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encounterthepast · 16 days ago

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The Arrangement (Mycroft Holmes x f!Reader)

Synopsis: When secrets are revealed, your arrangement with Mycroft might be in jeopardy.

Words: 6.6k

Warnings: smut, jealous Sherlock

The room was dark, shrouded in shadows. The fire had fallen into embers hours ago, leaving the air chilled against your bare skin. The mattress was firm beneath you, but the pillows were plush and the duvet thick. Stretching, you felt a delicious ache in your body.

You rolled, expecting a warm body beside you to curl against but although the sheets were still warm, there was no one there. You sighed, rolling over again, staring into the embers. You gave yourself a maximum of fifteen minutes before you were being ushered out of the house in the dead of night, dressed back in the clothes scattered across the floor.

He only ever gave you snatched moments. Fifteen minutes was all you could ever hope for.

Still, he’d let you nap first. That was a kindness you weren’t expecting. But now it must be the middle of the night, more likely the early hours of the morning, and he had disappeared. You buried your face in the pillow, not sure you were up to making the trek across London right now.

Soft footsteps. You sighed, rolling over again, gathering your energy to sit up. The mattress dipped and you felt the covers tug. A warm body settled beside you, lying as you sat.

“I know, I know. I’m just about to head out,” you said.

“I’ll have my driver drop you at Baker Street,” Mycroft said.

“Can’t. Sherlock will notice,” you replied, sitting up properly.

“You assume he hasn’t already,” he said.

You gazed down at him, wondering at what point you’d stop getting a thrill of seeing him so undressed. The smattering of hair on his chest always felt so good against your skin, his skin warm where it met yours.

“You know Sherlock. He wouldn’t keep quiet if he knew. He’s never been one to hold his tongue and he’s said nothing,” you said.

You climbed out of the bed, knowing that lingering would only make your heart ache in ways you couldn’t put into words yet. Under his watchful gaze, you dragged your clothes back onto your body.

“A taxi then,” he said.

You glanced over your shoulder at him, lips pulling up into a small smile.

“Fine,” you said, “if it’ll ease your worry.”

He let it go, the poke at his emotions, giving you a tight lipped smile. Still, when you slid into the taxi he called, you felt the unspoken care. He might pretend, but he could be so like his brother when he cared for someone.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen. When you’d met Mycroft, he’d just been Sherlock’s big brother, dropping in occasionally, calling you when he was worried about his little brother’s mental state and John wouldn’t tell him. Always at a distance, always not quite a real person, mostly a man in the shadows, watching, always watching. He was never meant to matter to you.

But then one night he’d found you at a bar. You’d been out with friends and he’d needed to talk to you about Sherlock. He’d complained you hadn’t been picking up your phone. You’d accused him of stalking. So you told him to buy you a drink and you might have been flirting, but he bought you the drink so he might have been flirting back.

When he’d come to you with the proposition, you wish you could have said you’d thought it over, really thought about your decision. But you hadn’t. He’d suggested it, you said yes, and then you were on your way to his home. It was mutually beneficial. Both of you got what you needed from it. Without discussing it, you both agreed Sherlock shouldn’t find out.

He could get so territorial over his friends.

Now, months later, you spent most of your Friday nights in Mycroft’s bed. Sherlock had yet to find out, and you had no interest in ending your arrangement. Although, your feelings had changed. That was perfectly understandable for a normal person such as yourself. You weren’t expecting anything to come of it.

Climbing out of the taxi, you looked up at 221, taking a deep breath. There was no sneaking in, not with Sherlock bound to hear you on the stairs. The best you could do was scare him off by talking about your sex life.

“Another one night stand,” Sherlock said from inside his apartment.

“No complaints from me,” you said, “a very satisfying night.”

You got a small thrill from talking about his brother without him knowing.

“Clearly. Except for the fact he threw you out after you were done,” he said.

“No need to be mean, Sherlock,” you called as you mounted your own stairs to the flat above, “just because one of us had a night full of pleasure while the other was bored.”

You’d read the texts from John on the way home. You knew Mrs Hudson had confiscated his gun. Nothing shut Sherlock up like hitting back when he thought he was being so clever. Even if what he said hit a bit too close to the bruise in your heart.

Still, the next Friday you made your way to the prearranged spot to be picked up by Mycroft’s car. And the one after that. And the next.

You were gasping for breath, your moan loud, sweat beading at your temple. Mycroft’s thrusts were slow, taking you apart inch by inch. With your thigh hitched over his hip, he could drive deeply into you. He was watching you, so intent as he aimed to draw out as much pleasure as possible.

His name on your lips urged him on, pace increasingly minutely. Your fingers were digging into the skin of his back as you arched towards him, offering yourself to him. With one hand planted by your head to keep him from crushing you, the other was squeezing at your breast, playing with your peaked nipple. You dragged him down into a kiss, teeth nipping at his bottom lip.

The loud ringing of his phone was everything you didn’t want to hear. An interruption that would leave you wanting. He stilled, frozen, drawing away to search for his phone. Your hips circled, the guttural sound he made gratifying. He was still buried in you to the hilt, the perfect position for you to open negotiations to get what you wanted.

“Stop,” he growled.

“Make me,” you said, grinning up at him, clenching around him.

The phone stopped ringing. There was the answer. He was glowering down at you, frustration clear. You bucked your hips against him, watching his eyes close for a moment as if trying to get himself under control again.

The phone began to ring again.

You whined as he dragged himself off your body, reaching for his phone. With both feet planted on the floor, he sat on the edge of the mattress as he answered the call.

“Trouble, brother mine?”

You sat up, following him to the edge of the bed, lips trailing kisses over his bare shoulder. He turned his head to look at you, watching you as he listened to Sherlock on the other end of the line. You hid your smile in his skin, arms curling around his waist as you pressed against his back.

“I’m unsure why this is my problem to solve for you,” he said.

Your hands wandered down his stomach as your tongue ran over his pulse point, feeling it thrum. His glare cut to you as your hand found his still throbbing erection. Your teeth scraped over his skin.

