, waving a hand. “Children do that now. Nostalgia with blood.”

She picked up one of the boxes, turning it over. The back displayed a chaotic explosion of colour, muscle-bound characters mid-air, snarling and leaping, limbs flying.

“This one has downloadable skins,” she read aloud. “Apparently you can play as… Rambo?”

Mr. Holmes frowned. “We have Rambo at home. In VHS.”

She set the case down with exaggerated delicacy and reached for another.

“It’s a collection,” she said slowly. “Not just a game. Look—he bought all of them. The old ones. The sequels. The reboots. It’s chronological. Organised.”

Mr. Holmes nodded sagely. “Almost like my trains.”

She looked at him.

“What?”

“My train sets,” he said, matter-of-factly. “The progression of engines. The preserved engines. The painted enamel track tiles.”

Mrs. Holmes gave him a withering look. “Mycroft doesn’t care about trains.”

“No,” he agreed. “But he likes history. Patterns. Control. I expect he’s analysing cultural trends in violence for some national survey. Might be building a profile. That’s what he does.”

“Is it?” she asked, tone sharp.

He blinked. “Isn’t it?”

Mrs. Holmes slowly turned toward him, arms crossing. “What if it isn’t about national security?”

He tilted his head.

“What if,” she said, lowering her voice like it was state treason, “our son has… dated a gamer?”

Mr. Holmes stared at her. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Why not?” she snapped. “He’s bought ten Mortal Kombats and a multiplayer controller. Do you think he’s playing both sides of the fight for research?”

Mr. Holmes shifted. “Well… yes.”

Mrs. Holmes let out a huff. “You’re as blind as Sherlock when it comes to social cues.”

“I’m simply being logical,” he replied, adjusting his cuffs. “Mycroft is not the dating type. Never has been. Even as a boy, he was more concerned with books and systems and reciting Cicero at the breakfast table.”

Mrs. Holmes’s expression softened. Just a little.

“You remember the poems, though,” she said quietly.

Mr. Holmes’s mouth twitched. “French.”

“Of course,” she murmured. “Because French was the language of love.”

He let out a sigh, nodding slowly. “He was fifteen. Or sixteen. Kept that little book in his coat pocket. Quoted Baudelaire to the kitchen light.”

Mrs. Holmes smiled wistfully. “He said he’d give it to the girl he loved. He even practiced the speech. It was quite dramatic.”

Mr. Holmes gave a low chuckle. “He almost cried when he forgot the word lumière.”

Mrs. Holmes sat very still.

Her hand, still resting lightly on the Mortal Kombat case, had gone utterly still. Her gaze had drifted—not out of focus, but inward. Deep.

The memory came back suddenly. Sharply. As if someone had whispered it into the room.

The girl.

Not her name—names had always been slippery things—but her. Mycroft’s first love.

He had been fifteen, or just barely. All legs and blazers, with an accent older than his face and posture like a man thirty years his senior. She had been kind. Or at least, Mycroft thought so. Bright-eyed, generous with her laughs, and always willing to listen to him ramble about languages and logic puzzles in the school library.

“She smiled at me, Mother,” Mycroft had said, his voice uncharacteristically breathless as he pulled open the linen drawer, rifling through until he found the small, worn volume of French poetry. “She laughed at my joke. A joke, Mother. I made a joke, and she laughed.”

He had recited the speech in the mirror six times that evening. Practiced how to offer her the book with both hands, carefully, spine up. Practiced what to say: "You make me forget I'm meant to be clever."

Mrs. Holmes had stood in the doorway and watched, her arms folded gently, not daring to interrupt.

And the next day—prom.

She’d come with someone else.

A tall boy. Sporty. The kind that never carried a briefcase.

Mycroft had still tried. Had waited for her by the punch table in his too-tight suit with a fresh haircut and the book pressed to his chest like a holy relic. And when he’d asked her—quietly, nervously, properly—if she’d like to dance with him…

She had blinked. Laughed. Not cruelly, exactly. Just surprised.

“Oh, Mycroft,” she’d said, tucking her hand behind his elbow like a teacher correcting a child. “I thought you were just being friendly. You're sweet, but—”

The book had stayed in his jacket. Untouched. Unopened.

He came home before midnight. Silent. Face drawn. Cheeks pale.

Mrs. Holmes had followed him up the stairs and found him in his bedroom, still in the suit, sitting rigidly on the edge of the bed like he’d been punched. The book was still clutched in his hand.

She'd sat beside him for hours.

He hadn’t cried. Not once. But he had muttered, again and again, with a kind of surgical bitterness:

“I’m fat. I’m strange. No one wants to dance with discipline. No one wants to kiss intellect. No one notices boys with briefcases.”

Mrs. Holmes had kissed the crown of his head. Whispered that one day, someone would notice. That he was handsome, brilliant, rare. That someone would see the library inside him and want to live there.

But the next morning, he had hidden the book in the back of his wardrobe.

He never spoke of her again.

Now, decades later, Mrs. Holmes sat back in her son’s drawing room, surrounded by Mortal Kombat discs and damning silence, and felt that same ache bloom behind her ribs.

“Oh, Mike,” she murmured.

Mr. Holmes glanced up from the game case. “What?”

“I remember now,” she said softly. “The girl. From school. The one who made him believe he was… wanted.”

Mr. Holmes blinked, brow creasing.

“She humiliated him,” she went on, her voice steady but low. “Didn’t mean to, maybe. But she did. And Mycroft came home with that book still in his pocket. Sat on his bed for hours, muttering that he was fat and nerdy and no girl would ever like him.”

Mr. Holmes gave a long, slow exhale. “Hmm.”

“And now,” she said, gesturing around them, “someone’s got him playing video games.”

“A woman?” he asked mildly.

Mrs. Holmes turned sharply.

He held up both hands. “I’m only asking. Could be a man.”

She gave him a withering look.

“There’s no prejudice in this family,” he added quickly, with the defensive air of a man who had once attended three Pride parades without understanding any of the signs.

Mrs. Holmes sighed. “It doesn’t matter if it’s a man or a woman. What matters is—” she swept the room with her eyes, “—he’s in love again.”

Mr. Holmes straightened slightly. “Do you really think so?”

She gestured at the cabinet—at the alphabetized chaos, the curated nostalgia, the controllers that had clearly seen use. “Do you think our son built a Mortal Kombat library for professional purposes?”

He frowned. “...It is rather specific.”

“Exactly.”

Mrs. Holmes stood abruptly, pacing now, her heels clicking with quiet purpose. “He’s trying. He’s learning. He bought equipment. He practiced. He’s engaging with something completely foreign to him.”

She turned to her husband, eyes blazing with conviction. “Mycroft Holmes does not do that lightly.”

Mr. Holmes looked around the room once more. “So you think it’s serious.”

“I think,” she said firmly, “that someone has made my son feel visible. And we’re going to find out who.”

She turned, already halfway to the hall.

“Where are you going?”

“To his files.”

Mr. Holmes blinked. “That’s an invasion of privacy.”

Mrs. Holmes stopped. Thought for a beat.

Then looked over her shoulder and said, without a hint of shame:

“I’m his mother.”

And disappeared down the hall.

But she didn’t have a chance to investigate.

Because the front door clicked open.

Mycroft Holmes stepped into the house—two hours earlier than expected.

The umbrella stand shivered as he slid his black, tightly furled umbrella into place with sharp precision. His footfalls were crisp, deliberate. The coat came off next, folded once across his arm as he turned into the drawing room—

And stopped dead.

There, on the coffee table, sat the box.

His box.

The one containing the full Mortal Kombat chronology, alphabetised and curated with the kind of obsessive discretion he reserved for classified files and rare first editions. The lid was off. Several game cases had been removed.

His father sat beside it, serene as ever, legs crossed, reading the back of Deadly Alliance with the same expression he used when assembling model trains. The only thing missing was a mug of tea and the Sunday paper.

Mycroft’s gaze swept the room. “Where is she?”

From the hallway: “I was dusting.”

Mycroft’s voice sliced the air without volume. “You were trespassing.”

Mrs. Holmes reappeared like a criminal caught mid-escape—holding a microfiber cloth she clearly hadn’t used.

Mycroft didn’t blink. “Who opened it?”

His father didn’t hesitate. “Your mother.”

Mrs. Holmes turned slowly. If looks could kill, the elder Holmes would have joined the ancestors before she’d even spoken. Mycroft turned to face her, his pale expression devoid of warmth.

“I believe I’ve made it explicitly clear—on more than one occasion—that my possessions are not to be tampered with.”

Mrs. Holmes folded her arms. “It was in the living room.”

“Neatly concealed,” Mycroft said, already stepping toward the table, “in a box beneath the cabinet. Not labeled. Not displayed. Not intended for general perusal.”

“I thought it was DVDs.”

“It is not.”

“Clearly,” she said, eyeing Mortal Kombat XL with a mixture of suspicion and maternal concern. “Do you plan to fight demons in your free time, or are these merely for decoration?”

Mycroft sighed—sharp, quiet, lethal. “They are for research purposes.”

His father lifted his brows and looked at his wife with smug certainty, as if to say: See?

Mrs. Holmes didn’t flinch. “Research?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied crisply, gathering the cases with quick, precise motions. “A psychological profile. Digital aggression in postmodern conflict environments. Weaponised narrative structure. Mechanisms of reward and sensory overstimulation.”

She arched a brow. “You memorised all that?”

“I wrote the briefing.”

“You play them,” she accused.

He paused.

Just for a second.

Then: “That is part of the research.”

She took a slow step forward. “With someone?”

