#mycroft/reader

[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

[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.

[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.

[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.

[foxaftershocks]

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.

[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*

[joanquill]

Mycroft Taking Care of Sick!S/O

How Mycroft would take care of his sick lover.

Mycroft Holmes

He'll notice when you start sneezing or getting a few headaches, advising you to rest and take it easy before it gets worse.

Unfortunately, you still got sick.

He'll leave a note, apologizing since he'll be busy in the office, but sends one of his maids to look after you.

He'd give them specific and detailed instructions, writing down each gram needed and down to the second to help you get better as soon as possible.

Even the food and snacks he prepared helped with your appetite.

Somehow, he even got the time when you sleep correctly and on schedule.

Miraculously, he managed to get off on time and visit you.

When he managed to see you, you were sleeping peacefully with the maid cleaning around.

While he waits for you to wake up, he'll go over some documents he brought home and prepare your meal.

He might roam around while smiling fondly at your childhood photos but he doesn't snoop around too much.

He might also straighten some frames and arrange your things the way you usually had them.

When you wake up, he checks on your condition and helps you sit up, feeding and giving you your medicine.

If he knows you don't like the taste of the medicine, he already has it crushed in your food.

He looks unbothered while wiping you down, but you notice him looking away at times.

The awkward cough also doesn't help.

He'll stay with you until you fall asleep again, holding your hand while working by your side.

[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.

[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.”

[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.

[lilmoonbunny]

Denial; Mycroft Holmes

Mycroft only seeked you out to deduce you (aka, how Mycroft realised he liked you).

John and Sherlock were, without a doubt, the loudest neighbours that Y/N had ever had.

Gunshots at God only knows what hour, constant stabbing, banging, and so on. Despite this, she still considered them dear friends and the best neighbours that she had ever had. Sure, they were weird and loud, but they were also kind and genuine, at least for the most part. Alongside this, they also appreciated her baking, especially after long cases.

A gentle knock sounded on the door the 221B catching the attention of three people.

“You can come in, Y/N,” Sherlock called from behind the door, greeting the woman with a nod before turning his attention back to Mycroft whilst John smiled at her.

“Hi, Sherly. Hi, John.” She smiled at the two friends before turning to the older Holmes brother. “Hi, Mr Holmes.” Y/N greeted him with a smile. Although she hadn’t met him before, it wasn’t difficult to deduce who he was; the expensive suit and the fact Sherlock was glaring at him gave it away.

“Sherly?” Mycroft spat, grimacing at the nickname given to his brother. “Who on Earth would you let call you that?” He asked.

“This is Y/N, our neighbour. What have you brought for us today? I’ve been looking forward to this all week.” The sweet smile Sherlock gave to the woman made Mycroft feel ill. He had no clue who this woman was and absolutely no idea why they seemed to be this close.

“Chocolate cake, sugar cookies, and love.” She joked, beginning to laugh at the way Mycroft audibly gagged. “I’m only kidding. No love.”

“I should certainly hope not,” came Mycroft’s response, one which simply made her laugh again.

“Are you jealous, Mycroft?”

“Because of the cake, he is.” Sherlock interrupted, waving Myrcoft off. “No, I won’t take the case. You can leave now.”

“This is an urgent matter, brother mine.”

“Don’t care.”

With a groan and a roll of his eyes, Mycroft lifted himself to his feet and prepared to leave.

“I’ll leave these with you, just in case you change your mind. Goodbye brother mine. John.” The hesitation was obvious on Mycroft’s face, despite how well he typically hid his emotions, as he faced Y/N.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr Holmes.” Y/N smiled sweetly, earning a simple nod from him before he left.

Sherlock, who had leaned to grab the tub of baked goods from the woman’s hands, rolled his eyes as Mycroft left and immediately began to eat.

It wasn’t long until Y/N’s entire life had been researched.