“Of course I’m not,” he snapped into the phone.

He listened, face growing more grave with every word Sherlock spoke. Your hand was lazy as it stroked him. You listened as his breathing grew a bit more laboured.

“Why yes, brother mine, you have interrupted,” he said, voice a sarcastic drawl.

His free hand grasped your wrist, stilling your hand on him as he listened intently to his brother. You nipped at his skin.

With a swift elegance, Mycroft had turned, the wrist in his hold pinned to the mattress by your head, hovering over you. Flipped onto your back, all you could do was stare up at him as he continued to listen to his brother.

“It’s a Friday night, she’s a young woman, do the maths, Sherlock. She’s off having fun with the other goldfish,” he said, looking down at you.

You pinched his side, the amusement in his eyes twinkling. You brought your legs up, trapping him between your thighs, holding him there. He drew closer, lips brushing over your skin as he listened to the phone. Electricity was running over your skins, the needy throb between your legs left over from the unsatisfactory interruption.

“This is not a concern, nor is it a priority,” Mycroft said, “work it out on your own, baby brother.”

He hung up the phone, leaning over to place it on the nightstand. Returning back to you, his blue eyes swept over your naked body, lingering where your hips were pressing into his.

“My brother seems to believe you’re in trouble,” he said.

“I am,” you said, smirking up at him.

“It appears as if my text message to you resulted in suspicious behaviour,” he said, “and you have been ignoring his text messages.”

“I’ve been busy,” you said.

“He thinks you’re with someone who will hurt you,” he said.

“Only with consent,” you replied.

He considered you for a long moment, making you squirm beneath him. Your legs tightened around him. His hand skimmed down your body, finding the heat between your thighs. His name came out as a strangled sound when he began to slowly circle your clit.

“He’s going to work out the change in our relationship,” he said, watching your face begin to contort in pleasure, “he’s almost there.”

“I’m almost there,” you panted.

“Quite,” he said.

Then he lowered his head between your thighs and that tongue was put to better use than talking about Sherlock.

He was waiting for you when you returned an hour later, the flush of your evening finally fading from your cheeks. You sighed, the door to his flat open, entering to find him with his violin.

“Good evening then?” you asked.

“Another sexual conquest,” he said.

“Yes,” you replied evenly.

“Not under duress,” he said.

“Nope,” you said, obnoxiously popping the p at him.

“You’re perfectly okay,” he said.

“More than,” you said, “are we done? Only I’d quite like to sleep now.”

“Sex does that,” he said.

“Yes. It does. Goodnight,” you called.

But he started keeping a closer watch on you which you found hilarious. Mycroft, in response to your updates, seemed uncaring of the information. Or at the very least, he wasn’t surprised by it. You were certain he’d expected it.

So the next Friday, you thought you might have a tail as you made your way to Mycroft’s office. You continued on, acting as if you didn’t notice. If Sherlock wanted to play his games then you weren’t about to ruin them for him. Anything to keep him from growing bored.

Mycroft, of course, was warned during your report on his behaviour that week. And when you slipped out a back entrance, he agreed that Sherlock was following. So you were dropped at your favourite bar and left to fend for yourself for the evening.

You were home nice and early that night, ignoring Sherlock’s quip about not getting any that night.

The next Friday he did the exact same thing.

After a month, you were practically gagging for it. You missed his touch, you missed the pleasure that ran through your veins, you missed the taste of him. A whole month bereft of more than a look over the top of a file, barely interested in what you were saying despite him summoning you to hear it.

So when you came barreling up the stairs on a Tuesday afternoon, overloaded with groceries and slightly damp from the rain outside, you were glad to see his face. There it was, looking at you like he had been expecting to see you. You looked to Sherlock.

“I got those biscuits you like,” you said.

“Good,” he said.

“Not you,” you said, turning to look at Mycroft, “you.”

“Why would you get the biscuits he likes?” he asked.

“Someone should if he’s going to keep visiting,” you said.

“Why would he keep visiting?” he asked.

“Because he’s going to ask for your help on a case, you’re going to say no because you always say no, and he’s going to keep coming back until you say yes because you always end up doing it anyway,” you replied, “am I missing anything?”

The silence was satisfying.

“Wonderful,” you said, moving past them into the kitchen.

You dumped your bags on his counter, scrabbling through them until you came up with the packet of biscuits you’d intended to drop off. Mycroft was already there, taking them from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours.

Oh yes, you’d missed his touch.

“Right,” you said, collecting up the bags once again, “I’ll be upstairs if you need anything.”

Mycroft handed you one last bag, forgotten on the kitchen counter. You smiled up at him in thanks before you turned away. The slight brush of his hand on your lower back was all the encouragement you needed to leave.

“Wait,” Sherlock said as you made it to the door.

You paused, raising an eyebrow at him. His eyes were looking at you, scanning, doing that thing he did that he thought made him look so clever. You waited, glancing up at Mycroft whose eyes had narrowed.

“No,” Sherlock said, face scrunching.

“So I can leave?” you asked.

“Your one night stands haven’t been one night stands,” he said.

“Ah,” Mycroft said.

“No they haven’t,” you said.

“The pin has finally dropped,” Mycroft said to you.

“Can you not let me have something for myself without getting involved?” Sherlock demanded of his brother.

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, brother mine,” he replied.

“You can never let me just have my own friends. You always have to get involved. Is this some kind of attempt to annoy me? It’s not working,” he said, shaking his head.

“Ouch,” you said.

“Oh please, you have no interest in Mycroft. No one does. And my brother isn’t known for forming attachments. This is all to punish me for something. I wish I knew what. Or cared. But I don’t,” he said.

He really sounded like he didn’t care. Sure. Believable.

“Can you conceive for one second that this might have nothing to do with you?” Mycroft said before you could answer with a sarcastic roll of the eyes, “that we are acting for our mutual benefit outside of our connection to you?”

“Impossible. I’m the only thing you have in common,” he said.

“Not the only thing,” you muttered.

“Is this a tantrum? Are you throwing a tantrum?” Sherlock asked.