Mycroft didn’t answer.

She narrowed her eyes. “Was she nice?”

He froze.

“She was,” Mrs. Holmes said gently, “wasn’t she?”

He bent and replaced the box’s lid with deliberate care. “Do not touch my things.”

Then, as if the moment hadn’t existed at all, he turned briskly on his heel and carried the box down the hallway, his polished shoes echoing sharply against the floorboards. He disappeared into his study.

The door shut with a clean, decisive click.

Mr. Holmes cleared his throat. “Well,” he said, shifting in his seat, “he handled that better than expected.”

Mrs. Holmes didn’t answer. Her eyes lingered on the hallway. Thoughtful. Sharp.

A moment later, Mycroft re-emerged, composed once more. Coat hung. Shirt immaculate. Every button straight.

“Do not,” he said without looking at them, “touch anything else in this house.”

“Then stop leaving things out,” Mrs. Holmes replied, inspecting her nails. “You know I’m curious.”

“I also know you’re reckless.”

“You’re still my son.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“No,” she said, voice softening, “it’s not.”

He didn’t respond.

Instead, he crossed to the hall mirror and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt—twice, unnecessarily. Then, as if nothing at all had transpired, he said, “We’re expected at the restaurant in seventy-eight minutes. Please prepare accordingly.”

Mr. Holmes rose with a nod, brushing his trousers. “Of course.”

“And Mother,” Mycroft added, glancing toward her.

She tilted her head. “Yes?”

He met her gaze directly—his eyes as pale and precise as ever. “Wear something appropriate for dancing.”

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Dancing?”

“Yes.”

“I thought this was a dinner.”

“It is.”

“Formal?”

“Yes.”

She studied him for a long moment. “Are you bringing a date?”

He didn’t blink. “No.”

She smiled slowly, slyly. “Then why dancing?”

Mycroft’s jaw flexed. “Because you like it.”

Mrs. Holmes blinked.

Then laughed. Not mockingly. Not cruelly.

Just softly. The way mothers do when their sons forget, and then remember.

“I do,” she said, eyes warm. “I love to dance.”

Mycroft straightened his spine and adjusted his collar. “I know.”

Then he disappeared into his bedroom, leaving his parents standing in the living room—one bemused, one blinking rapidly and pressing her fingers against her lips, as if to keep something secret from even herself.

And on the shelf beneath the cabinet, nestled once again in its hidden place, the Mortal Kombat box sat perfectly aligned.

Undisturbed.

But not untouched.

Less than an hour later, the table was set.

Cutlery gleamed in neat alignment, candles flickered discreetly, and Mycroft Holmes sat perfectly upright between his parents, glancing once—twice—at his watch with mounting disdain.

Sherlock was late.

Of course he was.

“My brother,” he muttered, voice sharp as a scalpel, “has precisely no regard for punctuality, tradition, or the sanctity of dinner reservations.”

His mother barely looked up from the menu. “He’s a free spirit, darling.”

“He’s an inconvenience.”

Mr. Holmes hummed in vague agreement, adjusting his tie and turning his glass slowly by the stem.

It wasn’t the first time Sherlock had done this—sent an eleventh-hour text (“can’t make it. investigate murder in Cornwall. send my love.”)—but Mycroft had specifically warned him not to leave their mother’s birthday dinner unattended.

“Do you think he’s forgotten?” Mrs. Holmes asked, frowning gently over her wine glass.

“He’s on a case,” Mycroft replied, voice tight. “Apparently a body turned up in a greenhouse. He claimed urgency. I suspect boredom.”

“Would it kill him to plan ahead?” she muttered.

“Statistically, no,” Mycroft said, sipping his wine. “But emotionally, it might.”

He checked his watch again. Forty-two minutes past.

He was about to call the waiter and order out of sheer spite when his father gave a soft grunt and leaned forward in his chair, squinting toward the entrance.

“Oh,” Mr. Holmes said, sounding mildly surprised. “Look. It’s the young lady.”

Mycroft looked up.

And froze.

You stepped into the restaurant with visible hesitation, clutching a neatly wrapped gift in both hands. The maître d' guided you through the tables with practiced grace, but your steps were cautious, unsure. The chandelier overhead caught the gloss of your hair as you passed beneath it. Your coat was open just enough to show the necklace he had given you—still worn.

Still yours.

Mycroft’s posture didn’t shift. Not visibly. But the air around him changed. Tensed.

His pale hands stilled on the tablecloth. His expression, already stern, sharpened into something unreadable.

You looked radiant. Not in some grand, operatic way, but in that maddening, effortless manner you always had—soft around the edges, present, real. You were dressed nicely, but not ostentatiously. A quiet, familiar elegance. You walked like someone hoping not to be noticed, which only made you more so.

Several men turned to look. One even sat up straighter, half-twisting in his chair.

Mycroft noticed.

He clenched his jaw so tightly it clicked.

“Finally,” Mr. Holmes muttered with visible relief, rising halfway from his chair. “Someone I can talk to about trains.”

Mycroft didn’t look at him.

He couldn’t take his eyes off you.

You smiled as you approached, a little sheepishly, and said with practiced warmth, “Sorry to barge in—I know this is family time. Sherlock sends his apologies. He’s... elbows-deep in a potted plant and couldn’t get away.”

Mrs. Holmes blinked, then laughed. “Well. That’s a first.”

You handed over the gift. “He asked me to bring this in his place. Said it was ‘tacky but heartfelt.’ His words.”

She took it with a chuckle. “That sounds about right.”

You glanced at Mycroft then—brief, searching.

He stared back, expression unreadable. Perfectly blank. But you caught it: the flicker in his eyes. The storm behind the calm.

And then you looked away.

“Would it be terribly inappropriate,” you asked, voice lighter now, “if I joined for just a minute? I can go, of course. I just—well. I was already dressed.”

Mr. Holmes gestured emphatically. “Sit. You’ll save me from hearing another story about diplomatic seating arrangements.”

Mrs. Holmes swatted his arm. “Hush, she’s a guest.”

But her tone was warm. Welcoming. She liked you.

Mycroft remained motionless as you sat beside him.

“Mr. Holmes,” you said politely, your voice just a touch too formal, “lovely to see you.”

“Mycroft,” he said stiffly, without looking at you. “You may call me Mycroft. You’ve done so before.”

You gave a tiny nod. “Alright. Mycroft.”

His name sounded strange coming from you again. Familiar, but edged with tension. A remembered intimacy. You didn’t say it like Sherlock did—mocking or impatient. You said it carefully, like it meant something.

He hated how much he missed that.

The waiter appeared.

“Would you like anything, madam?”

You blinked. “Oh—I hadn’t planned to stay long. But—” you glanced at the menu, then at Mycroft’s untouched second wine glass. “Just water, please.”

He nodded and disappeared.

Silence fell over the table for a moment.

Then Mr. Holmes leaned in conspiratorially. “You’ll be pleased to know,” he said, “that I’ve been researching French rail systems since we last spoke. Did you know they still preserve some of the older 1960s carriages for historical tours?”

Your face lit up. “The SNCF heritage models? With the red-and-cream interiors?”

“Yes!” He beamed.

And just like that, you were talking. Laughing. Reeling off facts about train gauges and historic paintwork and steam locomotives like it was a language only the two of you shared.

Mrs. Holmes listened, quietly amused.

Mycroft sat in silence.

He didn’t eat. He didn’t drink.

He watched.

You didn’t look at him again—not directly—but he saw the way your hand tightened slightly on your napkin when your fingers brushed his sleeve by accident. He saw the way you stiffened when you laughed too loud and then checked yourself. The way your gaze flicked once toward the door, as if hoping—expecting—someone else to arrive.

But Sherlock wouldn’t come.

Sherlock had sent you.

And now here you were. Sitting beside Mycroft again, in his line of fire, looking like the answer to a question he wasn’t allowed to ask.

He turned slightly.

Not enough for his parents to notice.

But just enough that his shoulder no longer touched yours.

He hadn’t seen you in months.

Not really.

Not since the resort, not since the kiss you gave to Sherlock in the hotel lobby—a kiss that, whether you meant it or not, had snapped shut the carefully guarded box Mycroft had built around his feelings. After that day, he returned to London. To shadows. To silence.

There were moments, of course. Fleeting ones. A glimpse of you when he delivered a classified envelope to Baker Street. The brush of your name across a debriefing. A shared glance, once, when he passed you on the staircase, you holding a coffee, he holding every thought he refused to say. You liked his new Instagram posts from time to time—he knew, though he’d never admit he checked.

But you hadn’t spoken.

And now here you were.

Sitting beside him again.

Mr. Holmes was delighted to have someone to talk trains with. Mrs. Holmes had questions about everything from your job to your favorite bakery. And Mycroft… Mycroft was quiet. Watching. Not cold, not unkind—but withdrawn. Sharp-edged. Polished, as always. He answered questions only when asked. Commented only when silence demanded.

But you didn’t leave.

Despite what he’d expected, you stayed.

When Mr. Holmes raised his glass and declared that the meal was the best he’d had in years (“because no one argued politics”), you smiled. When the waiter brought out the birthday cake, you laughed at Mrs. Holmes trying to extinguish all the candles with one breath.

And when a song began to play over the small speakers near the bar—an upbeat salsa, warm and gold as late afternoon sun—Mrs. Holmes turned with mischievous brightness and said:

“Mike, come dance with me.”

Mycroft, mid-sip of wine, choked slightly. “Mycroft,” he corrected, pained. “MY-CROFT.”

Mrs. Holmes waved a hand, already rising. “Nonsense. Come on. You promised dancing.”