There wasn’t much there. No criminal record, a few jobs, occasional moves, but no sign of her posing any danger to Sherlock and, by association, John. However, the way Mycroft felt upon seeing her was unusual, so he decided to do his own investigation.

“Morning, Mr Holmes,” he was greeted before he reached the empty counter. “Welcome to my bakery! Would you like anything?”

“Just a coffee, please. Black.” Mycroft nodded, not returning the smile she had given, despite the odd feeling it gave him. She was evil and he would prove it to Sherlock.

“Coming right up! Take a seat wherever you’d like, and I’ll bring it over.”

As Mycroft occupied a seat, he took a moment to properly assess the woman making his drink.

She didn’t seem threatening: a content smile on her lips as she prepared his coffee, humming a quiet tune that he barely picked up on. In fact, she didn’t seem out of the ordinary at all, but the feeling when he first saw her – a feeling Mycroft couldn’t explain – had him needing to investigate her further.

“Here you go, Mr Holmes.” Y/N said, placing a hot coffee and chocolate cake on the table in front of him. “Sherlock mentioned that you like cake, so I grabbed you some. It’s all on the house.”

“Why?”

With a small laugh, she responded without hesitation. “You’re Sherlock’s brother.”

How odd, Mycroft thought to himself. She doesn’t even know me and she’s giving me things for free…

Despite his thoughts, Mycroft simply nodded, watching as she took a seat opposite him. “I hope you don’t mind. It’s quiet today so I figured I’d try and keep you company the best I can. I’m sure you have better company than me, though.”

“I don’t mind,” he replied before even thinking. It was safe to say that he didn’t enjoy the way his chest felt whilst he watched her smile.

Maybe she’s a witch? No, don’t be stupid, Mycroft. They don’t exist.

“So,” Y/N’s voice broke the man from his thoughts. “It’s a funny story how me, Sherlock, and John met. I was actually working and Sherlock bursts in demanding to talk to me. My baking stuff had been found at a crime scene and he thought it was me!”

“How interesting.” Came Mycroft’s blunt reply, even if he was intrigued.

“You listened to it, so you must care, even just a little bit. I think that’s a win for me!”

Mycroft couldn’t help the tiniest smile that crawled onto his lips, but he internally prayed that nobody noticed it, especially her. She, however, seemed oblivious to the movement, simply staring over his shoulder and out of the window.

“Anyway, what was he like growing up? Was he like he is now? Blunt and rude?” Y/N asked with a giggle.

“He wasn’t, actually. He was rather sweet. He liked playing pretend with his friend; he always wanted a dog too.” Came Mycroft’s reply. “His favourite thing was pirates.” He said with a fond look in his eyes. Sherlock wasn’t going to be happy when he found out that he had told her, but he couldn’t resist answering her question.

Mycroft watched closely as the woman in front of him grinned, the bright and happy smile a nice contrast to what he was used to whilst working with the government. He couldn’t help but smile back, noting how her smile widened further as he did so.

“That’s sweet. I couldn’t imagine that, to be honest,”

It was time to ask the question that was on his mind. “Are you attracted to Sherlock?”

“Sherlock?” Y/N said, bursting into laughter. “No, absolutely not. He’s more like an annoying older brother. Same with John. We’re just friends, and, well, neighbours too.”

Confusion spread over Mycroft as she felt the weight on his shoulders lift at her words; she was telling the truth.

“How is she?” Sherlock asked the moment he answered the phone.

“How is who?” Mycroft’s voice sounded through the device.

“Y/N,”

“Why do you assume that I know?”

“It’s obvious you were there earlier.”

“…”

“Well, that and Mrs Hudson told us.”

“Of course she did.” Mycroft said with an involuntary roll of his eyes.

“So, how was it?”

“It was fine.”

“You like her then?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, you went to see her. It’s quite obvious, Mycroft. Come on, I thought you were smarter than that.”

Mycroft simply put the phone down.

He did not like her.

The next time that Mycroft came across Y/N was when it was raining.