“No, I'm just being reminded of the staggeringly large amounts of narcissism you possess,” you replied.

“Please,” Mycroft said, holding a hand up to you. You bit back your retort, fingers tightening around your grocery bags.

“At least you can end this ruse,” Sherlock said, taking his place in his chair, considering the two of you, “that must be some comfort.”

“Not everything I do is about you, Sherlock Holmes. And there’s no need to be cruel because you’re feeling hurt,” you said before you swept out of the flat.

You stayed locked up in your flat for the rest of the day, not hearing from either Holmes brother. You wanted to say you were surprised, but you weren’t. Neither were known for their kindness. So you stayed there for the rest of the day, trying not to focus on the harsh words from Sherlock.

Probably because you thought there was a facet of truth to what he said. You had nothing in common with Mycroft except Sherlock. You were convenient for what he wanted. You were on hand and it wasn’t a hard time to touch you. Why wouldn’t he go through the path of least resistance to get what he needed? It was as simple as that.

Stupid heart desperate for more. Mycroft was never going to be more than what he said he was, an uncaring ice man with no interest in opening his heart to anyone. So of course you had to go and fall for him because emotionally unavailable was so your type.

Sherlock had managed to hit all of your insecurities right on the head seemingly without caring about how it hurt you. All because he felt a sense of ownership over you as his friend and not Mycroft’s and therefore was feeling the sting of realising you and Mycroft had kept the change in your relationship a secret from him.

You didn’t hear from him until Friday.

Lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if you should get a take away, your phone rang. You didn’t even bother looking at the caller ID. There were only a handful of people who actually called you and unless your mother was calling to complain about your grandmother refusing to wear her hearing aids again then you weren’t looking to avoid a conversation with anyone.

“Hello?” you said into the phone.

“There’s a car for you outside,” the voice on the other end of the phone said.

“And if I chose not to get into it?” you asked.

“Don’t make me come up there,” Mycroft said, “I doubt it would end well if I ran into Sherlock right now.”

You thought about it for a moment.

“Fine. But you’re buying me dinner,” you said.

You ended the call and sat up. Shrugging into your coat, you shoved your phone and your wallet into your pocket, not sure how long you’d be gone. It felt like this might be the end of things now that Sherlock knew. Something in losing the secrecy felt like it had broken the whole thing.

That was a depressing thought.

Mycroft was waiting by the car, his umbrella tapping against the pavement. Straightening as he saw you, he pulled the car door open, waiting for you to slip into the back seat. The driver pulled away while you were still in silence, almost drowning in it.

You turned to watch him, wondering if this would be the last chance you got to do it. He was heartbreakingly handsome, the exact kind of man that could bring you to your knees. If this was the last chance to look at him like this, you weren’t going to waste it.

“You’re staring,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Admiring, more like,” you replied.

He didn’t have an answer to that. You’d begun to notice any time you offered him a compliment, specifically about how he looked, he never seemed to know what to do with it. It was like it was alien to him. It sent a pang through your heart, the thought that this man had never been made to feel attractive. That no one had seen how beautiful he was.

You stopped long enough to pick up dinner from your favourite takeaway place, only making you more concerned. He was trying to be nice. Mycroft wasn’t nice.

Sitting at his enormous dining table, the silence had grown stifling. You were practically choking on it. Pushing food around your plate, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to look at him, even when he was still close enough to make it easy. You were sitting to his right, at one end of the expansive table, the lamps the only light in the room.

“Sherlock is still refusing to believe our relationship is separate from him,” he said, almost conversationally, laying his knife and fork down.

“Maybe he’s right,” you said.

This was the moment. The moment you both agreed this was done, it had stopped being fun, and there was no point continuing. The jagged edges of the holes in your heart ached.

“He so rarely is,” Mycroft said, brushing off your concern. Your eyebrows drew together because in your experience Sherlock was often right.

“You don’t think there’s any truth to his complaints?” you asked.

“Of course not,” he said, “but clearly you do.”

“All I know is that it makes no sense that we’d be doing this without Sherlock. It’s not like we would have met anywhere else. We have nothing in common, just like he said. And we kept it a secret from him for a reason,” you said with a small shrug, letting your fork drop with a clatter.

“We’ve engaged in a sexual relationship as it’s mutually beneficial. No other reason,” he said.

“Isn’t there? You didn’t get a thrill from getting one over on Sherlock? Not ever?” you asked.

“My thrill came from the satisfactory activities we engage in,” he said.

“Satisfactory,” you said, nodding to yourself. Of course. That was the height of compliment from him. Merely satisfactory.

“You don’t agree with that description,” he said.

“Look, I’d probably have described it as mind blowing sex, but then what do I know? I’m just an ordinary person,” you said.

“There’s nothing ordinary about you,” he said.

You didn’t quite know how to respond to that. He wasn’t given over to complimenting you, certainly not beyond your performance in bed, so this felt very out of left field.

“You really think this isn’t going to change anything?” you asked, “now that he knows, nothing will change?”

“I don’t see why it would,” he said.

You weren’t sure if he genuinely believed it or just couldn’t see the impact your secret getting out would have. It felt so obvious to you. Sherlock would do everything he could to get between the two of you, to annoy you, to ruin it in a childish fit of jealousy. He had never liked sharing his people, and certainly not with his brother who he still had a complicated relationship with.

“Maybe it’s better just to call it now. It was fun, no hard feelings, and there’s no awkward fizzle out. Nice and clean without anyone getting hurt,” you said.

“You want to end our arrangement?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What I want isn’t an option so i suppose this is the next best thing,” you said. It might not actually be the next best thing, but it would probably be the option that caused the least pain to you now.

“What is it you want?” he asked

“Irellevant,” you replied.

“I don’t think it is,” he said.

“Well, unfortunately for you, two people are involved in this conversation and your opinion isn’t the most important. So, do we agree we should end this?” you asked.

“No,” he said.

You stared at him. Blinked. Stared again. Nothing about him changed as he gazed cooly back at you. You opened your mouth but nothing came out. Shaking your head you looked down to your half eaten plate of food.