“I did not.”

“You implied it.”

“I implied the availability of dance. I made no promises.”

She was already pulling at his sleeve. “Oh hush. If I’d waited for promises from your father, we’d have never married.”

Mycroft sighed. Closed his eyes.

Then stood.

Without further complaint.

He allowed himself to be led toward the floor with the resigned dignity of a man going to the gallows—straight-backed, perfectly composed, hands smoothing his lapels one last time. When he placed one pale hand on his mother’s back and the other in her hand, the moment stretched—absurd, slightly comedic.

And then—

They danced.

Not awkwardly. Not stiffly.

Surprisingly well.

Mycroft Holmes, the man who had once claimed he would rather be assassinated than perform a cha-cha in public, moved with understated grace. Not flamboyant. But confident. The steps were textbook—precise, rhythmic, guided by decades of etiquette training and some half-forgotten lessons learned in diplomatic events across Europe.

And as he spun his mother once, twice, you laughed. Just a little. Watching from your seat with your chin in your palm.

Mr. Holmes tapped the table with two fingers and rose with surprising ease, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.

“Would you care to dance?” he asked, extending a hand to you with all the gallantry of a man who had once proposed on a ferry in the rain.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Oh—I—really?”

“I won’t step on your feet,” he said earnestly. “Not unless provoked.”

You laughed, glancing toward Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft, who were still locked in a graceful rhythm across the floor.

“I don’t know,” you teased, setting down your glass. “I’d hate to be responsible for a back injury.”

Mr. Holmes’s eyes twinkled. “After raising two Holmes boys, my spine’s indestructible.”

You took his hand.

He guided you gently to the floor, posture impeccable, and as the music shifted into something warm and rhythmic—light salsa, the kind meant to coax rather than challenge—he gave you a look of pure, innocent mischief.

And then he twirled you.

“Oh!” you yelped, laughing as your skirt fanned out and you spun lightly under his hand.

He caught you again with practiced steadiness, then winked. “Told you.”

You grinned. “You’ve done this before.”

“On occasion. With women far less charming.”

“Flatterer.”

“Only when deserved.”

Your laughter drew Mrs. Holmes’s attention. She turned mid-step, giving you and her husband a brief, assessing look—her eyes narrowing with suspicion at his uncharacteristic grace—before she spun out of Mycroft’s hold and declared, “Partner switch!”

Mycroft blinked. “Mother—”

But Mrs. Holmes was already steering her son firmly by the arm toward you. “Come now. Let your father corrupt someone else.”

“My back can handle it,” you called, grinning.

Mr. Holmes, ever obliging, took his wife’s hand. “Don’t twist my hip, dear.”

“You twisted it yourself in 1982.”

You and Mycroft met at the center of the floor, hesitant.

He looked as though he’d been dragged into a battlefield with no time to study the map—rigid posture, jaw tight, one hand hovering near yours like he was unsure how to approach. His dark hair was immaculate, his suit untouched by the soft sweat and glow of most dancers, his every movement measured and precise. Sharp. Calculating. Well-groomed. That pale complexion, that typically stern expression.

You tilted your head. “You’ll survive.”

“I am unconvinced.”

But he took your hand.

His other settled at your waist—tentative, careful, like touching you without permission might unravel the last thread of his restraint. You rested your free hand on his shoulder, the fabric beneath your palm warm and rigid, stitched with control.

The music pulsed softly around you. At first, the dance was mechanical. Mycroft led with careful detachment, eyes fixed just over your shoulder. You followed, equally stiff, your fingers light in his.

Then you looked up.

And smiled.

It wasn’t a smirk. Not sarcastic or biting. Just real.

It hit him like a fault line.

His gaze flicked to yours—quick, uncertain—and something in his posture shifted. Not much. But enough. His fingers adjusted. His frame curved ever so slightly inward. His steps found rhythm.

You breathed with him. Once. Twice.

And then you danced.

It wasn’t flawless. He misstepped once—clipped your toe and muttered something that might have been Latin and obscene—but you only laughed and guided him back with an encouraging tug of his arm. He adjusted. Recalibrated. Let go.

Mycroft Holmes let go.

His smile was subtle—barely there—but when it came, it was devastating.

He twirled you. Once.

You gasped—laughing as your hand came to rest at his chest.

And that’s when it happened.

From the table, Mrs. Holmes looked up.

And she saw it.

The way her eldest son was looking at you.

Not with hunger. Not with possessiveness.

But with absolute, unguarded reverence.

As if your smile had reordered the universe. As if, for one quiet moment, the world did not need fixing, and control was not the highest form of love. As if you were enough.

He looked at you like you were something holy.

Mrs. Holmes’s lips parted slightly, breath caught. She hadn’t seen that look before—not from Mycroft. Not once. Not in thirty-something years of mothering a boy who had taught himself to seal emotion behind intellect, to prefer power over affection.

Not until now.

And not from Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t look at you like that.

Sherlock liked you. Desired you, maybe. Admired your brain when it suited him. But Sherlock had always looked at you like you were a riddle he’d half-solved.

Mycroft looked at you like he’d found the answer and wanted to write it into law.

Mrs. Holmes turned to her husband, who was watching the dance with mild amusement.

“It’s her,” she whispered.

He blinked. “Who?”

“She’s the one,” she said, her voice low, certain.

Mr. Holmes raised a brow. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Her hand tightened on his.

“Because I’ve never seen him look at anyone that way.”

She turned back to the floor.

And watched her son—her quiet, brilliant, lonely son—take one more step toward happiness he didn’t believe he deserved.

And you?

Mycroft only saw you again four months later.

By then, winter had dissolved into the sickly bloom of spring, and Parliament had devolved into one of its routine bouts of cannibalism. The press were circling, ministers were panicking, and Mycroft Holmes—against every instinct he possessed—was deeply, irrevocably annoyed.

So he left.

Not in disgrace, not even in protest—just in quiet, calculated self-preservation.

Let them claw each other to bits, he thought dryly, booking the most opulent suite in the most expensive hotel a discreet two-hour drive from London. Let them suffer in his absence.

He brought only two phones. A concession. A compromise. And for the first time in over a decade, he attempted the unthinkable.

He stopped working.

He tried, at least.

He walked the gardens. Read the paper. Tolerated his tailored linen suit. Sipped tea on a private balcony with the full force of imperial disdain.

And yet, by day three, he was still irritated.

That morning, a waiter had delivered his eggs slightly too runny, and he’d sent the plate back with a look that made the man stammer. The newspapers were full of clowns. His phone had buzzed twice—one from a junior aide panicking about the Home Secretary, the other from a French intelligence officer attempting to flirt via encrypted message.

He ignored both.

And by early afternoon, he had resolved to do something radical: sit by the pool.

Not swim. God, no. But the chairs were quiet, the air smelled like citrus and distant chlorine, and he told himself he could endure it for a single hour.

He selected a shaded corner, away from the sunburned hedge funders and honeymooners, set his book on his lap, and tilted his head back to listen to the wind. He closed his eyes.

He did not expect your voice.

“Excuse me—sorry, is this one taken?”

Mycroft’s eyes opened.

At first, he thought he was hallucinating. Jet lag, perhaps. Sunstroke. A rare crack in the foundation of his logic.

But no. You were real.

Standing in front of him, towel slung over one shoulder, oversized sunglasses perched atop your head. A one-piece swimsuit beneath a loose linen shirt, legs bare, skin warm from sun. You looked nothing like you had four months ago—no lab coat, no case files, no forensic gloves. Just softness. Skin. Sunglasses. An expression caught somewhere between awkwardness and surprise.

He stared.

So did you.

“…Mycroft?” you asked, slowly.

You froze upon recognizing him.

Mycroft Holmes.

Sitting in a lounge chair, dressed not in his usual three-piece armour of grey wool and immaculate tailoring, but in—God help you—a linen button-down. Open. Half-buttoned at best. Pale skin exposed to the mild sun, his chest dusted with sparse, dark hair and, most astonishing of all, scattered freckles. His sleeves were rolled up, forearms surprisingly toned beneath the civility of decades in Parliament. His shirt hung lazily open, as though even fabric had decided to surrender to the heat.

It was the most human you’d ever seen him.

And it was the most your brain had short-circuited since accidentally watching that old BBC documentary on Victorian autopsies while eating spaghetti.

He noticed your stare instantly.

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed with a flicker of discomfort, and he cleared his throat, tugging at the collar of his shirt with exaggerated nonchalance, pulling it together slightly over his chest. “Miss…?” he said, as though he’d forgotten your name entirely—or hoped you’d forget his body just as quickly.

You blinked, mortified. “Sorry—sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Nor I,” he interrupted briskly. “You just startled me.” He shifted upright in his chair with a crisp motion, as if posture might restore some of the control that sunlight and an unbuttoned shirt had stolen. “What are you doing here?” he asked, voice measured. “Sherlock wanted something?”

He looked around, scanning the pool deck with the faint twitch of paranoia, as though his younger brother might emerge from behind a potted ficus with a cigarette and a murder board.

You shook your head quickly. “No. He’s not here.”

Mycroft’s gaze snapped back to you. His brows lifted—barely—but it was enough to signal surprise. “He isn’t?”

You stepped closer, clutching the towel to your chest, trying very hard not to picture the line of sparse hair that had disappeared beneath the hem of Mycroft’s shirt. “No. Actually… I came alone.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Alone?”

You nodded, nervous. “It was a birthday thing. The team at Scotland Yard—Lestrade, mostly—they all chipped in and booked me a little trip. This trip.” You glanced around the pool area, still baffled by your luck. “Originally it was supposed to be Paris, but after Christmas, funds were tighter than expected, so… British countryside it is.”

