#mycroft holmes/reader

[sleep-i-ness]

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Mycroft Holmes

Between Duty and Desire (39.1k - completed series) - Mycroft Holmes is the the object of all your heart's desires, your boss's boss, and the bane of your existence. And you know that he will never see you as more than a goldfish, despite Sherlock's insistence, so when Sherlock concocts some outlandish plan to make Mycroft realise that you're clearly the one for him, you decide to just go along with it. (posted on AO3)

[its-me-em28]

[rnnsdrms]

TELL ME, DO YOU FEEL THE LOVE?

DEAREST READER. i was supposed to publish moriarty brothers’ first but remembered that the 5th and 6th of january was mycroft and sherlock’s birthday! to celebrate their birthdays, and also the return of moriarty the patriot manga, i decided to write a little something ! if you like my work, consider treating me a coffee. it means a lot !

CONTENT SUMMARY. basically how the holmes brothers shows their love for you. this is based on a - z sfw alphabet challenge and this is the a for affection part ! so, THERE IS NO SMUT. i wrote this with female! reader in mind + sherlock is implied to be taller + mention of ‘queen’ in mycroft’s part.

CHARACTERS. mycroft holmes, sherlock holmes.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 SHERLOCK HOLMES

music to listen to as you read: i wanna be yours

Sherlock being affectionate is, perhaps, one of life’s rarest phenomena–something you never expected to witness and experience firsthand. The man, by all accounts, is crude, aloof, and generally unlikeable to most. But not to you. Somehow, in a way he does not quite understand, you have managed to see beyond the sharp edges and impossible arrogance. You will say, in a teasing tone, “It’s a part of your charm,” and Sherlock, in his endlessly logical mind, is half-convinced that there must be a small dent somewhere in your delicate skull for finding him admirable. And although he would not like to admit it, it was a good enough reason for him to return your kind disposition.

He has never cared about public opinion, but when it comes to you, it is a different story entirely. Your thoughts of him matter more than they should, more than he ever anticipated. Only in these moments that he becomes the accused, and you are his honourable judge. Words that fall from your lips–whether they are gentle praises or sharp criticisms–hit him harder than anyone’s insult about him ever could, carving every syllable into his mind like a new scripture he should abide by. What you think of him is vital, necessary, as crucial as air to his lungs. So, he listens, often with his head down in contemplation. For the first time in his life, he lets someone mold him into a shape that befits a certain vision—your vision. Because he knows that with your guiding hand, he can transition from a good man to a better man.

But Sherlock is far from a traditional Victorian gentleman. There is no flair for romantic chivalry, no polished manners or well-practiced charm to sweep you off your feet. And he knows this–he knows he lacks the grace and poise most would expect from a man in love. But what he lacks in gentlemanly qualities, he compensates for tenfold with the precision of his sharp intellect, which he dedicates entirely toward easing your life’s burdens.

When crisis unfolds, Sherlock steps onto the scene with his usual calm authority, a quiet grace that steadies the chaos around him–which in this case, the chaos is usually you. To the outside world, he is seen as the blade of reason, but beneath that steely exterior, he watches out for you, always. Anything that troubles you naturally becomes his burden to bear. Your worries are his worries, and his detective instincts won’t let him rest until he has unraveled the knot of your hardship. His mind sharpens into focus, meticulously piercing together solutions, knowing that once he is able to solve it, your relief–that gleam in your eyes as you pull him down to kiss him–will be his greatest prize. He often says he works best alone, but this time, he strives to be a partner you can lean on. For Sherlock, love is not solely about roses or sweeping gestures; it is about showing up in the way he knows best. It is in the way he says, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. You know I always do,” that makes you feel safe in a world that often feels anything but.

While he might be a man not possessing great ambitions, he does, however, aims to be the best partner you will ever have. Good is no longer good enough. He longs for your recognition, your acknowledgment of his efforts, no matter how significant or simple they might be. And when you give it to him–when your eyes light up at something he has done or your words affirm his care–he practically glows, like a happy child, even if he hides it beneath that trademark smirk you know so well.

Sherlock holds your individuality with reverence, and loves the way you shine differently among the other ladies. He loves the way you tell him random facts about life, the way you bombard him with a lot of questions that he is only too happy to answer, or the way you try to prove him wrong even if you always fail. It comforts him to know that he sees himself in you, that you are just as stubborn as he is. When you achieve success, it sparks something within him that he cannot suppress: pride. Though he won’t erupt in grand applause, you can still catch the tender radiance in his eyes when he holds your gaze, a small smile forming on one edge of his lips. His praise comes in soft, sincere words. “I knew you could do it, honey. I never doubted you for a second.”

Sherlock may not always get it right. He stumbles, he overthinks, and sometimes his temper gets the better of him. But in those moments when he catches you smiling—really, truly smiling—he swears it’s all worth it.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 MYCROFT HOLMES

music to listen to as you read: young and beautiful

People who do not have the pleasure of knowing him will never know how this cold, stoic man is actually a hidden walking-green-flag on earth. When you first met him, you thought he exuded a daunting and untouchable aura, a common characteristic you find in men who wanted to steer themselves clear of any romantic alliances. Of course, that didn’t stop him from looking desirable in the eyes of many women–including yours. In the end, by some strange luck or fate, you piqued his curiosity, held his attention, and the next thing you know, he has got himself wrapped around your little finger of his own will. Everything that he does never fails to surprise you, in a way that makes you think, ‘I didn’t think he would be this kind.’

Because, as it turns out, here is a man who has been anointed with the title of a provider. Mycroft does not just give, because he knows that is what any respectable good man is supposed to do. He provides with purpose, with intention, with an almost acute type of meticulousness that mirrors every other part of his life. Yes, his wallet is loaded, but he is not the kind to randomly shower you with expensive gifts or empty sweet words. His generosity is calculated, deliberate–every act of giving is carefully chosen to mean something. When Mycroft decides to give you something, he wants his gifts to be of use to you. He likes gifting you your favourite brand of personal care products or that specific perfume with a scent he likes so much that he thinks you should spray them on your skin again.

A romantic dinner? He won’t spoil it with unnecessary fanfare or lengthy explanations. Instead, he will step into your space, gently disrupting whatever it is you are doing, place an elegant outfit in your hands, and simply say, “Wear this. I’m taking you to dinner tonight.” No further explanation needed, because the evening will speak for itself. You only have the highest regard for his immaculate tastes, for it never once disappoints you. You can trust that he has chosen only the finest restaurant, a place where every detail–the ambience, the wine, the food–meets his impossibly high standards. For Mycroft, perfection is not luxury; it is a necessity when it comes to you. This is his kingdom, and you are his queen.

He is not one to smother you in repeated declarations of love. In fact, the word “I love you” rarely ever leaves his mouth. But when it does leave his lips, it strikes a chord deeper in you than the most lavish gift or flowery phrase. Mycroft doesn’t simply say I love you. Little do you know, even these three words tugs at every string of his core, threatening to undo him. There was something about the word ‘love’ that strips him bare, and with the combination of your soft gaze on him when the word teethers in the edge of his lips, Mycroft realises he is not as formidable as he thought. He is not above love after all–while the word itself gives him the power to live his days, it was, at the same time, his bane, knowing that the word itself resonates with your name. So, he often rephrases them with other words: “I will take you home,” “What would you like to eat? I’ll pay.” “Is everything alright?”–are the words that decorate your days. And you understand that those words, spoken in his low, steady tone, are his heart laid at your feet.