“Then I’m sorry but I do. I think it’s run its course. It’s been lovely but… it’s probably time to end this now,” you said.

“Is this because of Sherlock? He’s said something to you,” he said, leaning back in his chair as his fingers steepled beneath his chin, “he’s convinced you this is not a good idea.”

“He didn’t have to,” you said.

There it was, the flash of hurt that passed over his face before his mask settled back in place. You’d gotten better at reading him over the months you’d been with him. Seeing him in his most vulnerable moments had led to a better understanding of the man beneath the ice.

“It appears as if your mind is made up,” he said.

“It is,” you replied.

“I’ll have my driver return you to Baker Street.”

The drive home felt excruciatingly long.

Sherlock was sitting on the staircase leading up to your flat. You ignored him, pushing past, keys in hand to unlock your front door. But, of course, someone had already done that.

“That time I interrupted you and Mycroft…” he said, clearly with something he wanted to say.

“Yes?” You remembered that incident, how fun it’d seemed at the time.

“Looks like I was right about you being with someone that would hurt you,” he said.

“Looks like it, you agreed.

You closed the door on him, sliding the chain across to discourage any more snooping from him. You weren’t sure what he’d seen on you as you’d passed him but the last thing you needed was his pity. Of course your arrangement had ended in you getting hurt. Yours was the only heart that still felt anything in the equation.

You dragged yourself to and from work, keeping mostly to yourself in the weeks that followed. You didn’t have the wherewithal to have Sherlock deducing you while you were trying to put yourself back together. His cutting words would only topple the house of cards that was your emotional well-being. You aimed to get through a single day without thinking about Mycroft.

You were yet to accomplish it.

Maybe he also had no interest in seeing you in the utter pile of shit that was the end of your arrangement but he seemed to be keeping away from 221b. You hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him. You hadn’t been summoned to give a report on his brother. It was as if he’d completely forgotten you existed. Probably for the best given the circumstances.

It was as you were returning on a particularly sunny afternoon that you heard the voices from the stairs. You paused, your heart recognising one before your brain caught up. Frozen, you weren’t sure what to do. Flee? Eavesdrop? Continue on like nothing was wrong?

“This is boring. If you want to know how she is, go ask her. She only lives upstairs,” Sherlock said as you still hovered in indecision.

“I know you said something to her. You caused this. I lay the blame firmly at your feet,” Mycroft said. You squeezed your eyes closed.

“Interesting,” Sherlock said.

“What?” his brother snapped.

“I never thought I’d see the day when you would care for someone. Sentimentality has gotten the best of you,” he replied.

That was enough. You didn’t bother staying quiet, hurrying up the stairs, hoping to be fast enough that neither would be able to catch you. Still, when you heard your name in Mycroft’s voice you found yourself stumbling.

“Hi,” you said, turning to him, painting a smile on your face.

“How are you?” he asked, so stiff and formal it almost hurt to hear.

“Oh fine, fine,” you said, waving off the question.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. Both of his hands closed over the handle of his umbrella, the tip resting between his feet. If you didn’t know the man so well it might look like he was at ease. You could see the tension.

“Right, well I’m just gonna...” You jerked your thumb over your shoulder, “it was nice seeing you.”

You only paused once you heard the footsteps following you up the stairs. Turning, you found him peering up at you.

“I was hoping we could talk,” he said

“I don’t-“ you began to say.

“Please. Talk to him. He’s been so pathetic. ‘Oh how is she, Sherlock? Has she been eating enough, Sherlock? Do you think she likes me, Sherlock?’ It’s gotten boring,” Sherlock said from his doorway.

“I never asked you if she likes me,” Mycroft snapped.

“You basically did,” he replied, “underneath all the irrelevant stuff.”

“Can you for once in your life allow me to handle this situation without your input?” he hissed down to his brother.

He waved him off, disappearing back into his flat. Mycroft was slow to turn towards you, almost apprehensive at what he might be seeing. You were staring at him like he’d grown a second head, not sure what he was doing.

“Look, we don’t have to make a big thing out of this. I live here, Sherlock lives here, we’re bound to run into each other. We don’t need to talk about it,” you said, “it’s fine. I promise.”

“I want to talk,” he said.

“Why?” you asked.

“There are things left unsaid,” he replied.

You considered him for a long moment, watching as he began to shift his weight from foot to foot. That was what made you nod, turning back to finish climbing the stairs. He followed you into your flat, eyes sweeping over your space. Every time you’d had an encounter, it had been at his place, partly because you didn’t want to run into Sherlock and partly because he had standards and your flat would never measure up. You turned, crossing your arms over your chest as you stared him down.

“Okay, you wanted to talk, so talk,” you said.

“I don’t like how we left things,” he said.

“I thought we left things in agreement,” you said.

“We did not,” he said.

“You sent me home,” you reminded him.

“You weren’t open to negotiations,” he said.

“And you think I am now?” you asked.

“Yes.” He sounded so confident, “and if you’re not now then I’ll convince you.”

“You arrogant prick,” you huffed.

“You’ve missed me,” he said, stepping closer to you.

“Says you. Can’t stop asking after me.” You rolled your eyes, looking away from him.

“I find myself needing to know how you are at all times,” he said, “it’s quite inconvenient.”

“You’ve been stalking me again, haven’t you?” you asked.

“Yes.”

No shame. Absolutely no shame.

“Fine.” You uncrossed your arms, “open your negotiations.”

“We should continue our arrangement,” he said.

“Respectfully, I disagree,” you said.

“Why?” he asked.

You took a deep breath.

“Look, I get that you’re the iceman and you leave sentimentality out of it but I’m just a normal person. And I can’t. I know you’re going to think less of me for this, but I’ve got feelings for you. Romantic ones. And I’m not expecting anything from you because I know you enough to know that’s stupid. But, it would be remiss of me not to tell you that continuing our arrangement will hurt me under the circumstances,” you said, “so I have to respectfully decline.”