He watched you, his face unreadable. “You didn’t want to come?”

“I didn’t want to accept,” you admitted. “It felt indulgent. But they insisted. Greg practically threatened me with paperwork if I refused.”

Mycroft let out a faint snort, almost a laugh. “Sounds like him.”

You smiled, a little more relaxed now, and gestured to the chair beside his. “May I?”

He blinked—hesitated just long enough to make it feel meaningful—then nodded once. “Of course.”

You sat down carefully, the cushion still warm from the sun. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The breeze lifted the hem of your shirt slightly, and you resisted the urge to fidget. Beside you, Mycroft adjusted his sunglasses—expensive ones, no doubt—and reached for the book resting face-down on his lap.

It was The Histories by Herodotus. Of course.

But he didn’t open it. Not yet.

Instead, after a moment, he asked, “Sherlock didn’t join you?”

You hesitated.

Bit your lip.

And that, apparently, was all Mycroft needed.

He tilted his head. “Ah.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

He didn’t look smug—not quite—but something sharp moved behind his eyes. “You’ve broken up.”

You flushed. “No. We’ve just—” You paused, searching for the right word. “We’ve just taken a break.”

Mycroft gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod, as though he were logging it somewhere in a mental ledger. “A break,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

He didn’t speak, just studied you over the rim of his glasses. You weren’t sure what he saw—if it was the faint shine in your eyes from the wine the night before, or the barely concealed tension in your posture—but whatever it was, it made him soften. Just slightly.

“How long ago?” he asked.

You stared at your knees. “The day before I left.”

He let out a quiet breath, more sound than sigh. “That’s hardly enough time to gather clarity.”

“I know,” you murmured. “But… I needed space. And they’d already booked everything. It felt rude to cancel.”

Mycroft was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly—too softly to be judgmental—he said, “Did he hurt you?”

You looked up sharply. “No. Not really. It wasn’t like that.”

Mycroft waited.

You shifted, wrapping the towel tighter around your waist. “It’s just… Sherlock needs the world to orbit him. And I guess… I need someone who looks up every now and then to notice I’m still standing there.”

Mycroft turned his head at that. Slowly. Fully. He looked at you as if he were recalculating the trajectory of a satellite that had unexpectedly gone off-course.

“I see,” he said at last.

You nodded, embarrassed. “Anyway. I’m not here to mope. I came to sit by the pool and drink something with too much fruit in it.”

There was a pause. Then:

“You may take mine,” he said, gesturing to the untouched drink on the small table between you. “I ordered it thinking it was lemonade. It is, in fact, pineapple and humiliation.”

You smiled in spite of yourself and reached for the glass. “Thanks.”

He watched you drink—quiet, still—and then, softly, said something that nearly made you drop it.

“I’m… sorry it didn’t work out.”

You glanced at him.

Not just for the words. But for the way he said them.

Genuine. Low. Almost apologetic. As though he’d had a hand in the breakup. As though the kiss in the closet—the silence that followed—had been more than a memory to him, too.

You swallowed. “Thanks,” you said again.

Mycroft turned his head away, toward the garden.

But his fingers, you noticed, were curled tightly around the spine of his book.

Like he was holding something back.

And across the pool, the sun finally broke through the clouds—casting long, warm shadows on pale skin, sparse freckles, and the slow, quiet undoing of a man not used to wanting things he can’t have.

You hesitated before speaking. The glass in your hand was nearly empty, condensation pooling at your fingertips. “Can I ask,” you said cautiously, eyes not quite meeting his, “why you’re here?”

Mycroft didn’t even look at you. “No.”

The answer was immediate. Curt. A clean slice of syllables with no room for follow-up.

Your lips parted, flustered. “Oh,” you mumbled, pressing the edge of your glass to your mouth just to have something to do. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

He exhaled through his nose. You weren’t sure if it was irritation or restraint.

But then, after a long moment of silence, he relented.

“I needed a break,” he said tightly. “From work. From… those idiots.”

You glanced over, surprised. His hand had come up to rub at his temple, long fingers digging lightly into the side of his head, as if the mere memory of whatever he’d escaped was enough to summon a migraine.

Your lips curled, soft with amusement. “You mean Parliament?”

“No,” he said dryly. “I mean the other ones. The ones who think they are Parliament.”

You chuckled gently. “You poor man.”

Mycroft turned his head then, the corner of his mouth twitching as he glanced at you sidelong. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not,” you said innocently. “It’s just… you look more like Sherlock right now than I’ve ever seen you.”

That gave him pause.

He didn’t answer. Just blinked once behind his sunglasses and turned his face away again, lips pressed into a familiar, unreadable line. You could tell he didn’t like that. Being compared. Even to his brother. Especially to his brother.

Sensing the shift, you quickly pivoted. “This drink, though,” you said, lifting it in mock salute, “is excellent. Pineapple and humiliation. I highly recommend it.”

Mycroft let out a quiet huff of amusement. “I believe you.”

There was a moment of quiet between you. The sun had fully broken now, warming the flagstones beneath your chair, casting lazy shadows beneath the palms.

“How long are you staying?” he asked.

You squinted toward the hotel façade. “Three days. Supposedly to recharge. Lestrade said I was ‘a high-strung raccoon on a forensic bender.’”

Mycroft tilted his head. “Sounds accurate.”

You snorted and elbowed him lightly.

He didn’t flinch at the contact. But you noticed how still he went afterward. Not stiff—just… careful. Like he was taking mental inventory of the sensation. You didn’t press it.

Your gaze drifted toward the pool. “Funny, isn’t it?” you said. “Big fancy pool, expensive resort, and no one’s actually in the water.”

Mycroft followed your gaze. The deck was dotted with people in sunhats and linen, sipping cocktails, scrolling through phones, adjusting towels—doing everything except swimming.

“I don’t understand rich people,” you continued. “They pay for the illusion of leisure. Not the act itself.”

“That,” Mycroft said mildly, “is the most accurate summary of British upper-class tourism I’ve ever heard.”

You smiled again—warmer this time.

Then you drained the last of your drink, set the glass neatly on the table, and rose to your feet.

You unbuttoned your shirt with a casual shrug, peeling it off your shoulders and tossing it onto your chair in one fluid motion. Mycroft turned his head to respond, and immediately regretted it.

The swimsuit clung to you like sin.

It wasn’t vulgar. It wasn’t overt. It wasn’t even revealing. But it was form-fitting—the kind of cut that curved just right along your hips, your thighs, the dip of your waist. The kind of thing that required a man with discipline not to look.

Mycroft looked.

And then very quickly, very sternly—did not look.

You smirked, clearly having caught the flicker of his eyes. “Want to swim with me?”

He didn’t answer right away. You turned to him, hands on your hips, sunlight catching along your collarbone.

“Mycroft?”

“No,” he said flatly, adjusting his sunglasses.

But the word came out rougher than he intended. Less composed. And you didn’t seem discouraged.

You padded to the edge of the pool, bare feet silent on the tile, and stepped into the water with an easy grace. Your body cut through the surface without hesitation, arms slicing forward as you slipped beneath, cool and clean. The water embraced you like it was waiting.

Mycroft stared at his book. Stared hard. But the words blurred on the page. Herodotus, he thought grimly, would forgive him.

He could hear the splash of your arms as you moved across the water—strong strokes, effortless turns, the quiet hum of someone enjoying themselves.

You didn’t glance back.

Didn’t call to him.

You just swam.

And Mycroft Holmes—sharp, calculating, impeccably pressed in his half-unbuttoned shirt—sat perfectly still in his chair.

Trying not to think about your legs.

Or the way the water clung to your hips.

Or the fact that, for the first time in weeks, he didn’t want to go back to London.

But he noticed something else, too.

You attracted attention.

Not in a loud, ostentatious way. But in the way that made men pause mid-sentence. Turn their heads. Whisper to one another with the casual entitlement of people unaccustomed to being challenged. And Mycroft—calm, composed, immaculately aloof—noticed every one of them.

It began the moment you emerged from the pool.

You pushed up from the edge in one fluid motion, water cascading down your body in rivulets that clung to your skin, your swimsuit a second layer, sleek and black against the sun. You ran your fingers through your hair, squeezing the water from the strands with a distracted grace, completely unaware of the ripple you caused.

Mycroft, however, was not unaware.

He watched—eyes shielded behind dark lenses, jaw taut, book forgotten on his lap—as the man to your left lowered his sunglasses to get a better look. Another one near the bar turned to nudge his friend, lips twitching into a smirk. And then, as if summoned by some invisible signal, a pool employee materialized out of thin air—eager, too eager—offering you a towel with the kind of attentiveness Mycroft had only ever seen reserved for heads of state or film stars.

You smiled politely, thanked him, and turned—draped now in terrycloth and sun, barefoot on the stone.

And you walked back to Mycroft.

Of course you did.

He sat up straighter before you even reached him, adjusting his shirt with unnecessary precision, jaw clenched so tightly it might as well have been carved in marble.

“Back so soon?” he murmured, eyes flicking up.

You shrugged, toweling your hair. “It’s cold when you stop moving.”

Before he could reply, another hotel employee approached—young, tanned, with that insufferable resort smile.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked you, eyes ignoring Mycroft entirely. “Something fruity, perhaps?”

You didn’t notice. “Sure,” you said. “Surprise me.”

The young man winked. “Coming right up.”

Mycroft stood.

Not abruptly. Not obviously. But there was finality in the way he rose, as if the chair no longer served any purpose now that you were in it.