He hadn’t wanted to seem ‘creepy’ by seeking her out again for more investigations and deductions, so he simply waited. She was friends with his brother, it wasn’t like their paths wouldn’t cross at some point. Besides, he didn’t want Sherlock to think that he liked her.

“Raining real bad tonight, isn’t it?” The driver spoke to Mycroft. He was new, so Mycroft couldn’t exactly blame him for attempting some type of conversation with him; it was still annoying, though.

Anthea, looking up from her phone was what caught Mycroft’s attention. “I feel bad for her.” She said, nodding towards a soaked woman. It only took Mycroft a moment to realise who it was.

“Pull over,” he stated bluntly, grabbing his umbrella. He simply ignored the look he was receiving from his assistant.

It had been a long day filled with rude customers, and to make it worse, it was raining, and she had forgotten her coat. Today couldn’t be going any worse for Y/N.

Shivering wildly and soaked to the core, Y/N huffed, watching the way her breath instantly evaporated; it was clearly below freezing, but she held out hope that the rain would stop and she would be home soon.

Her hope seemed to pay off, though, since she could no longer feel the rain. As she looked up at the sky, she spotted a familiar face.

“Mycroft?”

“Y/N.”

“What are you-“

“Get in.” He said, pointing towards the car before wordlessly leading her towards it, still holding the umbrella above her, even if he was getting wet.

“You don’t have to, Mycroft.” She said as he ushered her in and shut the door behind them both. “I mean, I’m soaking your car!”

Mycroft, who could feel the heat on his cheeks from their proximity, simply shook his head. He was too focused on the way her leg was pressed against his as she sat between him and Anthea who stared at her phone with a small smirk.

The ride was void of conversation, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, the only noise was that of Y/N shivering.

After a moment of hesitation, Mycroft shrugged off his jacket and handed her it. “Here.”

There was no chance of refusal, Mycroft wouldn’t allow it, so with a quiet ‘thanks’, Y/N popped the jacket over her shoulders. He just found the chattering of her teeth annoying, was what he told himself.

As they arrived at the flats, Mycroft followed her out of the car.

“Thank you, Mr Holmes.” She said as they stood on the door of her flat.

“Mycroft is fine, Y/N.”

“Thank you… Mycroft.” She said with a small smile before bidding him a goodnight.

“I see you gave her your jacket,” Was all Sherlock said as Mycroft entered 221B.

It was hard. Very hard. Harder than anything Y/N had ever experienced. Having a crush was not easy as it was, but having feelings for Mycroft Holmes was the hardest thing in the world: he rarely showed emotion, he was blunt, he was rude, but most importantly to her, deep down, he was nice.

A small sigh left Y/N’s lips as she worked on her latest batch of cookies for the morning. He was on her mind… again. It was a common occurrence by now.

“We’re not open yet, sorry!” She called over her shoulder at the sound of the door opening. As she turned around to see who it was and apologise again, a blush rushed to her cheeks. “Mycroft! What are you doing here?”

Mycroft stood there, umbrella in hand, and gave a simple shrug. “I was on my way to work so thought I would ‘pop in’ as people say.” He explained, earning a laugh from the baker.

“Modern phrases don’t suit you, Mycroft.” She teased.

With an amused shake of his head, Mycroft took a seat at the table nearest her.

“Want some cookies? They’re fresh out of the oven!”

Mycroft nodded with a grateful smile, always glad to have sweet treats. He would never turn down anyone’s desserts, least of all Y/N’s; not because he liked her and didn’t want to hurt her feelings, but because she was a good baker.

The pair sat in a comfortable silence, Mycroft gladly eating his cookies with an appreciative look whilst Y/N worked on her next batch. There was nothing awkward between them, and there, surprisingly, never had been.

“Are you not at work today?” Y/N broke the silence with a question that was bugging her. She could have sworn Mycroft had always worked this time over the months that she had known him.