“You don’t want to continue our arrangement due to your romantic feelings for me?” he asked.

“Pretty much, yeah,” you said.

“Thank you for telling me,” he said.

And then his hands were cupping your cheeks and he was kissing you, umbrella clattering to the floor. Your hands slammed into his chest, pushing against him. He took another moment before he drew away. You hit his chest again, refusing to hide how angry you were at him.

“Arsehole,” you said, hitting him again.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asked.

“I said I didn’t want to continue our arrangement,” you said.

His hands were still holding your face and you were trying to push him away. It seemed to have about as much effect as telling him you were done with the arrangement seemed to have had.

“You said you did not want to continue it due to your romantic feelings for me. You believe I don’t reciprocate them. You’re mistaken,” he said.

“I- what?” You were certain you’d misheard him.

“It has become clear that I have grown attached to you. I worry for you. I would like to continue our arrangement, not because it fulfils a need satisfactorily, but because it involves you,” he said.

“Sorry, just to clarify for my mind, are you asking for a purely sexual relationship, or are you hoping for something more?” you asked.

“I find myself out of my depth here,” he said.

“Let me rephrase. Do you want it to be exactly what it was, where I arrive at your place on Friday, we have sex, and I leave? Or do you want to spend time with me outside of sex and give a romantic relationship a go?” you asked.

His thumb was running over your cheekbone as he considered you. It was as if he wasn’t sure of the answer, a first for you to witness. You let him think about it, not wanting to rush it, not when what you wanted might be on the table.

Stupid man not able to vocalise his feelings. Stupid man expecting you to just know what he was thinking the way he always knew what you were thinking. Stupid man experiencing emotions for the first time.

“I must admit,” he muttered, “I’m beginning to understand Sherlock’s jealousy when it comes to you. I’m not sure I like the thought of another man owning a part of you.”

“Mycroft, tell me exactly what you want,” you said, staying firm even at the thrill of his words.

“To have you,” he said, “to keep you. The thought of losing you has been plaguing me these few weeks without you. There is not a problem I can’t solve but I had no idea how to get you back.”

“So you thought you’d demand to talk to me then kiss me when I said I didn’t want to go back to how it was?” you asked.

“I’m not good at this,” he said, a self-deprecating tilt to his head.

“I’ll tell you what I want and then you can tell me how it aligns with your wants,” you said.

“Okay,” he said with a slow nod of his head.

“I don’t want to go back to how it was. I want more. I want to be emotionally involved with you. I want to be in a romantic relationship with you. I want to go on dates with you and spend the night with you, and see you for more than a few hours every week. I want to share meals with you and go on stupid weekends away with you, and sit in rooms with you doing nothing much just because we can. I want our lives to intertwine so completely you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if I was gone,” you said, going for the absolute dream scenario. No point hiding it now.

The silence stretched for a long while as he considered what you’d said. His thumb was almost absentmindedly running along your cheekbone. You could see the cogs turning behind his eyes, assessing the information he now had, putting it together to get the answer he wanted.

“You want all the mundanities of a romantic relationship,” he said.

“Sometimes I want to hold your hand, yes,” you said.

He seemed shocked by that admission. It was the simplest thing to you, though, the least embarrassing of the things you’d said to him.

“That sounds acceptable,” he said.

“You want that too?” you asked.

“I’ve never understood the appeal of settling down in a romantic relationship,” he said, “but I can see the appeal when it’s with you.”

“That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” you said.

And then you kissed him. You kissed him like all of your dreams were coming true. Mainly because they were. And you pulled him closer, your body pressing to his, caught in the cage of his arms. You couldn’t get close enough, overcome with your need for him.

You guided him towards your bedroom, fingers working on the buttons of his waistcoat, ready to peel him out of his clothes and show him exactly how much you wanted him. His hands were running over your body, feeling your curves, driving you insane. You’d become obsessed with his hands almost as soon as they’d touched you that first time.

You pushed him down onto your bed, straddling his hips as you looked down at him. Your hands splayed over your chest, leaning forward, taking in the way he was looking at you. You rolled your hips, feeling his interest growing.

“See how good it is when you tell me what you’re feeling,” you said, rolling your hips again.

“You didn’t tell me your feelings until I prompted you to,” he said, hands grasping your hips.

“And I got what I wanted,” you said, “so now I guess you can get what you want.”

His kiss was dominating as he flipped you onto your back. He let you push his blazer off his shoulders, feeling the muscles shift beneath your fingers. Kissing him deeper, your legs curled around his hips, fingers tangling in his hair.

You didn’t notice him stripping you, so focused on the way he was making you feel. His lips began to trail down your body, lingering on the curve of your breast, his tongue tasting your skin. You whimpered, arching into him, offering yourself.

There were nights when he would take his time, taking you apart piece by piece before he put you back together again, driving you higher and higher just to pull you back. It drove you mad in the best way. You’d let him manipulate your body until the early hours if that’s what he wanted.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

You dragged your gaze down your body, finding his blue eyes smouldering up at you from between your thighs. His mouth descended on you and you were lost. You’d missed this, you’d missed him, you never wanted to let him go. Your fingers tightened in his hair as your hips bucked up into his mouth.

You whimpered, maintaining eye contact even as he set your body alight. He watched you like you were something spectacular, like he couldn’t get enough. It was an addictive feeling, to have that wonderful man so focused on you and your pleasure. It was just a confirmation that all your dreams were coming true.

You came with his name on your lips, uncaring of who might hear. His smug smirk was infuriating and beautiful and wonderful. You dragged him into a kiss just to wipe it from his face. And when you fell asleep, his naked body was curled around yours.

You awoke the next morning with his arm thrown over your waist, face buried against your neck. You let yourself enjoy it, knowing as soon as he awoke he would be out the door and at work. The short reprieve was nicer than the romantic declaration the night before, if only because it was proof that he’d been serious.

“Do you have tea?” he murmured, lips brushing your skin.

“Course,” you replied, tucking yourself against him.

“Good. Go make some,” he said.

“No.”

You rolled over, facing him. Your lips pressed to the tip of his nose, watching his eyes open as he considered you.