You looked up, brow creasing slightly. “Leaving?”

He nodded once, already smoothing the front of his linen shirt. “I have… emails.”

You gave him a long look, unreadable. “Will I see you at dinner?”

He paused—just long enough to imply calculation.

Then: “Perhaps.”

And with that, he walked away.

You didn’t follow.

You didn’t call after him, or press him for more. You just turned, accepted your drink with a grateful smile, and left him to the quiet storm twisting somewhere behind his composed expression.

Dinner was late.

By the time Mycroft descended into the hotel’s main dining room, dusk had painted the sky in muted orange and deep violet. He hadn’t planned to come down. Had, in fact, made several compelling internal arguments for remaining in his room with a copy of Tacitus and a bottle of overpriced scotch.

But he came anyway.

He was buttoned up again. Darker suit now, sharper lapels. The return of formality. His armor. His silence.

And then he saw you.

Sitting at the bar.

Alone. But not for long.

There was a man beside you—Italian, if Mycroft judged the accent correctly. Well-groomed, younger than himself, with an air of easy charm and a blazer far too casual for the restaurant’s dress code. He was leaning closer to you than necessary, gesturing with his glass, and laughing at something you’d said.

More concerning still—you were laughing back.

Mycroft’s jaw tightened.

He hadn’t intended to approach. Hadn’t intended to engage.

But his legs moved anyway.

He crossed the room with quiet force, his polished shoes silent against the tile, his mind already calculating half a dozen plausible justifications for what he was about to do.

You didn’t see him coming.

But the Italian did.

Just as the man reached out—casually, brazenly—to brush his fingers against your wrist, Mycroft stepped in.

“Darling,” he said, his voice like the snap of a velvet glove, smooth and lethal. “There you are.”

The Italian blinked, startled. “Mi scusi?”

Mycroft turned to you, his hand resting—possessively, lightly—on the small of your back. “I was starting to think you’d stood me up.”

Your eyes widened, just slightly.

You covered quickly. “There was a line at the bar.”

Mycroft turned back to the other man, his expression polite but cold. “Thank you for keeping my girlfriend company.”

There was a beat of silence.

The Italian looked between you, then let out a tight smile. “Of course.” He raised his glass slightly. “Beautiful woman.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed just slightly. “Yes,” he said. “She is.”

The man left shortly after, murmuring something in Italian that Mycroft didn’t bother translating.

You turned slowly, looking up at him. “Girlfriend?”

Mycroft didn’t flinch. “It seemed the most efficient way to ensure he left.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Are you in the habit of rescuing women who don’t need rescuing, Mr. Holmes?”

His gaze didn’t falter. “I assumed you’d prefer not to be pawed by a man whose idea of charm appears to involve leaning at a 45-degree angle and grinning like an estate agent.”

You scoffed. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Mycroft exhaled slowly through his nose, then offered with maddening neutrality, “You’re my brother’s girlfriend.”

You gave him a long look. “I was.”

He paused. “You are.”

You narrowed your eyes. “We’re on a break.”

“That won’t last.”

You blinked. “You can’t know that.”

“I can infer it,” he said calmly, folding his arms. “Statistically, emotionally, and based on Sherlock’s uncharacteristic mood swings over the last four days. He called our mother. Twice. Voluntarily.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

Mycroft nodded, as if that closed the case.

But you didn’t let it. Your voice softened. “You know what I found on his phone?”

That gave him pause.

You watched him closely. “Texts. Dozens. To Irene Adler.”

Mycroft’s composure didn’t fracture, but the breath he took was a touch too sharp, and the answer didn’t come swiftly.

“I see,” he said finally.

“I don’t think you do.”

He said nothing.

“I asked him about them,” you went on, voice quieter now, steadier. “He said it wasn’t what I thought. That she’s just a ‘contact.’ But you and I both know Sherlock doesn’t maintain contacts. He cultivates obsessions.”

Mycroft said nothing, but his lips thinned.

“So,” you finished, taking another sip of the pineapple cocktail, “if you were playing knight-in-diplomatic-armour back there to protect me from flirty European men… you needn’t bother. I’m allowed to flirt. I’m technically single.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But his hand, resting lightly on the bar top, curled just slightly.

After a moment, he said quietly, “I didn’t know about Adler.”

You nodded once, not looking at him. “Now you do.”

Mycroft looked at the seat the Italian had just vacated.

Then, without a word, he stepped around the stool and sat in it.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

For several seconds, the silence between you was thick—coated in unspoken things, in tension neither of you could name.

Then, softly, he said it.

“Sherlock’s an idiot.”

You glanced over, surprised. He met your eyes squarely.

“He always has been. Since we were children. Brilliant, yes. Gifted beyond measure. But incapable of understanding value in the ordinary. Incapable of recognising something good… until he’s already broken it.”

You said nothing at first. Just nodded. Once.

Then you looked down at the drink in your hand, swirling the half-melted ice.

“I’m not going to cry,” you said.

Mycroft arched a brow. “I never said you would.”

You smirked. “But you thought it.”

He gave a slight incline of his head. “I considered the possibility.”

You turned toward him fully now, one elbow still on the bar, but your body leaning in. “Have a drink with me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” he said, cool as ever, “if you cry, I will be expected to offer comfort, and I am… fundamentally unsuited to it.”

You grinned. “You’re not that bad.”

“Nonetheless.”

You studied him. His posture was perfect, of course. His hair neatly combed despite the humidity. His shirt collar crisp. Every part of him screaming restraint.

So you touched his arm—just lightly.

He looked down at your hand like it might detonate.

You smiled, leaning in playfully. “Come to dinner with me instead.”

His eyes flicked back to yours.

You could see the debate behind them. The sharp, brilliant mind calculating escape routes, propriety, consequences. And yet—when he finally stood, smoothing the front of his shirt, offering you his arm like a man from another century—it wasn’t calculation that won.

It was desire.

Desire, dressed in logic. Masked in formality. But desire, nonetheless.

“You won’t cry?” he asked, voice dry.

You looped your hand through the crook of his arm. “Not unless you bring up Parliament.”

He allowed the smallest smirk.

And together, you walked toward the dining room.

Mycroft doesn’t remember the last time he had a fun dinner.

He’s certain he’s had pleasant ones. Strategic ones. Impressive, politically valuable, even historic ones. He’s dined with world leaders and war criminals, with heads of state, with monarchs who’ve praised the canapés and spies who’ve poisoned them.

But fun?

No. He doesn’t think so.

And he certainly doesn’t remember the last time he genuinely laughed. Not the polite huff he uses to acknowledge a diplomatic quip, or the dry chuckle he gives when someone mistakenly believes they’ve bested him. A real laugh. Unrestrained. Unexpected.

But there it was.

Soft. Low. And completely unwilling.

You’d said something ridiculous—something about how the soup looked like it might file for divorce from the rest of the meal—and it caught him off-guard. Mycroft had smirked first. He’d tried to keep it there—controlled, subtle. But you’d grinned, pleased with yourself, and before he could stop it, a single laugh escaped him. Short, amused, utterly authentic.

You blinked at him. Then beamed. “That was a laugh.”

Mycroft blinked as if something scandalous had happened under the table. “That,” he said, recovering his posture and lifting his wine glass with careful dignity, “was an involuntary spasm of incredulity. That wasn’t a laugh.”

You tilted your head, triumphant. “It was absolutely a laugh.”

“It was an unfortunate laugh,” Mycroft muttered. “A casualty of your… linguistic anarchy.”

“It was a victory,” you said, leaning back in your chair, swirling your wine with dramatic satisfaction. “You laughed. Ergo, the joke was good.”

He took a sip, slow and deliberate. “It was a bad joke.”

You gasped. “Mycroft Holmes, if that was a bad joke, then tell me—what, pray tell, does a good one sound like?”

He paused, mid-swallow, eyes narrowing slightly above the rim of his glass.

Oh no.

You saw it happen in real time—Mycroft Holmes, a man who once redrafted a foreign policy briefing over Christmas pudding, actually contemplating how to make a joke.

His brow furrowed. “There was one. Something about a neutron… no, that wasn’t it.”

You rested your chin on your hand, delighted. “This is already amazing.”

He scowled at your smile. “If you keep looking at me like I’m juggling pineapples, I shall abstain entirely.”

“Then don’t juggle pineapples. Just… make the joke.”

He sighed, eyes flicking up to the ceiling for help that would not come. “Very well. Let’s see…”

He adjusted in his chair, as if aligning his spine might help align the punchline.

“Two atoms are walking down the street,” he began, tone flat, lips twitching with reluctance.

You raised your eyebrows, already fighting a grin.

“One turns to the other and says, ‘I think I lost an electron.’”

You nodded, encouraging.

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth lifted. Just barely.

The delivery was immaculate: deadpan, dry as the martini he’d ordered and sent back.

“His friend says, ‘Are you positive?’”

You stared at him for a beat—then groaned. Loudly. “Oh, Mycroft.”

He shrugged, smug now. “You asked.”

“That was terrible.”

“I warned you.”

“That was science pun terrible.”

“And yet,” he said coolly, taking another sip of wine, “you’re still smiling.”

You tried to frown. Failed miserably. “Fine. One point to House Holmes.”

“Don’t let Sherlock hear that,” he muttered.

You laughed again, softer this time, and the silence that followed was comfortable.

Mycroft stared at the rim of his glass, turning it slightly between his fingers. He could feel it again—that thing in his chest he didn’t often name. Not pain. Not pleasure. Something else. Something warm. Dangerous.