Mycroft hesitated for a moment. He was supposed to be there right now but had decided to visit you before. It wasn’t like anyone could fire him for it, he was basically the British government, after all.

“Not yet,” he lied, and he was glad that he was a good liar.

“Oh, okay! I’m happy you came then. I don’t want to bother you.”

“You could never be a bother,” the words fell from his lips before he even registered what his thoughts, and he noticed the blush race up her cheeks, as did she with his.

“Thank you, Mycroft.”

As he stared at her and her rosy cheeks, a million thoughts went through his mind, but they were all related to one thing: her. It was in that moment that he realised the truth, he did like Y/N, and he had been attracted to her since the beginning; that was what he was feeling.

Oh dear…

[foxaftershocks]

His Heart (Mycroft Holmes x f!Reader)

Synopsis: To watch you charm is delight and torture in equal measure.

Words: 1.5k

Warnings: Jealousy, possessiveness

You were glowing. Head tipped back, laughing, the long line of your throat on display. In the light, your skin looked soft, the cinched waist of your dress highlighting your figure to great effect. You were charming. 

He was not the only one to notice.

Mycroft’s fingers tightened around his glass, keeping half an eye on you. It was the first time he’d allowed you to join him at a work function, a long day leading him to wanting you by his side that night. A small comfort he didn’t usually indulge in.

He shouldn’t have that night.

You were lovely. He knew that. Obviously he knew that. It was one of the joys of having you in his life. But now the men he worked with, the idiots he was forced to surround himself with, were like a moth to a flame with you. Surrounding you, looking for your attention, you were the new shiny toy for them to try and snatch up. 

If only they knew you had higher tastes than they could ever fulfill. You were something special, and you deserved someone special. Hence, you were his. He was exceptional, and that was exactly the kind of man you deserved. The rest were fools to even try.

Your laughter was bright, capturing his attention. He turned away from the conversation, not caring that it was rude. Lord Montgomery was looking rather proud of himself, smug, as you laughed. Your hand was resting on his forearm, a fleeting touch, but it made his jaw clench. You lent forward and he felt his glare harden.

The shape of your lips as they formed words were a piece of art. He found himself watching as he eased to the edge of the room, finding a refill for his scotch. Your head tipped to the side, eyelashes fluttering as Lord Grosvenor gesticulated wildly enough his drink sloshed over the side of the glass. Drunk, if Mycroft wasn’t mistaken. Your chin dipped, a false show of modesty, but the slight curl to your lips let him know you found him ridiculous, not charming. 

You found him charming. He was certain of that. Your cheeks flushed and your pupils dilated, and he’d felt your pulse increase. You would shift closer to him, touch him, smile at him like he’d hung the moon. 

He would hang the moon for you.

A large hand closed over your shoulder. He watched you stiffen, the softness in your face slipping for a moment before you readjusted it back onto your charming mask. Lord Rudolph was a brute of a man, flushed skin, shirt buttons straining, huffing for breath. His loud voice carried, expecting people to listen to him by way of the respect he expected to be shown as one of the upper class. Your smile was dazzling as you turned to him.

You were resplendent, the height of women, the perfect pair to him. And you weren’t even looking to him, so surrounded by male attention he wasn’t even registering. That would not do. Those men needed to realise they didn’t even come close in the competition to your heart. He had already won. 

And they were still trying. He was watching them attempt to hold your attention, to steal it away, to own it themselves. And you were giving it to them. You were bestowing it like it was a gift to be given out freely for any bumbling oaf who might want a piece of it. That wouldn’t do at all.

His touch was light on the small of your back, your warmth bleeding through to his hand. There was no stiffening in your spine or an inhalation of breath. You lent back into his touch, slow to look up at him, your smile warming under his gaze. 

“I see you’ve all met my wife,” he said to the gathered men.

Your soft exhale was full of amusement. Your weight shifted, closer to him, ensuring the two of you were seen as a single unit, a closed circuit with no break, a grouping no one could infiltrate. 