“Morning,” you said.

“Yes. Good morning. Tea,” he said.

You laughed, rolling out of the bed. His fingers brushed over the curve of your ass, sending a shiver of desire down your spine. Climbing back into the bed with your mugs of tea, his fingers brushed against yours as he took the one you offered him. And then he let you lean against his shoulder as he told you about the day ahead and when he’d come pick you up for dinner.

He left your flat with a kiss, short and sweet, enough to make you ready for more that night. Leaning on the door jam, you watched him walk down the stairs, the joy you were feeling incomparable to anything you’d experienced before.

“So you’ve made up then.”

You turned your cool gaze onto Sherlock.

“We have,” you replied evenly.

“Try to keep it down next time,” he said.

“No promises,” you replied, turning away.

You grinning as you shut the door, the image of disgust on Sherlock’s face lingering long enough to make up for the heartbreak he’d caused.

#mycroft holmes #mycroft holmes x reader

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encounterthepast · 21 days ago

Text

This little series is absolutely devastating but so beautifully written

Are you mine?

Warnings- Angst, Steve and Bucky are idiots.

Being in love with Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes felt like living in a dream.

A dream so perfect, so utterly untouchable, that even the ghosts of the past couldn’t tarnish it. The three of you had fought wars together, bled together, and survived against impossible odds. You trusted them with your life and, more importantly, with your heart.

Steve, ever the protector, held your hand through the nightmares, his voice a quiet promise in the dark. Bucky, all sharp wit and unspoken devotion, pressed kisses into your hair when he thought you weren’t paying attention. They made you feel safe, like nothing in the world could shake the foundation of what you had.

You belonged to them, and they belonged to you.

The compound had always been your sanctuary, a place where the weight of being an assassin and an Avenger didn’t feel so heavy.

Missions were brutal, but coming home to them made it worth it. Your mornings were tangled limbs and soft murmurs, their warmth pulling you from restless sleep. Your nights were laughter and whispered confessions, hands intertwined beneath the sheets.

Everything was fine, until she arrived.

A trainee named Cassidy.

Sent to the compound for a few days of “intense training” with the Avengers. Young, eager at least, that’s what Fury had said. But from the moment she walked through the doors, it was clear training was the last thing on her mind.

You caught the way her eyes lingered on Steve's broad shoulders, the way she smiled just a little too sweetly when Bucky grunted in response to something she said. You noticed the way she conveniently positioned herself between them whenever she could, the way her touch lingered just a second too long.

It was nothing. Just admiration, maybe even hero worship. You told yourself that, again and again. Steve and Bucky were yours. They loved you.

And yet… doubt had a way of creeping in, even where trust once lived.

For the first time in a long time, you felt something unfamiliar in your own home.

Unease.

You weren’t the jealous type, you had no reason to be, not when Steve and Bucky had given you every reassurance, every reason to trust them. And you did trust them. You trusted them blindly.

But can you trust the world?

Trust didn’t stop the ache in your chest when you saw Cassidy wedged between them on the couch, laughing at something Bucky said. It didn’t stop the sting when Steve placed a comforting hand on her back, so absentmindedly, so effortlessly, like it was second nature.

Like it was something he used to do for you.

You stood frozen in the doorway, fingers tightening around the edge of your jacket. That was your spot. That had always been your spot. Between them. Their arms around you. Their warmth surrounding you.

Now?

Now Cassidy sat there, twirling a lock of her hair, giggling, her body angled towards them like she belonged. And Steve and Bucky?

They didn’t even notice you standing there.

“You’re imagining things, Y/n.” Natasha leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping her coffee as she watched you pick at your food. She didn’t say it dismissively, but there was caution in her voice. Careful, Y/n. Don’t spiral.

“I’m not...” Your voice was hollow. You pushed your plate away and exhaled shakily. “She’s always there, Nat. Always with them. Always touching them...” You swallowed hard, shame burning in your throat. “I feel like… like I don’t exist anymore.”

Natasha sighed, setting her cup down. “Come on. You know Steve and Bucky. They’d never…”

“I know they wouldn’t.” Your fingers curled into fists. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

Natasha studied you, eyes softer now. “Talk to them, then.”

You nodded. You would. Of course, you would.

But deep down, you were terrified they wouldn’t see it, because they never seemed to see you anymore, ever since Cassidy came.

At first, it was small things.

A conversation cut short because Cassidy had a question. A training session where she suddenly needed Bucky to correct her stance, his hands on her wrists, her waist. A mission debrief where she sat beside Steve, too close, her voice too soft.

Then the canceled plans started.

“I’m sorry, Doll, but we promised we’d show Cassidy the training simulations today.”

“I’ll make it up to you, sweetheart. I swear.”

“We’ll take you out tomorrow, okay?”

Tomorrow never came.

And suddenly, your nights felt emptier. You’d wake up reaching for them, only to find cold sheets where they should have been. You weren’t sure what hurt more.

The loneliness or the fact that they didn’t even realize you were lonely.

They were still yours, weren’t they?

Then why did it feel like you were losing them?

It had been days, days since you had a proper conversation with either of them. Days since they held you like they used to. The only time you got them was at night, in bed.

And yet, there she was again, always there, standing too close to Steve as he poured coffee in the kitchen. Bucky leaned against the counter, smirking at something she said, arms crossed over his chest.

“God, Steve, I still don’t know how you carry that shield around all day.” Cassidy reached out, brushing her fingers over his bicep. “Guess it helps that you’re, like, all muscle.”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “Occupational hazard, I guess.”

“What about you, Bucky?” She turned to him, eyes bright. “I mean, that metal arm has to be heavy, right? Can I?”

“Nah, sweetheart, it’s lighter than it looks.” Bucky smirked, flexing his vibranium fingers.

Sweetheart.

Your stomach dropped, that was your name. He called you that. Not her.

Your blood ran cold as Cassidy laughed, playfully nudging Bucky’s arm. Steve smiled, amused. Not once did they notice you standing there. Not once did they feel the air shift, the way your entire world was starting to crumble.