He looked up at you, this woman who had once been an inconvenience, then a curiosity, then something else entirely. Something he’d tried not to name.

But there you were—alive, amused, kind enough to let him be strange, clever enough to keep up, and reckless enough to invite him into your orbit without even realizing the gravity of it.

And God help him, he wanted to stay there.

You rested your chin in your palm, elbow propped on the table, your gaze drifting lazily toward the polished stone patio just outside the restaurant’s open-air archway. There, under a canopy of warm fairy lights and trailing wisteria, the makeshift dance floor had begun to fill.

A three-piece ensemble played a smooth, lilting jazz tune—a lazy saxophone curling between notes, the low thrum of an upright bass anchoring it, brushed drums rounding out the rhythm. Couples drifted into place: a silver-haired pair in crisp linens swaying close; a younger woman laughing as her partner twirled her a touch too dramatically; a barefoot child dancing circles around her parents.

You watched them with a wistful stillness.

Beside you, Mycroft followed your line of sight.

His gaze flicked between the dancers and your profile—observant, always—but this time, not for leverage. Not for strategy.

He was reading something quieter.

Longing.

It was in the tilt of your head, the slow exhale through your nose, the fingers toying absently with the stem of your glass. Not sadness exactly. But the echo of something missing.

So he asked.

“Do you dance?” he murmured, voice low and surprisingly gentle.

You turned, startled slightly by the softness in his tone. “Yes,” you said. Then added, with a sad little smile, “Or I used to.”

Mycroft tilted his head, considering. “Why did you stop?”

You hesitated.

Then, voice quieter, gaze drifting back toward the dancers: “My father used to dance with me. In the living room. Just us. He’d put on records—Ella Fitzgerald, Nat King Cole, sometimes just the old jazz station on the kitchen radio—and he’d spin me until I was dizzy. We danced before dinner. After school. Sometimes just to chase off a bad day.”

Mycroft didn’t speak.

You smiled faintly. “He was the only person who ever made me feel graceful.”

A beat passed.

You exhaled slowly. “He died when I was fourteen. Lung cancer. He wasn’t even a heavy smoker. Just… unlucky, I guess.”

Mycroft’s fingers twitched slightly on the table.

You looked down at your glass. “That’s why I hate the smell. Cigarettes. I know it’s irrational—plenty of people smoke and live to ninety—but the scent of it makes me feel fourteen again. Helpless. Watching him get weaker every day.”

Another silence fell.

Then: “Does Sherlock know?”

You looked up.

Your answer came with a tight nod. “Yeah. I told him.” Your tone flattened, as if recalling a well-worn argument. “He said it helped him think. That was always his excuse. ‘Thinking.’ As if thinking more clearly was worth… everything else.”

Mycroft’s jaw tensed.

But he didn’t speak.

He turned his head instead—toward the dance floor again, toward the glow of the patio lights reflecting off polished shoes and swaying hips. The music drifted through the air like memory.

And then, without a word, he stood.

You blinked up at him. “What—?”

Mycroft extended his hand.

Pale, elegant, restrained.

The gesture was careful. Measured. Not dramatic. Not forced.

But it trembled, just slightly, at the fingertips.

“Dance with me,” he said quietly.

You stared.

“Now?” you whispered.

Mycroft’s lips curved in the faintest smile. “Yes. Before I remember all the reasons I don’t.”

You hesitated—just for a heartbeat. Then your hand slid into his.

Warmth met warmth. Flesh to flesh.

His fingers curled around yours with a grip that was firm, not forceful. Possessive, but polite.

He guided you to your feet with unexpected gentleness, the chair scraping softly behind you. Neither of you spoke as you crossed the terrace. The jazz number shifted into something slower—melancholy saxophone winding through a gentle piano motif.

Mycroft led you to the edge of the dance floor.

And then—under those fairy lights, beneath the curious gaze of strangers and the approving smile of the saxophonist—Mycroft Holmes pulled you into his arms.

It wasn’t perfect.

His hand hovered at your waist for a moment, unsure. His other hand held yours with a tension born not of disinterest but of meticulous caution, like he feared holding too tightly might break something. Or reveal too much.

You smiled gently, placed your hand on his shoulder, and leaned in.

“I won’t break,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer.

But he held you.

And then, slowly—so slowly—you began to move.

Mycroft didn’t dance like a natural. He danced like a man who had learned, once, out of duty—out of necessity—perhaps for a diplomatic event or a state function. Every step was deliberate. Every pivot measured. He didn’t sway. He rotated. His spine was a line of unbroken precision.

But when you looked up at him—at the way his lashes lowered, at the way his lips parted as though to say something but didn’t—you realized something else.

He wanted this.

Not the dance.

You.

The moment. The closeness. The excuse to touch you without consequence.

So you let him lead.

And after a minute, his steps smoothed. The stiffness in his shoulders eased. Your bodies aligned more naturally. He began to breathe more easily, his palm settling at the small of your back like it had found a home there.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

The music was enough.

So was the feel of his breath near your temple, the shift of his chest against yours with every careful inhale.

He smelled like cologne and clean linen and something warm beneath the surface—like old books and summer rain. You let your eyes close, just for a moment.

When you finally opened them, you found him already watching you.

His eyes—sharp and pale and impossibly unreadable—held yours with a gaze so steady, so unnervingly intimate, it made your breath catch.

He didn’t speak.

But his fingers flexed slightly at your waist.

You waited until the second song.

The music had softened into something slower now—mournful, dusky jazz that hummed like smoke through the evening air—and Mycroft’s hand had remained at your waist the entire time, his other still lightly holding yours. His steps had grown more confident, more fluid, though his grip never lost its restraint. You could feel him adjusting, calibrating, always thinking—even while dancing.

But you needed to break the silence.

So when the moment felt right—when the moonlight brushed the terrace in silver and the fairy lights blinked lazy approval—you lifted your head slightly, enough to speak.

“Mycroft,” you said softly, “can we talk about Christmas?”

You felt the hesitation ripple through him instantly. A pause in his breath. A subtle shift in his frame. His jaw clenched ever so slightly.

But his answer came swiftly.

“No.”

The word was quiet. Final. Not cruel, but crisp—folded sharp enough to close the conversation without argument.

You blinked up at him, searching his face. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

He didn’t look at you. His gaze drifted to some fixed point over your shoulder—some diplomatic horizon only he could see.

“I prefer not to spoil a perfectly good evening,” he murmured. “With something… irreversible.”

You opened your mouth again—ready to push, just slightly—but something in his expression stopped you.

Not rejection.

Fear.

Not the frantic kind. Not trembling or obvious. But the cold, trained stillness of a man who had spent a lifetime containing what hurt.

You didn’t press.

Instead, you let your head gently fall against his shoulder.

He stiffened at first. Just for a second.

Then, slowly, his chin lowered—barely—and you felt the faintest brush of his cheek against your hair. Not a caress. Not a promise. Just… presence. Quiet and restrained.

You swayed like that until the music faded.

Until the applause scattered across the patio.

Until he walked you back to your table with polite precision, his hand barely grazing your back, as if he were afraid the contact might linger too long.

You sat, smoothed your napkin.

And then, casually, as the waiter offered fresh water and the lights warmed above you, you said:

“So… tomorrow.”

Mycroft’s eyes flicked to yours.

“There are flyers all over this place,” you said, gesturing vaguely. “Horseback riding, botanical tours, lake excursions—someone even said there’s a ruined abbey with a haunted bell tower.”

His brow arched faintly. “Charming.”

You smiled. “I thought it might be nice. I don’t really want to go alone. I was going to ask the Italian, but someone—” you cut him a sly glance “—seemed to frighten him off.”

Mycroft said nothing.

Instead, he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, not even bothering to hide the flash of calculation that flickered behind his pale eyes. His gaze slid toward the bar—toward the spot where the man had been—and then back to you, as if mentally reconstructing the entire encounter from memory.

Finally, he spoke.

“He’s from Naples,” Mycroft said mildly, “though he tells people Florence because it sounds more romantic. He works in crypto, but his real source of income is as a minor social media influencer—primarily TikTok, where he lip-syncs to Italian music with his shirt off and promotes ‘handmade’ sunglasses that are, in fact, factory knockoffs.”

You blinked.

Mycroft continued, almost bored. “He has two phones—one for personal use, one for… let’s call it extracurricular activities. He’s not married, but he’s not single. I imagine the woman in his WhatsApp wallpaper would be very interested to know where he spends his off-seasons.”

You sat back in your chair, equal parts impressed and mildly alarmed. “So what you’re saying is… you’ve doomed me to a solo abbey tour.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Not necessarily.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that a yes?”

Mycroft didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he picked up his glass, took a measured sip, and looked at you over the rim.

“I’ll walk with you,” he said at last.

You smiled. “Tomorrow?”

His eyes narrowed—mischief flickering there. “At dawn, if you like. But I expect coffee.”

You beamed. “Done.”

He set the glass down, fingers curling neatly around the base.

And for the first time all evening, Mycroft Holmes—sharp, calculating, impeccably dressed in charcoal grey—did not look away when you smiled.

He looked right at you.

You were absolutely the last person in the world Mycroft Holmes expected to see at that charity gala.

To be fair, he hadn’t wanted to be there at all. These things were exercises in political theatre—polite smiles, strategic handshakes, conversations that meant nothing but could cost everything. Still, attendance was non‑negotiable. Important people were present. Power was being traded quietly over champagne flutes. And Mycroft Holmes did not have the luxury of absence.

He stood near the edge of the room, immaculate as ever—dark suit tailored to surgical precision, hair perfectly in place, expression cool and unreadable—mentally cataloguing exits and faces alike when the air shifted.