Publicly, Mycroft is all composure, all restraint. Mycroft is known for his headstrong manner and his solemn words, but watch him listen and obey the second words leave your mouth, for he knows that you care for him, and only have the best of intentions for him. He may not indulge in the frivolity of public displays of affection. But behind closed doors? He is a different man entirely. In private, your existence becomes his gravity, pulling him away from his mountain of work, reminding him to rest. He may need you to distract him, but other times, he will find you himself. You are the soft chaos in his carefully structured world–the calm after the storm–and it’s exactly what he needs. His hands envelop your frame without hesitation, tracing the edges of your presence like he is memorising you all over again.

Mycroft is far from being a master in the kitchen or a patron of words, but he will always save the best slice of food for you. Watching you savour something delicious—shaking your head in delight and doing a small dance—becomes one of his simplest, purest joys. It’s in these moments that his carefully guarded walls lower, letting himself bask in the quiet and intoxicating joy of loving you.

RNNSDRMS ©. SUPPORT WRITERS BY REBLOGGING THEIR WORK. DO NOT PLAGIARIZE, TRANSLATE, OR POST MY WORKS ON ANY SITE. I WILL POST MY POSTS ON OTHER SOCIAL MEDIA SITES MYSELF AND THAT’S ALL YOU GET.

[frost-queen]

Outmatched series

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─-── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Anthony Bridgerton ✧ Holmes!Reader

🔎 part 1

🔎part 2 

🔎part 3 

🔎 part 4 

🔎part 5 

🔎part 6

🔎 part 7 

🔎part 8 

🔎part 9 

🔎part 10 │Final chapter

🔎 epilogue

[ananiel]

Imagine being able to see spirits. You are able to see animals and humans walking (or floating) around, hearing how they talk and how they speak, talking about how they wish they could see their family or talking about how they want nothing more but justice

You are able to touch and pet, to speak and to interact with any of them, and when people touch your bare skin, they can see spirits too, which caused You to always wear gloves and long sleaves, as well as a mask

Now, the basic answear for this Power would be to become an oracle or some crazy witch of the Town. But what if You become a Detective. Yep, a young Detective that suddenly rised into the favour of the people for being able to solve cases that are a century old (mainly because the beheaded victim cries in Your bathroom at 3:36 am sharp every night)

So You live like this, in a happy way with your gift

Logical would be to keep your gift hidden too, so that people don't try to kill You for knowing to much

You met him on a random day, thinking nothing of him while a dog spirit was hiding behind your leg. He seemed friendly, and eager to befriend You as well, almost honored to be in your presence

Now spirits upon spirits whisper his name, talk about how deranged and how he was the one who killed them, or played part into their death. Spirits that got very fond of You would tell You to stay away from that man

You clearly followed their advice, and distanced yourself from him. But he isn't dumb, he caught up to it, and now, he tries to figure out what has gotten You to hate him so much

Surely... He has been studing You for ages, talking You day and night to figure out the best personality to just steal You away only for himself. What failed in his plan?

He asked himself, oh well, guess he'd have to take You in a more forcefull attempt

[fancyfeathers]

@zainiscompletelydone333 asked a question

If the darlings were animals or birds, what would they be??

Oh this is an interesting thought

William’s darling would definitely be a rabbit or perhaps a mouse, like something very fragile and easily vulnerable to predators. Or I could definitely see a chinchilla as well.

Albert’s darling would definitely be a ferret since they're playful, affectionate, and quiet for a large part of the day. Ferrets also need to have others around, like other ferrets or their owners since they are social creatures.

Louis’ darling is a cat, but like the type who bites your hand if you even look at them wrong but then they are affectionate with only one person and you are just standing there like what the fuck. So feral street cat.

Sherlock’s darling is a dog, probably a husky or a beagle, super dramatic and whiney, but also super energetic and lively. Like she gets all whiney when Sherlock won’t let her in on a case just like a dog would.

Mycroft’s darling is a pomeranian, I can’t explain this one but if you know you know.

Moran’s darling is probably also a cat, but more of the ones that are super chill and honestly do not care what you do as long as you don’t bother them.

Bonde’s darling would be probably a robin since they are a form of songbird and it just fits the idea of Bonde’s darling being not to different from him when he was Irene Alder.

Von Herder’s darling would probably be an owl since they are often connected to intelligence and wisdom which kind of suits how I have written her.

Fred’s darling would either be a hummingbird or a doe, a female deer. I literally cannot explain this one besides it just fits with the vibes I get from them.

[foxaftershocks]

Safe and Sound (Mycroft Holmes x f!Reader)

Synopsis: When you're in trouble, there's only one man you call. And he always answers.

Words: 2.1k

Warnings: some mentions of violence, creepy men

You wish you could have said that you’d called Sherlock. He’d be awake, of course he would, and he most likely would be able to help you. If he picked up. But your impulse was never to call him when you needed something. Or, more importantly, when you were in trouble. 

You always called the other Holmes brother when you needed help. 

“This is hardly an ideal time,” Mycroft said into your ear.

“Mycroft,” you whimpered, “I um…”

“What is it?” he sighed.

“I know this isn’t exactly ideal but Carolyn went off with this guy she knows and now I’m here alone and some guys are… I just feel… They keep looking over at me and shouting and I’m not sure if I leave if they’ll stay here or follow me and I… sorry, I know this is a pain but…” you rambled, trying to get out the words you needed to say.

“Stay exactly where you are. I’m on my way,” he said.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

He hung up but you saw when the CCTV camera turned towards you. You hunched in your seat, fingers curling around the empty glass in front of you. Your eyes darted over to the group of men, drunk and loud. One leered over at you. You looked away as quickly as you could, going back to considering the ice melting in your glass. 

The door opened, cold air sweeping into the pub. You pressed back in your seat, not risking looking up and inviting more attention on you.

Someone slid into the booth across from you.

“This is a rather depressing place,” Mycroft said.

You looked up, feeling yourself relax a fraction of an inch. He was gazing around at the pub, nose wrinkling in disgust. And despite the late hour, he was still dressed impeccably, the way he always was, not a hair out of place. 

“Don’t bother, mate. She’s being a prick tease,” one of the men from the big group called over.

He didn’t bother responding, turning his eyes back to you. You released the glass, your knuckles aching from how tightly you’d been gripping it. 

“It’s Carolyn’s local,” you said, keeping your voice soft, “she wanted to grab a drink so I met her here.”

“And she left you alone?” he asked.

“I told her it was fine,” you replied.

“It’s two in the morning,” he said, soundling less than impressed. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, looking down at the fingers twisting together in your lap.

“I’m not-” He cut himself off in frustration before he softened his voice, “there is no need to apologise for calling me. I would rather you do that than have harm come to you. I’m angry at her for putting her selfish needs before your safety.”

“She really liked the guy,” you said, your only defence for your friend.

“Irrelevant,” he replied.

Your gaze darted up to him. He hardly looked happy, but if he was being honest, always a toss up with him, then it wasn’t you he was unhappy with. He reached across, moving the glass away from you, no barrier between the two of you.

“Come on,” he said, “I’m taking you home.”

His hand hovered over the small of your back as he led you out the door. You did your best to ignore the wolf whistling from the group of men who had been harassing you all evening. His hand landed on you, giving you the strength you didn’t know you needed.

You slid into his car, idling by the front door. He settled beside you, watching the door of the pub until you’d pulled away, leaving it behind. When he looked at you, you shivered, breath catching.

“You should reconsider your friendship with this Carolyn,” he said.

“She’s not so bad. She just really fancies that guy,” you said.

“You would never act so selfishly for someone you care about. Even for a man you may find yourself attracted to,” he said, dismissive, haughty, passing judgement without even knowing.