That night, you laid in bed alone. Again.

Because, Steve and Bucky had been in the common room with Cassidy, and you couldn’t take it anymore. So you had left.

You curled into yourself, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the sob from escaping.

They were just being nice. Right?

They didn’t see what you saw. Didn’t feel what you felt. Didn’t see how much it was killing you. Right?

And you were too afraid to ask the question burning inside you, “What if they don’t miss me like I miss them?”

You didn’t know how long you had been sitting all alone in the common room.

The compound was quiet, save for the faint hum of the ventilation system. You sat curled up on the couch in the dark, staring at nothing, arms wrapped around yourself as if that could hold you together. The weight in your chest felt heavier than usual, pressing down, suffocating.

You had spent the entire day alone. Again.

They hadn’t noticed. Again.

The cushion beside you dipped, and you didn’t need to look to know who it was. Natasha.

“You’re doing that thing again…” she murmured.

You blinked. “What thing?”

“Shutting down.”

You inhaled sharply, dropping your gaze to your lap.

Natasha sighed, shifting to face you. “Sweets, talk to me.”

Natasha always called you that name, and her reason was you were the only sweet person in her life.

You shook your head. “There’s nothing to say.”

“Bullshit.” She reached out, squeezing your knee. “I see you, you know. The way you’re fading. The way you barely eat. The way you don’t sleep until you’re too exhausted to fight it anymore.”

You swallowed hard, fingers gripping the fabric of your pants.

“They love you, Sweets.” Natasha’s voice was gentle but firm. “This… whatever this is, it’s temporary. They’ll see what’s happening.”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “No, they won’t…” Your throat burned as you whispered, “They don’t see me anymore, Nat.”

Silence.

Natasha shifted closer, resting her forearm on the back of the couch. “We survived worse, you and me. Remember?”

You knew where she was leading the conversation, but you didn’t care.

“I wish I could remember.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Natasha frowned. “Remember what?”

You exhaled shakily, gaze unfocused. “How they trained us. How they made us feel nothing.”

Natasha tensed. “Don’t do that,” she warned. “Don’t go there.”

You lifted your head to meet her eyes. “Why not? It would be easier.” Your voice cracked. “I wouldn’t have to feel like this. Wouldn’t have to wake up reaching for them only to remember I don’t exist to them anymore.”

Natasha’s grip tightened on your knee. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Your smile was hollow. “They canceled our date today, Nat. Again. I was supposed to spend the evening with them. Instead, I spent it watching Cassidy laugh at Bucky’s jokes and touch Steve’s arm and…” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice barely above a whisper. “And they let her.”

Natasha’s expression darkened, but she said nothing.

You turned your gaze back to the floor. “I just… I don’t want to feel this anymore.”

She was quiet for a long time before she whispered, “You’re not in the Red Room anymore, Sweets. You have them. You have me.”

You nodded. But the ache in your chest remained, because deep down, you weren’t sure if you still had them at all.

The bed felt massive. You lay curled up on one side, facing away from the door, the covers pulled tightly around you. The scent of Steve and Bucky still lingered on the sheets, but it brought no comfort.

Then the mattress dipped.

First on one side, then the other. Warm bodies slid in beside you, their familiar presence surrounding you.

“Doll?” Steve’s voice was soft, hesitant.

Bucky shifted behind you, his arm resting loosely around your waist. “We’re sorry about earlier, sweetheart.”

Your throat burned.

“We’ll make it up to you,” Steve added quickly. “We’ve got a whole day planned for you tomorrow. Just the three of us. No interruptions, promise.”

Tomorrow.

You closed your eyes.

They had said that last time.

And the time before that.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, willing yourself to stay silent.

Bucky pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Come on, talk to us, Doll. We know you’re mad.”

Mad.

Was that what they thought this was? Your lips parted, but no words came out. Because what was the point? Tomorrow would come, and it would be the same.

Cassidy would be there.

Steve and Bucky wouldn’t notice.

And you? You would be alone again. A tear slipped down your cheek, but you kept your eyes closed. If you stayed quiet, maybe they wouldn’t hear how badly you were breaking.

Morning passed in a blur.

You moved through training sessions on autopilot, barely speaking, barely feeling. Natasha watched you carefully, her sharp gaze catching every falter, every moment you hesitated before leaving the gym. You knew she wanted to say something, but you weren’t sure if you had it in you to listen.

So you just kept going.

Kept pretending.

Kept waiting for Steve and Bucky to remember.

And then they did. Or so you thought.

“Doll, come on! Movie night’s all set up!”

Bucky’s voice rang through the hall as you made your way toward the common room, a flicker of hope stirring in your chest.

They remembered. They finally remembered.

For the first time in days, your heart didn’t feel so heavy. You ran your fingers through your hair, exhaling softly as you reached the doorway, ready to sink into the warmth of your boys.

And then you saw her.

Cassidy.

Sitting between them.

Again.

Your body locked up, breath catching in your throat. She was curled up comfortably, her legs tucked beneath her as she laughed at something Bucky whispered in her ear. Steve sat relaxed beside her, arm draped over the back of the couch, so damn close, so damn easy, like she belonged there.

Like she belonged with them.

You forced yourself to speak, though your voice barely carried. “What is she doing here?”

Steve turned, smiling at you. That easy, oblivious smile that used to make your heart race.

Now?

It made you feel sick.

“She didn’t know it was just meant to be us,” he said lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “And we didn’t wanna be rude, so…”

You didn’t hear the rest, your ears were ringing.

They didn’t want to be rude to her. You stared at them. At her. And then you swallowed down every emotion clawing its way up your throat. “Enjoy the movie.”

That was all you said before turning on your heel and walking away.

They didn’t call after you.

Didn’t chase you.

Didn’t even notice the way your hands were trembling as you pushed open the door.

The tears came before you even reached the elevator, but you didn’t stop walking, didn’t wipe them away, didn’t care if anyone saw.

Not that they would. No one ever did.