It was instinct that made him look up.

And there you were.

For half a second, his mind refused to cooperate. Then recognition hit—sharp, unwelcome, intimate. You hadn’t changed as much as he’d expected. Older, yes. More polished. The spoiled recklessness of your youth had been refined into something lethal: confidence worn like silk, charm sharpened into a weapon.

You were on the arm of the man running for Prime Minister.

Of course you were.

Mycroft exhaled slowly through his nose. He should have known. Your father had once held that office—he remembered it vividly. He had been twenty‑five then, fresh at MI5, desperate to prove himself useful. And you had been twenty. The Prime Minister’s daughter. Untouchable. Unmanageable.

And, disastrously, his assignment.

He had hated every second of it. The babysitting. The entitlement. The way you snapped your fingers at him when you were bored. The way you smiled when you knew you were getting away with something.

He told himself he’d long since moved past it.

Then you spotted him.

Your hand slipped from your fiancé’s arm without hesitation, your eyes lighting with unmistakable recognition. Your lips curved into that same infuriating, knowing smile.

“Mike?” you called, voice warm with nostalgia.

Mycroft’s spine went rigid.

For one absurd moment, he considered turning around and leaving. Slipping out unnoticed. Preserving dignity. But cowardice did not suit him, and neither did avoidance. He straightened his shoulders and approached.

Up close, he took in your fiancé in less than a second. Tailoring too expensive to be tasteful. Smile a fraction too rehearsed. Pupils dilated when a young blonde passed—his secretary, if Mycroft had to guess. Which he did. Sleeping together. Frequently. Carelessly. You either didn’t know, or didn’t care.

Likely the latter.

“Do you know each other?” the man asked, polite but curious.

You laughed softly. “Oh, yes. This is Mr. Holmes.” You turned to Mycroft, eyes glinting. “Mike was my bodyguard when I was younger. Practically raised me.”

Mycroft lifted a brow. “Hardly,” he said coolly. “I was assigned to keep you alive, not civilised.”

You grinned. “You were my best friend.”

“That is a gross mischaracterisation of events.”

“Oh, please,” you said lightly. “You used to follow me around with that little notebook, scribbling away like a grumpy librarian.”

Mycroft’s mouth tightened. “You called me ‘Slave,’” he reminded you flatly. “And snapped your fingers at me when you wanted tea.”

You demonstrated it instantly—two sharp snaps in the air—then laughed when his jaw clenched.

“You hated it,” you said fondly.

“I hated you,” he corrected.

Your fiancé gave a nervous, almost performative laugh, clearly unsure how to place Mycroft in the hierarchy of men he disliked but couldn’t afford to insult. He extended his hand anyway.

“Jonathan Reeves,” he said smoothly. “A pleasure.”

Mycroft accepted the handshake with a firm, bloodless grip. “Mycroft Holmes.”

Jonathan blinked—just for a fraction of a second. He recovered quickly, but you saw it. Of course you did.

Before either man could say anything more, a voice called Jonathan’s name from across the room—urgent, political, the sound of opportunity wearing a smile. Jonathan glanced between you and Mycroft.

“Duty calls,” he said apologetically.

You smiled sweetly. “Go. Really. Mike can keep me company.”

You slipped your arm through Mycroft’s without asking, fingers curling possessively at his elbow. Jonathan hesitated—just a beat—but didn’t protest. He trusted appearances. And Mycroft Holmes looked like nothing more than a civil servant with good tailoring and a wedding ring.

Poor man.

Mycroft stiffened. “This is unnecessary,” he murmured under his breath.

“Oh, don’t be boring,” you replied lightly, already steering him toward the terrace doors. “Come on. You used to drag me out of rooms like this all the time. Consider it muscle memory.”

The night air was cool and fragrant, the gardens lit with soft lanterns and murmuring guests scattered like chess pieces across manicured hedges. Gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you walked, your arm still looped through his.

“So,” you said casually, “it’s been… what? Fifteen years?”

“Sixteen,” Mycroft corrected automatically.

You smiled. “Of course it is. Have you been married all this time?”

“No.”

The answer came faster than he intended. He frowned slightly, annoyed at himself.

You stopped walking and looked at him properly now, head tilted, eyes sharp. “Then why are you wearing a wedding ring?”

Mycroft glanced down at his hand as if it had betrayed him. “It discourages women,” he said coolly. “Unnecessary attention.”

You laughed—soft, delighted. “Oh, Mike. No. It really doesn’t.”

He looked at you, unimpressed. “I assure you—”

“It encourages them,” you interrupted. “Some women like the challenge. A married man is proof someone else wanted him first. It validates them.” You leaned closer, voice dropping. “Makes it feel like a victory.”

Mycroft did not respond. His jaw tightened, expression shuttered.

Instead, he redirected, as he always did. “Your fiancé,” he said. “He seems… ambitious.”

You hummed. “That’s one word for it.”

His eyes flicked to you. “Is that satisfaction I hear?”

You smiled slowly. “Are you jealous?”

Mycroft scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, you always were,” you said lightly, already walking again, tugging him with you. “You hated every man I dated.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” you said, cheerful and merciless. “You’d sit in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel like it had personally offended you, jaw clenched, while I made out with whoever I’d picked up that week in the back seat.”

“That is a false memory.”

“You cracked the leather once,” you added. “I remember because you pretended it was a manufacturing defect.”

He stopped walking.

Slowly, Mycroft turned to face you, colour rising just faintly beneath his pale complexion. “I was responsible for your safety.”

“Mmm,” you said. “And my morality?”

“That was never within my remit.”

You smiled at him like you always had—sharp, knowing, entirely unafraid—and before he could say another word, you pushed him backward.

It wasn’t violent. It was deliberate.

His back hit the stone wall of a shadowed alcove tucked between hedges and ivy, hidden from the path by clever landscaping and aristocratic denial. He inhaled sharply, more from surprise than fear.

“This is inappropriate,” he said, even as his hands lifted—hovering, uncertain, not touching you.

“You said that once before,” you murmured, already kneeling.

His breath caught.

You looked up at him, eyes bright, wicked, impossibly familiar. “You never stopped me then either.”

You caressed the front of Mycroft’s trousers with a slow, deliberate confidence that hadn’t dulled with time. Quite the opposite—it had sharpened into something more dangerous, more infuriatingly composed. He inhaled sharply, a sound barely more than a breath, but it was there. Audible. Real.

“You’re… engaged,” he said stiffly, the words catching in his throat.

You rolled your eyes. “Jonathan is sleeping with his secretary, Mycroft. He thinks I don’t know.” Your fingers traced the shape of him through the fabric, wickedly patient. “But he’s always so obvious, bless him. That man thinks a subtle glance is espionage.”

Mycroft’s lips parted—either to protest, to correct you, or to beg you to stop. It wasn’t clear. Because by the time he’d gathered enough composure to speak, your fingers had already slipped his belt free from its buckle with a soft metallic clink.

“Say you don’t want this,” you said, eyes locked on his, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Say it, and I’ll stop.”

He didn’t speak.

Not a single word.

Instead, his jaw flexed, and his breathing deepened—not ragged, not undone, but disciplined. Contained. As if he were holding the entirety of his shame, guilt, and want behind his teeth like a man gripping a live wire.

You laughed softly.

The same laugh.

That same damn laugh you’d given him sixteen years ago, when he’d stood frozen in your suite at Chequers, twenty-five years old, absurdly overdressed, and absolutely, irrefutably hard beneath his pressed trousers while you’d unbuttoned your blouse with one hand and called him a coward with the other.

“Oh, Mike,” you whispered, dragging the zip down with a slow, careful motion. “You still don’t know how to say no to me.”

His hands twitched at his sides—still not touching you, still hovering with that same nervous indecision, like he thought if he refrained from contact, he could convince himself he wasn’t complicit.

But you had him.

Again.

You curled your fingers around him—hot, thick, already stiffening under your touch—and gave a soft, appreciative hum. “You were my most skilled lover back then, you know,” you said lightly, your grip stroking him through the fabric with unbearable gentleness. “Too bad you told my father everything.”

Mycroft flinched. You felt it.

You smiled.

“They replaced you,” you went on, voice conversational now, like you were reminiscing over wine. “Demoted you. I was told you were moved to filing. Archival duty. Poor, disgraced Mike. No more black cars or shadow games. Just basements and paperwork.”

His eyes had darkened now—dangerously so. But still, he said nothing.

“And yet,” you continued, freeing him with an expert hand, the cool air kissing hot skin, “I always had the feeling that you liked it down there. Away from the noise. No teenagers to seduce you into ruin. Just secrets. Quiet ones.”

You lowered your head slowly, deliberately, watching his throat bob as he swallowed hard.

You kissed the tip of his cock like it was the crown of something holy.

Soft. Intentional. Not reverent—no, you weren’t the reverent type—but possessive. Like it was yours. Like it always had been.

You glanced up, lips ghosting over his flushed skin. “Still in the archives, Mike?”

He didn’t answer.

He just looked down at you—dark eyes unreadable, pupils blown, breath shallow—and brushed your hair back with one pale hand. Not gently. Not romantically. Precisely. Deliberately. The way one might clear an obstruction before flicking a switch.

He held it there, fingers threaded tight in the strands, and guided you forward.

Mycroft Holmes was not a man given to rashness. Not impulse. Not craving.

But this? This was long overdue.

He didn’t thrust—not at first. He presented himself to you, thick and heavy against your tongue, the control absolute in his hands even as his jaw ticked, even as his composure frayed by inches. You took him slow, like a dare, until the head of his cock pressed against the back of your throat and your fingers curled into the fabric of his trousers for balance.