You stayed silent. Through your mind flashed all the plans you’d dropped when he’d called, all the events you’d left early when he’d asked, all the texts you’d left unanswered when so caught up in his presence. Not that you were going to tell him any of that. Unbearable embarrassment is all that would bring. 

“You don’t agree,” he said.

“I’ve not always been the best friend,” you replied with a small shrug.

He considered you for a moment, eyebrows drawing together. You looked away, staring out the window as the night drenched streets rolled past. He shifted but didn’t say anything more.

“I’ll walk you up,” he said when the car had stopped in front of your building.

“You don’t have to,” you said, voice quiet.

“My duty is not done yet,” he said. 

“Okay.”

He followed you up the stairs to your door, hand lingering on the small of your back. His touch was burning through your coat and shirt. Your hands were shaky as you tried to unlock your front door, not used to him touching you so much. His hand closed over yours, steadying it as he inserted the key into the lock.

“Thank you,” you said.

You stepped away from him, into your flat, turning to look at him on the other side of the door, still in the hall. 

“Duty done,” you said, “sorry for calling you so late.”

“I’m glad you did,” he said.

“Why?” you asked, “I thought you didn’t do caring.”

He was staring at you like you’d asked an incomprehensible question. Sighing, you shook your head.

“Never mind. Thank you,” you said.

You closed the door on him before he could say anything. You stepped away from the door, wondering if you’d messed the whole thing up. It was possible he was going to go home and realise he had been acting out of character and was never going to help you again. 

You flung the door open.

“Wait,” you called, only to find him only about a step back from the door, pretty much exactly where you left him.

“I’m waiting,” he said, raising an eyebrow at you.

“I do want you to explain why you’re glad I called you,” you said.

“Perhaps we should discuss this inside,” he said.

You glanced to your neighbour’s front door then nodded your head. He didn’t bother looking around your cramped flat, as if he already knew what it looked like. It wouldn't surprise you if he did. He was known for his surveillance skills. Stalking, some might say. Still, it made you feel safer to know he was watching you.

“I believe you had a question,” he said, turning to look at you, both hands clasped on the head of his umbrella.

“Why were you glad I called you tonight?” you asked.

“Your safety matters to me,” he said.

“Why?” you asked.

“I find myself feeling rather protective over you,” he replied.

“Why?” you asked.

“You do seem to enjoy asking questions like a child,” he said.

“I want you to expound on your reasoning,” you said, “better?”

He raised an eyebrow at you. Rolling your eyes, you brushed past him towards the kitchen. You flicked the kettle on, craving your cup of bedtime tea. He watched you.

“Do you want one?” you asked.

“If you’re offering,” he said.

“I am,” you replied.

Pulling down the mugs from the cupboard, you turned your back on him. Under his scrutinising gaze you were finding yourself feeling jittery. It was hard to keep yourself together when you were around him. Especially when he was finally answering some questions.

Especially when the answers were making your heart flutter.

Placing the mugs down on the counter, you took a deep breath before turning to face him again. He’d drawn closer without you noticing. You froze, not sure what to do now. He took another step closer. 

“The thought of those men hurting you made me consider the torture I would put them under in retribution,” he said, “I got very creative.”

“Oh,” you said, not sure what to say to that. But the thought did make you tremble. You couldn’t tell if it was from fear or from arousal. Maybe a bit of both.

“You should know your continued wellbeing is important to me,” he said.

“Are you going to tell me why?” you asked, voice soft, looking up into his face.

“Despite my better judgement, I’ve found myself caring for you,” he said, voice deepening in a way that made you feel breathless. 

“I thought you didn’t allow yourself to care for others,” you said, “I thought caring was a weakness.”

“It is,” he replied, sounding frustrated about it.

“But you’re doing it anyway,” you said.

“I find myself enjoying it,” he said, fingertips brushing over your cheekbone.

You shivered from his touch.

“Even if it’s a weakness?” you asked.

“It’s difficult to remember it’s a weakness when it feels so lovely,” he said.

You tilted your head up towards him, lips parting, an offering you hoped he took. His eyes were taking a leisurely path over your face. The expression on his face had softened, the danger gone as he gazed down on you. He took his time, lingering in places that had you heating under his gaze.

“I’m truly hoping you feel similar to me,” he murmured, “otherwise this will be excruciating.”

“I suppose it depends on what type of caring you’re talking about,” you said, voice equally soft.

“The kind where it wouldn’t be a burden to share a life with you. The kind where I wonder what you’re doing at all points of the day. The kind where I’d quite like to kiss you now, if you’d allow it,” he replied, head dipping towards you.

The whistle of the kettle was loud as it broke into your little bubble of conversation. You jumped, breathless and wanting in ways you hadn't known were possible. Turning away, you pulled the kettle off the stove. Mycroft dodged out of the way as you brought the steaming kettle over to the counter with the mugs, pouring the water in. 

His hands landed on your waist, turning you once the kettle was no longer in your hands. He pressed you back against the counter, pinning you there, so sure in his movements. 

“Mycroft,” you whispered.

“Why did you call me to come look after you?” he asked.

“Because I knew you would,” you replied.

“I’m sure others would have,” he said.

“Maybe, but they’re not you,” you said.

“And that matters because?” he asked.

“I feel safest with you.”

He let out a soft breath, not smiling exactly, but looking calmer, like you’d settled things in his mind. 

“No one will keep you as safe as I will,” he said.

“I know,” you said, certain of it. He’d proven it time and time again that he was always going to prioritise your safety. He always helped you when you asked. He always answered your phone calls.

“May I kiss you?” he asked.

“Please,” you said.

His lips were slow to descend onto yours, kissing you with an intensity that stole your breath. Whimpering, you curled your arms around his neck. His hands were still on your waist, pinning you to the counter, pressing forward. You’d never felt so alive, nor so safe, as you did in his arms. 

He groaned, kissing you deeper, pressing you harder against the counter. He seemed unable to help himself, the loss of control the sexiest thing you’d ever experienced. His hands slid around your waist, pressing into your spine, arching you into his body. You moaned into his mouth, muffled, fingers curling in his hair. The sound he made, a low growl in his chest, was going to be burned into your brain forever more.

And you were sure every time you revisited it you’d be flooded with the heat of desire just as you were now. 

“I will always take care of you,” he murmured against your lips.

“I know,” you said.

He kissed you again, as if unable to stop himself. You liked this version of him, the one that seemed to be less in control due to you. You felt powerful. Dragging him closer, fingers tightening in his hair, his groan was filthy. You wanted to keep hearing it. 

You forgot about the tea until the next morning, finding it stone cold, still in the cups on the counter.

[marvelmymarvel]

Me and the Devil

Mycroft Holmes x ExSpy!Reader

Synopsis: You were an ex-spy who needed to fly under the radar to stay safe, and he? He was the Devil.

A/n: As I grow older, the older Holmes becomes my cup of tea. Love me a man with power.

“I’m sorry, what are we doing exactly?” 

Your worried tone disturbed John but did nothing to deter Sherlock from what he was about to do. “I’m getting us into a military base with Mycroft's identity. What does it look like we are doing?”

John’s eyes widened as he finally understood what was happening. “Sherlock, you look nothing like your brother,” John stated as they rolled up to the military gate. Glancing back at you, John caught sight of you rubbing your face roughly between your fingers, “We are so fucked” you whispered to yourself. There was no stopping this train wreck; you were just hopeful the Mycroft would forgive you for what you were about to allow to happen.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

After being in the lab for 15 minutes, you were ‘politely’ escorted out. Upon reaching the outside and, in turn, a cell tour, your phone began blowing up with messages and missed calls. You knew exactly who they were from before even looking at them, but you didn’t exactly expect the type of message you got.