You should have gone to your room. You should have buried yourself under the covers and let the ache consume you in silence.

But the walls were closing in too fast.

So instead, you climbed, up the emergency stairwell, up to the roof, where the air was sharp and cold, where the wind bit at your damp cheeks, where no one could see you break.

Your hands gripped the ledge as you sucked in deep, desperate breaths.

They had remembered and it still hadn’t mattered.

A hollow laugh escaped your lips, bitter and broken. You should have known, you should have known it would end up like this.

You closed your eyes, head tilting back as the city lights blurred beneath the weight of your tears.

You had never felt more alone.

By the time you came down from the roof, your tears had dried, but the weight in your chest remained, suffocating and unrelenting.

You stepped into the hallway, head down, steps quick, just wanting to reach your room, just wanting to breathe without feeling like you were drowning.

But the moment you turned the corner, you froze.

Steve.

Bucky.

And her.

They were standing there, talking, laughing.

Cassidy’s hand was on Bucky’s arm, her body tilted toward him in that way she always did, like she was drawn to him. Steve stood beside them, relaxed, like the world wasn’t crumbling around you.

Like they hadn’t just broken your heart a little more.

Their laughter died down when they saw you.

You knew they noticed your red, swollen eyes. Knew they saw the way your shoulders tensed, the way your fists clenched at your sides.

But they didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask if you were okay.

Didn’t ask where the hell you had gone.

No, Steve just frowned slightly, like he was trying to piece something together. Like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

You didn’t give him the chance, you walked past them without a word, without a glance.

Without acknowledging them at all.

And still, still they didn’t stop you.

The compound doors slammed shut behind you as you ran, your feet pounded against the pavement, muscles burning, lungs heaving, but you didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down, didn’t care where you were going, as long as it was away.

Away from the suffocating silence, away from them, away from her.

You pushed yourself harder, faster, as if you could outrun the pain clawing at your chest, the unbearable ache of being unseen by the two people who were supposed to know you best.

They had always seen you, hadn’t they? Then why did it feel like you were fading? Why did it feel like you were already gone?

You were so lost in your own head, so consumed by the roaring in your ears, that you didn’t hear the footsteps behind you until a firm hand grabbed your arm, yanking you to a stop.

“Enough.”

Natasha.

You blinked at her, breathing hard, vision blurring. But she didn’t let go. Didn’t loosen her grip. She just stared at you, her green eyes filled with something sharp, something dangerous.

Something like determination.

“I let this go on for too long,” she muttered. “That’s on me.”

You swallowed hard, chest still rising and falling in ragged breaths. “Nat…”

“No.” Her voice was steel. “You’re not doing this. You’re not running until your body gives out just because they’re too damn blind to see what’s happening.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t know what to do...”

She sighed, her hand loosening slightly but not letting go. “Then let me do something.”

Your breath hitched, but you believed in her.

Natasha had always been your anchor, your constant. You had survived hell together. She knew you better than anyone, sometimes even better than Steve and Bucky.

So when she said those words, when she looked at you like that, like she was done watching you suffer, something inside you cracked.

You swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper, “Okay.”

You hadn’t spoken much since that night, since the roof. Since Natasha found you and promised to do something.

You weren’t sure what you had expected, but you hadn’t expected him.

You sat on the rooftop again, legs pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around your knees. The city stretched out before you, endless and glowing, but all you saw was the emptiness.

The way you had been fading, the way they had let you, the way it still hurt.

You exhaled shakily, trying to push it all down, trying to keep yourself from breaking again.

“Bub.”

Your breath caught, your heart stopped, that voice.

Rough. Low. Familiar.

A voice that belonged to only one person.

You turned slowly, the cold air biting at your tear-streaked face and there he was.

Logan.

Your brother.

Standing there, broad and tense, his sharp eyes scanning you with a fury you hadn’t seen in a long time, his jaw clenched.

SNIKT.

The sound of his claws unsheathing was sharp, deadly, cutting through the silence like a blade to the heart.

His eyes darkened, fists trembling, rage radiating from his very being.

“Who?”

It was just one word, just one syllable, but it carried the weight of a storm. You swallowed hard, dropping your gaze.

Logan stepped closer, his boots heavy against the rooftop, his presence overwhelming.

“Who did this to you, Bub?” His voice was lower now, dangerous. “Tell me. I’ll gut ‘em.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Logan...”

“Look at me.”

You did and the moment his eyes met yours, whatever restraint he had left snapped.

“Those sons of bitches!” he snarled, pacing now, breathing ragged. His claws flexed, his shoulders heaved, pure, unfiltered rage pouring from him. “You’re telling me those two idiots, our idiots did this? Made you feel like this?”

You couldn’t answer.

Didn’t have to, because your silence was enough.

Logan let out a rough, guttural growl, his fists clenching so tightly that his knuckles went white despite the metal already tearing through his skin.

“I’ll kill ‘em.”

“No, you won’t.” Natasha’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unwavering.

You turned just in time to see her step onto the rooftop, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“Why the hell not?” Logan snapped. “They hurt her.”

“I know,” Natasha said evenly. “That’s why she’s leaving.”

Your breath hitched, “What?”

Natasha walked toward you, gaze softening as she reached out and brushed her knuckles against your cheek. “Pack a bag, Sweets. You’re going with Logan.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Logan’s brows furrowed. “Wait, you’re actually letting me take her?”

“She needs to get away from here,” Natasha murmured, eyes never leaving yours. “From them.”

You stared at her, then at Logan, your throat tightening so painfully you thought it might close entirely.

“Tasha…”

“No arguments,” she said softly but firmly. “You’re not okay. And I won’t stand here and watch you disappear.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek.

You felt Logan’s heavy hand settle on your shoulder, grounding you, steadying you.

“C’mon, Bub,” he murmured, voice softer now, almost pleading. “Let’s go.”

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to leave.

But because leaving meant giving up. Leaving meant accepting that they had chosen her, that they had chosen everyone but you.

But maybe... maybe they had already made that choice a long time ago.

You inhaled sharply and nodded.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

Part 2

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