He let out a breath.

Just one.

But it shook.

You began to pull back, your lips tight around him, when his grip in your hair tightened—not punishing, not cruel. Insistent.

Then he began to fuck your mouth.

Methodical. Controlled. Ruthless.

He held your head still as his hips moved in careful rhythm, eyes pinned to the sight of your lips stretching around him, your throat working, the subtle glisten of spit catching the dim moonlight.

He wasn’t cruel—but he was exacting. He always had been. The way he murmured your name under his breath like a sin. The way he exhaled when you moaned around him, eyes fluttering closed like this was something he deserved after sixteen years of silence.

What he didn’t say—what he would never say—was that he missed you.

Terribly.

It was a fact he’d buried so deep it should have fossilized. The part of him that had once ached for you—wanted you, not just physically but irrevocably—had been locked in a room with no key, guarded by dignity and shame and duty in equal measure.

And still—

Still—

He remembered the exact shape of your laugh. The scent of your perfume. The weight of the silence the morning after Chequers, when he’d stood outside the Prime Minister’s study and asked to speak with him in private.

He had been twenty-five. You had been twenty. And he—fool that he was—had asked for your hand.

“To preserve her honour,” he’d said. Cold. Formal. Voice unshaking. “What happened last night was a failing of my judgment, not hers. But I am prepared to make it right.”

Your father had stared at him for a long moment.

And then laughed.

Actually laughed.

“Marry my daughter?” he’d scoffed. “You're just a staffer, Mr. Holmes. A agent in a suit. I'd sooner marry her to a dog trainer.”

The words hadn’t stung.

Not at first.

Not until you were escorted back to Cambridge the next morning without so much as a goodbye.

But now?

Now Mycroft Holmes wasn’t just a agent, was he?

He wasn’t a staffer. Wasn’t even a man with a title on paper. He was the British Government.

And you?

You were on your knees in front of him, silk gown pooling over gravel, lips glossy with spit, taking his cock down your throat like it was the most natural place in the world.

He tightened his grip.

Fucked deeper.

Harder.

Still in control—but only just.

“Open wider,” he rasped, voice low, frayed at the edges. “If you’re going to debase yourself, do it properly.”

You moaned in response—loud, wet, and obscene—and it sent a tremor through him so visible he cursed under his breath. Not a loud curse. Not crass. Just a tight hiss of “fuck” between clenched teeth as he bottomed out against your throat and held there for a single breathless second, jaw tight, head tilted toward the stars like he could pretend this wasn’t everything he’d ever wanted.

You squeezed his thigh gently.

And he pulled out, slow, measured—your lips swollen, eyes glassy, spit running down your chin.

He looked ruined.

Not in appearance—no, his suit was immaculate, his hair still parted, every line of him composed. But his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—were shattered.

You sat back on your heels, licking the corner of your mouth. “Still pretending you’re above me, Mike?”

He looked down at you, cock flushed and still hard, his chest rising like something was clawing beneath his ribs.

“No,” he said finally, quietly.

Not anymore.

Then—just as quickly—his hand reached down, grasped your arm, and hauled you to your feet.

Not roughly.

But with purpose.

He spun you toward the wall of the alcove, one hand sliding down the curve of your spine to press between your shoulder blades, urging you to bend. You obeyed easily, palms bracing against the stone, heart hammering.

You felt his hand lift your dress.

Felt the cool night air kiss the back of your thighs.

Felt the calloused tips of his fingers ghost over your bare cunt.

He groaned. Low. Animal.

Then, voice barely above a whisper: “You wore nothing.”

“Of course I didn’t,” you murmured, smirking against the wall. “I was hoping to get fucked by the British Government.”

He entered you in one sharp, unrelenting thrust.

And God, did he fill you.

Thick. Deep. Uncompromising.

You gasped—more from the shock of it than pain—and he stilled, his body pressing flush against yours, chest against your back, mouth close to your ear.

“I am not the man you remember,” he said, voice like broken velvet.

You laughed breathlessly. “No. You’re better.”

Then he began to move.

Measured. Precise. Devastating.

His hips slammed into yours with brutal rhythm, the sound muffled by ivy and distance and old politics that had no place here—not anymore. One of his hands gripped your hip, the other your throat, not choking but claiming, and when you moaned his name, he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t silence you.

He wanted it.

Needed it.

“Mine,” he growled—more to himself than you, but you answered anyway.

“Yes.”

Because you were.

Always had been.

Even when he’d tried to forget. Even when he buried the truth beneath dossiers and briefings and peace negotiations. Even when he tried to tell himself that loyalty to country was cleaner than loyalty to a girl who’d once ruined him with a smile and a snap of her fingers.

But she was here now.

Bent beneath him. Around him. On him.

And Mycroft Holmes—civil servant, kingmaker, shadow in a perfect suit—fucked her like he remembered every second of sixteen years without her.

Because he did.

And he would again.

And again.

And again.

He questioned it like it didn’t matter—because to him, it didn’t.

“When is the wedding?” Mycroft asked, voice low and dry as he pressed in deeper, hand locked around your hip. He didn’t slow when he asked it—didn’t ease the brutal rhythm of his cock driving into you with the same brutal calculation he applied to foreign policy.

Your laugh was breathless. “After the election,” you gasped between moans. “Soon as Jonathan wins.”

Mycroft almost laughed.

“He won’t win.”

You gripped the stone harder, hips arching back to meet him with every stroke. “You don’t know that.”

Mycroft didn’t correct you.

Didn’t say that he already knew how the vote would go. That he had the polling numbers. The leverage. The insurance. That Jonathan Reeves would crash and burn with a scandal so quiet it wouldn’t even make the front pages.

He didn’t say a word.

He just fucked you harder.

The rhythm shifted—deeper now, crueler, like punctuation. His hips collided with your ass in bruising precision, every thrust forcing a choked moan from your throat. You tried to quiet it, biting your lip, but Mycroft knew you too well.

And when your voice rose—louder now, wanton and sharp in the otherwise silent garden—he clamped his hand over your mouth, fingers splaying across your flushed cheek.

“Be quiet,” he hissed against your ear, his voice a ragged whisper of restraint. “Or do you want the Prime Minister’s security team to find you like this? Bent over, dripping, my cock buried in the only daughter they ever tried to keep out of headlines?”

You moaned against his palm.

Then—cheeky little thing—you licked it.

Bold. Defiant.

His groan was feral.

“You insolent—”

He cut himself off with a punishing thrust, slamming into you so hard your knees buckled.

You laughed. Like it was all a joke. Like you were twenty again and none of this had weight.

“Oh, fuck me harder, Mike,” you panted, your voice muffled under his palm, still breathless with laughter. “Come on. Be a good boy.”

And he did.

Of course he did.

Because he always obeyed you.

Mycroft Holmes—the British Government, the man who gave orders that altered wars and buried presidents—was still, even now, eager to please you.

He let go of your mouth. Just long enough to grab your waist in both hands and drag you back onto him with brute precision, each stroke deliberate, merciless.

“You want me to fuck you in front of you?” he grunted, jaw clenched, sweat at his hairline.

“Yes,” you breathed. “Yes, Mike—look at me—”

He pulled out of you with a sharp gasp and spun you around in one precise movement, gripping your thighs and lifting you off the ground as if you weighed nothing. Your back slammed against the stone wall of the alcove, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your dress bunched and forgotten around your hips.

“Mike—” you breathed, voice hitched.

“Shut up,” he growled lowly, dragging your hips down over his cock again in one brutal stroke. You choked on a moan, clutching at his shoulders, the fine lines of his suit wrinkling beneath your fingers as he held you there—impaled on him, stretched wide, utterly claimed.

“Kiss me,” he ordered, voice hoarse, forehead pressed to yours.

You blinked in surprise, your breath catching. But you obeyed.

Of course you did.

Because Mycroft Holmes never asked for what he didn’t need.

You kissed him—slow, dirty, commanding—and he moaned into your mouth. The kiss was heat and memory and pure, undiluted want. His tongue slid against yours with startling intensity, all restraint gone now. It was unlike him—uncontrolled, eager, trembling just barely beneath the surface—and when you finally pulled back for air, you stared at him with a grin that was far too smug.

“Well,” you whispered, teasing, “someone’s gotten needy since I last saw him.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Still so eager to please me,” you cooed, brushing your nose against his, your hips rolling over his cock just to make his jaw clench. “You always were.”

He growled in response—an actual growl, low in his chest—and then his mouth was at your throat, sharp teeth sinking into the tender skin where your shoulder met your neck.

You yelped. “Ow! Mycroft!”

He didn’t apologize.

Just licked the spot he’d bitten, smug and silent.

You shoved at his shoulder. “You left a mark.”

He smirked, cool and unrepentant. “Good.”

You scowled, twisting to look at the darkening bruise. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. How am I supposed to explain this to Jonathan?”

“Wear a scarf,” he said.

You shot him a look. “In June?”

Mycroft merely shrugged. “Apply your foundation. Use your cunning. You seem to have no trouble lying to him otherwise.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That was very judgey for a man with his cock still inside me.”

His expression didn’t change, but his hands tightened on your hips. “If you’d rather I remove it—”

“Don’t you dare.”

He thrust upward again, rough and possessive, silencing you with a gasp as your spine arched against the wall.

“I’ll mark you again,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Everywhere he won’t look.”

You shivered.

And when you moaned his name—Mike, soft and broken—he kissed you again like a man trying to forget that he ever said no to you in the first place.

Because he never had.