‘Return to London now before I send someone to fetch you. I am not playing this game anymore.’

Your stomach twists as you read the message over and over. Mycroft was never kidding, and you knew firsthand that he would indeed send someone to get you if you didn't listen. It's happened a fair number of times…

Sherlock and John looked at you quizically. “Thanks, boys,” you snapped as you stormed over to the car that Mycroft most certainly sent for you. “I must return to London to pay for a situation you two put me in... Once again.”

John tried to apologize, but Sherlock cut him off, “You could always choose not to listen to him. I do it all the time.” 

You laughed at his words as you ripped open the door. “You don't know this side of your brother, my dear friend. I will see you two in a few days.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The receptionist barely acknowledged you as you trudged in with your bags, the fact that he wouldn’t even let you head home first pissed you off to no extent causing your patience to dwindle quickly. “Excuse me, is Mycroft in his office?”

The receptionist stopped typing, throwing an icy glare up at you before she finally took in your disheveled form. She popped her gum between her teeth, her icy glare flicking back up to you before resuming her typing. You let out a humorless laugh at her blatantly rude behavior, “Alright, I’ll go check for myself then-”

“You take one more step, and I’m calling security.”

You halted in your tracks, eyes wide in disbelief as you tried your best not to rip her head off. “You’re kidding, right?” you whispered angrily, practically begging her to repeat what she said so you could lose your temper right then and there. Silence hung heavy and tense in the air; at this point, some of the people in the lobby were throwing glances at one another in shock of possibly seeing violence.

She said nothing but popped her gum once more up at you. 

Deciding to ignore her and just find him yourself, you continue towards the doors behind the desk. The receptionist flies from her seat to stop you, but you manage to hit her in the knees with your luggage. It gave you a few seconds to slip behind the door and take off down the corridor towards the direction of Mycroft's office. The receptionist screamed for security, and you feared that if you didn’t find Mycroft soon, he’d have to fetch you from a jail cell. Rounding the corner, you came face to face with the Devil himself, who seemed to have been roused by the yelling of the guards behind you. 

“Why must you always get in trouble?”

You scoffed up at him before shoving him in anger, your fuse finally being ignited. The guards finally rounded the corner just as you had shoved him, but before they could grab you, Mycroft put up a hand, “She's with me, shes just being a brat.”

“I AM NOT” you screamed back, face growing warm from now both embarrassment and rage. The receptionist came into view, popping her stupid gum as she took in the scene smugly. Your eyes narrowed at her. “You should keep your pet in check, Mr Holmes. She could be a real danger to society if not.”

The words stung, and you started to lunge at her, but Mycroft, as well as the guards, held you back. “Leave, all of you!” Mycroft snapped out before hauling you towards his office, having quite enough of your temper for the day.

“You’re just going to let her talk to me like that?! She humiliated me, Mycroft,” you cried out as the doors of his office slammed shut behind him. Tears formed along your lash line as the anger and sadness filled your veins. Mycroft ignores you as he moves toward his desk. “Do you think this is a game?”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion before once again realizing why you were here, he didn’t care if your feelings were hurt right now, for he was far too angry with you to care. The more you watched him move, the more you saw just how angry he was, but you knew that behind that anger was fear. Wiping your eyes, you moved slowly towards his desk as he sat down. “I didn’t make that decision, Mycroft-”

“You need to stay away from my brother.”

The sound of your breath getting caught in your throat was louder than you intended. “You’ve allowed me to live with Sherlock for 3 years now. I have done far more reckless actions in those three years, so why the sudden change of heart?” 

Mycroft rubbed at his temple in exasperation and stress. You could visibly see just how stressed he was over this entire thing, making you worry that maybe you did cross the line, even when it wasn’t your choice. You turned his chair slightly before sitting on his lap sideways, “Whats going on?” you stated softly as you gently pulled his hands from his face, moving them to wrap around you instead, one of your hands stayed on the one you rested in your lap, fingers trailing sweetly up and down the skin below.

“You are supposed to lay low. To stay out of danger. Now that Sherlock is getting more attention, I fear that the task will be impossible, and my job is to protect you from that.”

Sadness once again wormed its way into your chest as you thought through what to do or where to go. “I can try and find a place-”

He laughed softly at you before rubbing his face once more in exasperation, “Oh my dear, sometimes you’re blind to unasked questions.”

“Well, we’ve only just begun dating again. I would have found it rude to assume! Besides, I’m still mad at you for not defending me out there.” Your lips curled up into a fake pout, causing him to laugh some more at your childishness. “I'm not kidding, Mycroft!” you hissed as you shoved his chest playfully. He wrapped a hand around your wrist, keeping you where you were. “Would you like me to fire her or feed her to the wolves, my Darling?” his teasing tone almost caused you to falter and melt, but you kept your stone-like demeanor in check, “The wolves… Mr Holmes. The wolves.”

Mycroft let go of your wrist and reached for the phone on his desk. “What are you doing?” You questioned as the sound of ringing filled the room.

“Feeding her to the wolves, of course. I’m also summoning the car for us so we can go home.”

[fanboyswhore9]

The Proposal (Pt. 1)~ Sherlock Holmes

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes (Henry Cavill’s version) x Fem! reader

Contains: Henry Cavil, marriage of convenience, childhood lovers, long lost love, TOOTH ROTTING FLUFF

Summary: Childhood friends Sherlock Holmes and the reader were inseparable until she left for boarding school, leaving unresolved feelings between them. Nearly two decades later, she returns to 221B Baker Street with an urgent proposition: to secure her inheritance, she must marry, and she asks Sherlock for help. Unbeknownst to her, Sherlock has harbored feelings for her all along. They confess their love for each other and agree to marry, not just for convenience but out of genuine love.

A/N: THIS IS POSSIBLY THE LONGEST FIC I’VE EVER WRITTEN ON TUMBLR! This is my first Sherlock fic that I’ve done. I hope I do him justice!❤️❤️❤️❤️

The rain was steady that evening, casting a mist over the streets of London. Inside 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes sat in his armchair, eyes half-lidded, mind lost in a myriad of thoughts as the fire crackled. He hadn’t had a proper case in days, which left him restless, pacing between fleeting memories and idle deductions.

A knock on the door cut through his haze. Sherlock frowned, glancing at the clock. It was late, too late for most visitors, but not impossible. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson was entertaining guests again. He rose, heading to the door, when he heard the knock again—more insistent this time.

When he opened the door, the last person he ever expected to see stood before him, soaked from the rain, her hair damp around her face. “Sherlock,” she breathed, her voice a familiar melody he hadn’t heard in almost two decades.

His breath caught. It was her. The girl from his youth, his best friend, his confidant—until she was whisked away to boarding school, leaving him behind in a cold and silent void that he rarely acknowledged but always felt. She had grown into the woman he imagined she would be: poised, beautiful, but with that same spark in her eyes that always challenged him, intrigued him.

He stepped back to let her in, not trusting his voice just yet. She entered, glancing around at the familiar setting of 221B. “Some things never change,” she said, her lips pulling into a soft smile, though there was an edge of uncertainty there. Wanting to be polite, he asked her, “I know it’s past time, but would you like a cup of tea?” She looked at him nodding gently, “Yes, please. I’d love a cup of tea.” He nods as he starts to brew tea in the kettle.

Sherlock cleared his throat, suddenly aware of the weight of the moment. “What are you doing here?” He didn’t mean for the words to sound so cold, but they came out that way regardless.She looked at him, her expression guarded, then stepped closer. “I need your help, Sherlock.”

“Help?” His curiosity piqued, but there was something else in her eyes. Something more personal. Her fingers fiddled with the hem of her coat as she gathered her courage. “I… I’ve come back to London because of my grandmother. She’s ill, Sherlock. She’s… dying.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, and for once, it wasn’t merely out of politeness. “She’s left me her fortune, her estate, but there’s a catch.” She glanced away, as if embarrassed to continue. “I have to be married to inherit.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Married?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, her voice tightening. “My parents are pressuring me. They’ve paraded potential suitors in front of me for months, but none of them… none of them understand me.” She took a deep breath, her eyes finally meeting his. “And I really don’t want to marry any of them.” The air between them seemed to crackle with tension. Sherlock’s mind was already racing, calculating her reasons for coming to him, searching for the logical thread.

“And you’ve come to me because…?” he asked, though a part of him already knew the answer.“Because,” she said softly, stepping closer, her eyes searching his face, “I don’t want to marry just anyone. I want to marry someone I trust. Someone I care about. Someone I…” She hesitated, her voice breaking slightly. “Someone I love.” Sherlock froze.

The words he never expected to hear from her—yet had longed to hear—hung in the air. For a moment, he was sixteen again, watching her pack her things as she left for boarding school, a thousand words unsaid between them. He had always assumed she moved on, that she forgot about him. But now, here she was, standing before him, offering him not just her trust, but her heart.

“You—” He started, but his voice faltered. His mind, usually so sharp, struggled to find the right words. “I know this is sudden,” she rushed on, her hands trembling slightly, “and maybe it’s foolish. Maybe you’ve moved on, maybe you never thought about me that way. But I had to tell you, otherwise I might regret it for the rest of my life. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember, Sherlock. And if there’s even the smallest chance that you feel the same…” She trailed off, hope and fear mingling in her eyes.

Sherlock, for once, was at a loss. His emotions, something he kept carefully locked away, threatened to overwhelm him. He had thought of her often over the years, wondered where she was, what she was doing. He had buried his feelings for her, convinced they were pointless, that she was a part of his past he could never reclaim.

But now…

“I never stopped thinking about you,” he admitted quietly, his voice raw with emotion he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. “I—” He paused, the words foreign on his tongue. “I didn’t know how to say it, or if I even should. I assumed… I thought you were happy. That you had your life, your suitors.”She smiled sadly. “I never wanted anyone else.”

Silence filled the room, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy with possibilities, with unspoken promises. Sherlock, ever logical, ever calculating, found himself making a decision not based on reason but on something far more human.

“Then marry me,” he said simply, his eyes locked on hers. Her breath caught, her eyes widening in surprise. “Sherlock, I didn’t mean—”

“I’m serious,” he interrupted, stepping closer until they were mere inches apart. “Marry me. Not for your inheritance, not for your grandmother, but because I can’t bear the thought of you with anyone else.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she nodded, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “Yes, Sherlock. Yes.” He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he cupped her face. And for the first time in years, Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, let himself feel.

His eyes, usually so calculating and detached, softened as they locked onto hers. The distance between them seemed to disappear, years of unspoken emotions finally surfacing. His thumb gently traced the line of her cheek, his touch both tender and reverent.

“I’ve been a fool,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath, “for not realizing sooner.”

Before she could respond, Sherlock leaned in, closing the final space between them. His lips met hers in a kiss that was both hesitant and deliberate, as if he was discovering something new but also something long overdue. The kiss was soft at first, slow and searching, but then it deepened, filled with all the feelings they had kept hidden for so long.

Her hands found their way to his shoulders, holding him close as she melted into the warmth of his embrace. The world outside seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them in this quiet, intimate moment. His kiss, though unsure at first, soon became sure and steady, filled with the depth of emotion he had kept buried beneath layers of logic and restraint.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested against each other, their breaths mingling in the silence. Sherlock’s eyes remained closed for a brief moment longer, savoring the connection, before he finally opened them to look at her. “For you,” he murmured, his voice raw with emotion, “I’ll always make an exception.” A soft smile tugged at her lips, her heart swelling at his words. “Then I’ll always be your exception.”

~SHORT TIME SKIP~

A few days had passed since she had shown up at Sherlock’s doorstep with her proposition. The weight of their confession and the whirlwind engagement still felt surreal, but there was no time for hesitation. Arrangements had to be made, and there were still people she needed to see.

That afternoon, she found herself in the grand, stately sitting room of the Diogenes Club, Mycroft Holmes’ preferred sanctuary. He greeted her with his usual aloofness, but there was a subtle curiosity in his eyes as they exchanged pleasantries.

“My brother is not one for sentiment,” Mycroft said, swirling a glass of brandy as he studied her, “but you seem to have managed what few others could.” His words were clipped but not unkind. “It’s rather remarkable.” She smiled, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. “I didn’t come here expecting him to say yes. But I know Sherlock, and I believe this is right for both of us.”

Mycroft gave her a small, approving nod. “You’ve always had a peculiar influence on him. I suppose if anyone can make sense of this arrangement, it’s you.” Before she could respond, the door opened, and a young woman with wild curls and a sharp, curious look in her eyes entered the room. Enola Holmes, Sherlock and Mycroft’s little sister, stepped in with an air of confidence. It was the first time they’d met, though she had heard much about Enola’s independent and rebellious nature.

Enola glanced between her and Mycroft, her expression caught between surprise and amusement. “So, you’re the one who’s finally going to tie Sherlock down,” she said, half-teasing, half-curious. She let out a soft giggle and smiled, amused by the younger woman’s boldness. “It seems so.” Enola stepped forward, her curiosity obvious. “I must say, I’m impressed. Sherlock’s never shown much interest in anything besides his cases. You must be quite extraordinary.”

“Not as extraordinary as you, Enola. Sherlock speaks highly of you,” she replied warmly, and that seemed to catch Enola off guard. Enola smiled, clearly pleased by the compliment. “Well, you’ve certainly earned my respect. Anyone who can handle Sherlock is worthy of admiration.”

As the girls exchanged more pleasantries, she felt a sense of warmth from Enola, a feeling of acceptance, even if it came with a bit of Holmes skepticism. It felt like the final piece of her integration into Sherlock’s life, meeting both Mycroft and Enola, and earning a place in the family dynamic that was uniquely theirs.

Later that evening, in the quiet of Sherlock’s flat at 221B Baker Street, she sat at his desk and wrote a letter to her family. Her parents, grandmother, and sister needed to be informed, though she was sure the news would spread quickly once the engagement was made official.

Dearest Mother, Father, Grandmother, & my dear Sister,

I write to you with news I never expected to share. After years of distance & time apart, I have returned to London & reunited with Sherlock Holmes. Our connection, though it was once left in the past, has rekindled, & I am pleased to inform you that I am now engaged to be married to him.

I know this news may come as a surprise, but please understand that this decision was made with great care and certainty. Sherlock has always held a special place in my heart, & I believe that this union will be one of love, companionship, & understanding.

Sister, I especially want you to know how much I look forward to you being by my side through this, & I can’t wait to tell you everything in person.

I will return home soon to speak with you all in person & explain further. In the meantime, know that I am happy and excited for what lies ahead.

With all my love,

Your daughter and sister

She sealed the letter, her heart feeling lighter as she prepared to send it. The wheels were in motion now. Everything was becoming real. Soon, her family would know, and the life she was about to build with Sherlock was just beginning.

[bluecookies02]

Mycroft would not know how to flirt.

He would try to win you over with his witty comebacks and occasional compliments.

It's not like he doesn't know what the correct approach would be, but he just can't imagine himself saying such things.

You'd have to notice the subtle hints yourself. He will not poke at your intelligence(he wants to sometimes, it's a reflex, but he keeps his mouth shut when it comes to you), he won't keep the distance he usually does when he speaks to people. Sometimes he'd even brush his hand over your shoulder or waist when walking around you, or squeeze your knee a little if you're both sitting down.

To him all of these are MAJOR hints, yet you're just there, oblivious to everything for a long time.

He'd know that you like him, he isn't scared of rejection, but as you keep ignoring his efforts he does start doubting himself a little bit. Emotions are his weakest field.

When Sherlock gets sick of his unsuccessful courting, he pesters him until he invites you for dinner.

When you ask what the occasion is, he finally manages to tell you. In his own limited way.

"For the occasion of me wanting to have dinner with you, if you would be so kind"

That's all you get. You do still expect that there will be an actual, secret reason once you get there but you assume that he can't speak of it until then.

When you arrive at the restaurant and spend a good portion of the evening just talking about nonsense, you seem to catch on, finally.

"Mycroft, is this a date?" His cheeks are red, his palm covering his face.

"Obviously."

No. Not obvious to you apparently.

He is stressed. Help his poor soul.

You will mock him for literal YEARS about this. Of how the man controlling the whole country took 7 months to gather the balls to ask a girl out on a date despite knowing that she'd say yes.

[sleep-i-ness]

Between Duty and Desire (Mycroft Holmes x Reader)

Mycroft Holmes is the the object of all your heart's desires, your boss's boss, and the bane of your existence. And you know that he will never see you as more than a goldfish, despite Sherlock's insistence, so when Sherlock concocts some outlandish plan to make Mycroft realise that you're clearly the one for him, you decide to just go along with it.

--

Author's Note: I think this is the longest thing I've ever written and actually finished. Please show it some love!

[its-me-em28]

[girl-next-door-writes]

Defrosted

Characters: Mycroft Holmes x reader

Summary: After a grueling day, you return home, weary and stressed. But behind closed doors, the icy, calculating Mycroft Holmes melts for you alone, showing a rare tenderness.

Word Count: 1291 words

A/N: This is a mixture of requests from @anonymousmarvelfan, @howaboutlunch, @savvy-devine666, @but-hey-could-be-satan. It’s been sitting in my WIP file for a while, so I hope the final version is what you were hoping for.

The London air bit sharply through the autumn night as you pushed the door open, peeling off your damp coat with a sigh that held the weight of the day’s troubles. Exhaustion clung to you like a heavy cloak, your thoughts dulled by the long hours of tense meetings and endless paperwork. A familiar chill hung in the air, reminding you of the looming winter and the comfort of the warmth inside your home.

And then there was Mycroft.

You found him in the sitting room, seated in his usual armchair by the fire, a thick book in his hands and his brow knitted in concentration. The firelight danced over his angular features, casting shadows that softened the harsh lines of his face. He glanced up at the sound of your entrance, his expression still the practiced neutrality he wore like armor, yet there was a flicker of something warmer in his gaze.

"My dear," he greeted, voice smooth and unperturbed. “You’re home late.”

The corners of your lips lifted into a weary smile as you approached him, sinking into the sofa opposite his chair. “Yes, well, not everyone can be as fortunate as the British government’s top strategist. Some of us still have to suffer through rush-hour traffic and unreasonable supervisors.”

A small, wry smile tugged at his lips. "Indeed. I suppose not everyone can delegate quite so effectively." He closed his book with a quiet thud, setting it aside on the mahogany side table. “You look exhausted.”

You gave a noncommittal hum, your body sagging against the cushions. “That’s one way to put it. It’s just been… one of those days.”

He rose to his feet with the kind of languid grace that spoke of countless years perfecting even the smallest of movements, as if the very act of standing could be an art form. His gaze swept over you, and in the quiet moments that followed, the transformation began—the slow thawing of the ice around him.

"Wait here," he instructed softly, before disappearing down the hallway.

When he returned, he was carrying a pair of fluffy slippers, the ones you kept tucked away at the back of the closet. He knelt before you, an unexpected gesture that pulled you from your fatigue-induced haze, and with the same careful precision he applied to everything else in life, he slipped them onto your feet. His fingers brushed against your skin, and you could swear you felt the faintest spark of warmth where they touched.

"Come," he said, standing again and extending a hand towards you. "Dinner is nearly ready."

You allowed him to lead you into the dining room, where the rich aroma of a simmering meal filled the air, the scent of garlic, rosemary, and roasted vegetables weaving together in an enticing blend. On the table sat two place settings, a bottle of your favorite wine, and a dish covered to keep the heat trapped inside. It was a sight that instantly made the day’s stress seem like a distant memory.

"You cooked?" you asked, incredulous as you took in the scene.

"I’m fully capable of following basic culinary instructions," he replied dryly, though there was a trace of amusement in his eyes. "Now sit, and allow me the rare pleasure of serving you."

The meal was simple but delicious—a roasted chicken, golden potatoes, and seasoned vegetables, paired perfectly with the deep, velvety wine. Mycroft poured your glass first, as he always did, with the kind of etiquette that had become second nature to him.

As you ate, the tension slowly ebbed from your muscles, replaced by a gentle warmth that spread through you, not just from the meal or the fire, but from the quiet intimacy of sharing this moment. Mycroft, usually terse and preoccupied, allowed himself to relax, his features softening as he listened to your accounts of the day. He commented occasionally, offering wry observations that made you laugh and rolled his eyes at the absurdity of office politics.

When you had finished, he was already ahead of you, standing to clear the dishes before you could insist on doing it yourself. "None of that, now," he chided. "You are under strict orders to relax."

As he moved about the kitchen, he carried himself with the same air of precision, each step purposeful, each motion refined. You observed him as he worked, feeling the familiar flutter in your chest. It wasn’t often that you were graced with this side of Mycroft Holmes—the attentive partner who pampered and doted, albeit in his own way. It was a side that the rest of the world would never see. To them, he was the British government, a man of intellect and authority wrapped in a cold, imposing exterior. But to you, he was something more—someone who had learned to defrost in the presence of love.

When he returned, his sleeves rolled up and his usual sternness tempered by the gentleness in his gaze, he reached for your hand. "Come," he said, his voice softening. "There’s something else I’d like to show you."

He led you to the bathroom, where a bath had already been drawn, the surface of the water shimmering with fragrant oils and surrounded by the glow of a dozen flickering candles. The warmth of the room wrapped around you like a blanket, chasing away the last remnants of the chill that had clung to you all day.

Mycroft’s hands moved to remove your clothing with a practiced ease that spoke of the years you had shared together. “You’ve earned this,” he murmured against your ear, his breath warm on your skin. "Now, enjoy it."

Once you were immersed in the bath, the heat soaking into your tired muscles, he did not leave as you expected. Instead, he took a seat on the nearby stool, his long fingers deftly massaging your temples, trailing down the back of your neck, tracing a line of warmth along your spine. It was a kind of care you knew he would never show to anyone else, a private language spoken only in the sanctuary of your shared life.

For a man so famously detached, his touch held a surprising amount of tenderness. It was as though the very act of tending to you brought him some unspoken peace, a quiet satisfaction that no position or title could grant him.

"Mycroft," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "Thank you. For everything."

His hand stilled, and for a moment, you wondered if you had broken some unspoken rule by being so candid. But then he leaned forward, his lips pressing a chaste kiss to your damp forehead. "You’re welcome, my dear," he replied, his voice a low murmur. "Though, as you well know, I do not do these things out of some obligation. I do them because…" He trailed off, and there was a pause before he continued. "Because love, real love, is seeing all the flaws, the scars, the weariness—and choosing to stay. Something I know you do each and every day.”

You gazed up at him, and in his pale eyes, you saw the quiet promise of a man who had found his heart’s refuge in you. It wasn’t a grand declaration or an ostentatious display of affection—it was something far more enduring. It was the gentle unraveling of the formidable man before you, a defrosting that came not with time, but with trust.

As the water cooled and the candles burned low, you knew that no matter how many long days or bitter nights lay ahead, there would always be this—this shared sanctuary where the warmth of Mycroft’s quiet love would be enough to melt away the chill of the world outside.

[strangesthirdeye]

Mycroft: come on, Y/n. Now it's my turn to take care of you.

Toddler Y/n : *looking at Mycroft while tightly hugging the otter doll complete with coat and wearing a deerstalker and scarf around its neck* No.

Mycroft: what do you mean no, little sis?

Toddler Y/n : no means rejecting or canceling an act or speech that-

Mycroft: I know what 'no' mean, Y/n. *frustrated*

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

You asked for reqs so Im here to yap! How about Mycroft from Sherlock having a gf that is constantly overthinking if he actually likes her(if he is with her for some reason where he can take advantage of her later, even tho as far as she knows, she has no connection to anything political that he can use. She still can't stop thinking about it tho.)

Him comforting her awkwardly bc he literally can't say any affirming words coherently, just actions that you'd have to look for under a microscope to notice, but they are there! He does let her brew and feel bad for quite some time unintentionally because he is very avoidant of emotional confrontations tho🥹

Do feel free to ignore this if it isn't your cup of tea! Mwah💋

An Affair of Logic and Love

Word count: 1k

Pairing: Mycroft x reader

________________________________________________________

Mycroft Holmes wasn’t a man of romance. That much was obvious to anyone who knew him. Reserved, calculating, and perpetually aloof, he approached the world as a chessboard, his every move measured, every relationship dissected for utility. Yet here he was, seated across from you at his immaculate dining table, sipping his tea as if nothing in the world could rattle him.

And here you were, trying to decipher his every blink, every sigh, every sip.

You glanced at him cautiously. Did he even like you? Or was there some hidden reason—a grand strategy that somehow involved you, though you couldn’t imagine how? You were an ordinary person, far removed from the tangled webs of politics and espionage he navigated daily. What could he possibly gain from being with you?

These thoughts gnawed at you, louder with each interaction, until every small silence felt like proof that you were merely a pawn in his game.

“You’re staring,” Mycroft said without looking up from his tea.

Your cheeks flushed. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he replied smoothly, setting his cup down. His piercing gaze locked onto yours, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

You fumbled for a distraction, taking a sip of your tea and nearly scalding your tongue. “I was just… thinking.”

“Thinking, I see.” He folded his hands and leaned back slightly. “Should I be concerned?”

You hesitated. Part of you wanted to confront him, to demand why he was with you if he could barely muster a word of affection. But the other part—the overthinking, self-doubting part—was too afraid of his answer. What if he confirmed your fears?

“No,” you muttered, looking down at your cup.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. But true to form, he didn’t press the matter. Instead, he let the silence stretch, leaving you alone with your spiraling thoughts.

For the next several days, the doubts consumed you. Every interaction became a puzzle to solve:

• When he handed you a cup of tea without a word, was it a sign of affection, or was he just being polite?

• When he mentioned your favorite book in passing, was it because he genuinely remembered, or because he needed to lull you into a false sense of security?

• When he kissed you on the cheek before leaving for work, was it out of habit or obligation?

The questions were endless, and Mycroft, in his typical manner, did nothing to alleviate them. He wasn’t cruel—far from it—but his reserved nature and avoidance of emotional discussions left you in the dark.

It all came to a head one evening when you couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Mycroft,” you began hesitantly as the two of you sat in his living room, him reading a newspaper and you pretending to focus on a book.

“Yes?” he replied without looking up.

“Why are you with me?”

The question hung in the air like a thunderclap. Mycroft froze, his fingers tightening slightly around the edges of the paper.

“Pardon?” he said after a moment, his tone carefully neutral.

You set your book down and turned to face him fully. “Why are you with me? I just… I can’t help but wonder if there’s some reason—some ulterior motive—because I don’t understand why you’d choose me.”

He finally lowered the newspaper, his expression inscrutable. “Is that what’s been troubling you?”

“Yes,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I know it’s irrational, but I can’t stop thinking about it. You’re so… you. And I’m just… me. It doesn’t make sense.”

For a long moment, Mycroft said nothing. He looked at you, his sharp gaze scanning your face as if you were a particularly challenging code to crack.

Then, finally, he spoke: “I see.”

That was it. I see.

You stared at him, waiting for more, but he just shifted slightly in his seat, as if the conversation had already concluded.

“That’s all you have to say?” you asked, your frustration bubbling over.

Mycroft cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I… hadn’t realized you felt this way.”

“Well, I do.”

He looked down at his hands, his usually unshakeable composure faltering ever so slightly. “Emotions are… not my area of expertise,” he admitted, his voice quieter than usual. “But I assure you, my intentions are entirely genuine.”

It wasn’t the grand declaration you’d hoped for, but coming from Mycroft, it was monumental. Still, it wasn’t enough to banish your doubts entirely.

“Then why don’t you ever show it?” you pressed. “Why can’t you just say how you feel?”

Mycroft shifted again, clearly wrestling with his discomfort. “I’m not… accustomed to such expressions,” he said stiffly. “But that does not mean I don’t care for you. On the contrary, I—” He stopped, his mouth opening and closing like he was physically incapable of forming the words.

Instead, he stood abruptly and walked to his desk. You watched in confusion as he opened a drawer, pulled out a small velvet box, and returned to the couch.

He handed it to you without a word.

Inside was a delicate necklace, the pendant a simple yet elegant design that you immediately recognized—it was based on your favorite flower, something you’d mentioned in passing months ago.

“I had this made for you,” Mycroft said awkwardly, his gaze fixed firmly on the coffee table. “I was waiting for the right moment to give it to you. I suppose now will have to do.”

You stared at the necklace, your heart swelling with a mix of surprise and warmth.

“Mycroft…”

“I may not be able to express myself in the traditional sense,” he continued, his voice stiff but earnest. “But I do care for you. Deeply. If that were not the case, I wouldn’t—” He stopped himself again, sighing in frustration. “I wouldn’t have allowed this relationship to happen.”

It wasn’t a perfect confession. It wasn’t romantic or poetic. But it was Mycroft.

You smiled softly and reached out to take his hand. “Thank you,” you said, your voice thick with emotion.

He finally looked at you, his expression softening ever so slightly. “There’s nothing to thank me for,” he said gruffly.

[foxaftershocks]

The Perfect Sunday Morning (Mycroft Holmes x f!Reader)

Synopsis: You have a lazy Sunday morning with Mycroft.

Words: 1.7k

Warnings: tooth rotting fluff, domestic!Mycroft

Padding down the stairs on bare feet, you pulled the sleeves of the jumper you were wearing over your hands. You’d awoken alone in the giant bed, pleasantly warm and comfortable. Finding the jumper, you hadn’t been able to resist pulling it onto your body before you went looking for your husband. Burying your nose in the wool, you breathed in the scent of his cologne. 

You followed the sound of classical music, wandering through the halls of the house. Stopping in the kitchen, you took the cup of coffee waiting for you, still steaming. You were slow to make your way into the living room, enjoying the coffee, rich and deep. You hummed along with the distant music.

Mycroft looked up from the book splayed in his hand, blue eyes sweeping over you as you stepped into the room. You smiled down at him, fingertips trailing along his shoulders as you made your way to the window. Looking out on the sun splashed garden, you curled both hands around the warm ceramic of the mug. You breathed deeply, the contented feeling washing over you.

“Is that my jumper?” he asked.

“You really have to ask?” you replied, turning to look at him over your shoulder.

“No, but I’d like to hear you say it,” he said.

“Yes, it’s your jumper,” you said, “I think it looks better on me.”

“While I agree, it appears as if you’ve forgotten something,” he said.

You turned, facing him.

“Oh?” you asked.

“Trousers,” he replied. 

“Don’t need them,” you said.

“You don’t?” he asked.

“Who’s going to see but you?” 

You settled on the couch beside him, kneels curled underneath your body. His hand curled around the back of your neck, playing with your hair. 

“I suppose I can’t entreat you to go fetch the paper then,” he said.

“Not unless you want the neighbours to get an eyeful,” you replied.

“Best not.”

You shuffled closer, resting your head on his shoulder. His lips pressed to your forehead, your soft sigh resulting in a small lift to the corner of his lips. He turned his eyes back to his book, softly reading out loud to you as you sipped your morning coffee. His fingers kept playing with your hair until you were melting against him. 

He knew how much you loved when he did that.

You let yourself sit there for a while, listening to him, enjoying the peace and the calm of your morning. The music was lovely, softly humming along under your breath, the low cadence of his voice making you shuffle closer. It was the kind of morning you’d dreamt of having one day, the kind you hadn’t thought could really happen, but here you were, living out your dream with your dream man. Sometimes you couldn’t believe how lucky you’d gotten.

Once you heard his stomach grumble, you sat up properly, laughing. His sheepish expression was one of the most adorable things you’d ever seen. Leaning back into his space, you pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of his lips.

“I’ll go make breakfast if you fetch the paper,” you said, “I want to do the sudoku.”

“Deal,” he said.

He lent back, watching you get up. His hand caught yours, drawing you back until you fell into his lap. His other hand, large and so very dexterous, cupped your cheek, bringing you back in for another kiss, this one longer. His hand slid up your leg, pushing up under the hem of the jumper you’d stolen. With such a featherlight touch, he could turn you breathless with ease. 

You loved him so much.

“Go,” he said once he’d released you, acting as if he hadn’t turned you into a mess in his lap, “breakfast.”

“Yup. Breakfast.”

You stood on unsteady legs, finding his rather smug face looking up at you. You tapped the end of his nose, smiling when he caught your hand, pressing a kiss to the middle of your palm. 

The sizzle of the bacon was loud. You had turned the radio on in the kitchen, hips swaying in time with the music as you made breakfast for the two of you. Before you’d moved in, the kitchen had been lifeless, empty, an unused room in the house. Now, you’d tried to bring life back to it, to turn it into the beating heart of the house. Mycroft had let you, giving in so easily when you’d first made the attempt. Now, it was one of your favourite rooms in the house, one of the rooms that held some of your favourite memories. The warm ones, the soft ones, the ones that made you melt with love.

Strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you against a body you knew so well. You hummed, flipping the bacon, feeling him sway with you. He dropped a kiss to the top of your head.

“Paper retrieved,” he murmured. 

“Good boy,” you hummed.

His arms tightened around you. 

“Bacon and eggs okay?” you asked.

He paused, long enough for you to wonder.

“What?” you asked.

“My diet,” he said.

“Cheat day,” you replied, “you’ve been doing so well, sweetheart. You deserve a treat.”

“Aren’t you my treat?” he asked.

“You have me everyday,” you replied.

“And I have been enjoying you thoroughly,” he hummed, face burying itself in your neck.

“Your bacon will burn,” you warned as his lips made contact with your skin. 

It didn’t stop him, his soft kisses making you tremble. You could always make more if the current batch burnt. Turning in his arms, you curled your arms around his neck, kissing him properly. He hummed into your kiss, holding you close. It was soft, lingering, taking your time given you had all the time in the world. 

“The bacon is burning,” he whispered into your mouth.

“And whose fault is that?” you said, spinning back around, flicking the bacon out of the pan.

“Yours for being so completely irresistible,” he replied, still holding you, “you’re perfectly indecent, darling.”

“You can’t blame me for your inability to keep your hands to yourself,” you said, even as you lent back against him, offering yourself to his wandering hands.

“I can and I do,” he said, hands slipping underneath the jumper, only finding bare skin on offer.

His lips continued to make their home on your throat as you fried the eggs, making you incredibly distracted. He murmured compliments into your skin, his plans for the day, snatches of quotes from books that reminded him of you, his voice a low timbre that made you shiver. You loved the sound of your husband’s voice, almost as much as he did. 

“Breakfast is ready,” you said, interrupting him.

He released you, taking his seat at the tiny table you’d dragged into the room. The huge imposing dining table was so unnecessary for just the two of you. This was far more intimate, which was what you always wanted with him.

You placed his plate down in front of him, dropping a kiss to the top of his head. Situating yourself across from him, he extracted the sudoku puzzle from the paper, passing it over to you. You slid your feet into his lap, extended over the length of the small table. 

You sang along to the radio under your breath as you filled out the puzzle, listening to the rustle of paper from your husband. The clatter of cutlery on the plates was the undercurrent to the music, your quiet comfortable. 

His fingers wrapped around your ankle once he was done eating, holding on, thumb brushing over your skin in a soothing pattern. You pushed the finished puzzle into the middle of the table, leaning back to watch him.

“You’re getting slow,” he said.

“You’re such a prick,” you laughed.

“Six minutes. You’re slipping,” he said, glancing up at you.

“I was a bit distracted by the handsome man sitting across from me,” you replied.

He tutted but his blue eyes were sparkling. You rested your chin in your palm, gazing over at him, smiling softly. His thumb ran along the length of your achilles tendon, such tenderness in his touch. 

“Are you going to watch me read this entire newspaper?” he asked.

“I’m just enjoying the view,” you replied.

“Not much of a view,” he said.

“Best view in the world,” you replied, not skipping a beat. 

“Not unless I’ve turned into a mirror,” he said.

“Read your paper,” you laughed.

He tossed you the crossword next. You twirled your pen in your hand before getting started on it. If there was one thing you knew about Mycroft, it was that he didn’t like to be the one under observation. Even if you enjoyed watching him so much. There was nothing so wonderful to look at in the entire world. 

You hadn’t known it was possible to be so in love. 

You tucked your hair behind your ear, feeling him watching. He enjoyed being the observer, and you were happy enough to be observed by him. You knew the way he looked at you was nothing like the way others did. His gaze was kinder, gentler, softer. It was the way you knew he was only interested in seeing you in the very best light, his gorgeous mind painting such a pretty picture of you.

It was the feeling of being adored. 

“Now who’s the one staring?” you asked when you were halfway through the crossword. 

“Best view in the world,” he replied, parroting back your own words at you. 

You shoved at him with the foot he still had a hold of. His soft chuckle was one of your favourite sounds. He tugged on your ankle. You stood once he released you, rounding the table. His arm caught you around the waist, pulling you onto his lap. With his arms around your waist, he picked up the paper again, reading the words printed on the page. You curled up against his chest, head resting on his shoulder, listening to him breathe. 

His lips pressed to your forehead, soft and warm, melting you. There was no place safer than in his arms, on his lap, in his heart. You closed your eyes, letting yourself relax against him completely, trusting him to keep you from harm. 

You loved Sunday mornings with Mycroft.