“I wasn’t aware you were married, Holmes,” Lord Rudolph said, voice gruff. 

“A well kept secret,” he replied, lifting his chin, daring him to argue.

“You’ve got quite the jewel there,” Lord Montgomery said.

“I know,” he said.

You gazed up at him, smiling when his eyes met yours. You were entirely too lovely, the most beautiful sight he could lay eyes on. He wasn’t used to noticing beauty, focusing on more important things, but your face had always drawn his eye. Especially when you looked at him with that expression. The one that made his blood heat beneath his skin.

“Lucky man,” Lord Grosvenor said, nudging Lord Montgomery with his elbow, sharing a knowing look. 

Ah yes, so called locker room talk. That was why he had kept you from these men for so long, not wanting your name in their mouths as they engaged in the puerile male bonding ritual. He’d heard the words they had used before, the laughter, the stories. There was no part of him that wanted you involved in their attempts at one upmanship in the game of being the most piggish of the lot. Your name should never be allowed on their tongues.

“Indeed,” he said, voice dripping with derision. 

You laughed, delighted as your arm curled around his waist, a show of affection that usually made him feel uncomfortable. This time though, all he felt was smug as your body brushed against his. The obvious message you were sending those men. The way you curled yourself around him, propriety and submissive mixed together in a way that said you were his, and his completely. 

These men had no idea how he was yours too. Men such as them could never understand the devotion he could have for a woman, the way his world revolved around you, the way you brought him to his knees. He hadn’t thought it was possible but you’d waltzed into his life and did it as if it was nothing. Like it was easy. Like anyone could do it and you were just the first to bother.

Maybe you were the first to bother. 

“Darling, Lord Rudolph was just telling me about his racehorse,” you said, leaning into his side, “it’s just fascinating.”

Only he could tell your voice was dripping with sarcasm. Oh, how he adored you.

“Is this a subtle hint that you’d like a racehorse?” he asked.

“Oh,” you laughed, “no. I’m sure it’s entirely too complicated for me.”

That could never be true. As if any of the boarish oafs in front of you could understand something more than you. Your intellect far surpassed the majority of the people in the room. It had to, if he was going to share a life with you. 

“I’m afraid I need a moment with my wife, gentlemen,” he said to the group.

With the hand on the small of your back, he guided you away without argument. He’d always admired how you picked your battles with him, choosing to become stubborn when it best served you. Avoiding the uppercrusts of the British aristocracy was not a battle you had any interest in fighting him on. 

He guided you out of the room, collecting your coat for you. Helping you into it, his fingers brushed over where your shoulder met your neck, watching the small shiver that went through you. It was gratifying to know you desired him still. That you were attracted to him. 

“Are you taking me home?” you asked.

“I thought we both might appreciate removing ourselves from the inanity of this night,” he said.

“You want to go home,” you summarised. 

“I do,” he said.

“With me,” you said.

“Yes.”

Your smirk was telling.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Mycroft?” you said, stepping closer to him, your arm coming to rest over his shoulder.

“Jealousy is an emotion for those who feel inferior. I have no use for it,” he said.

“Of course.” You were still smirking like you could see into his soul, “although perhaps you could refresh my memory. When was our wedding, husband?” 

“We shall be married one day. I don’t see the significance in waiting to affirm you as my wife,” he said.

“And people say you’re not romantic,” you said.

He was ready to argue but you were leaning closer, a chaste kiss placed on his lips. He chased you as you drew back, capturing you in another kiss, this time searing. You were breathless when he released you, lips kiss swollen, chest heaving, pupils dilated. A picture of desire, and one he coveted. 

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

“I love you,” you said as he swept you out of the building, into the cool night air, voice so fond it made his heart ache.

“You own my heart,” was his response. 

The way you looked at him was like he was every single one of your dreams come to life. If only you knew that you were more than he could ever have dreamed of. He hadn’t known to dream about you.

Now he couldn’t imagine a life without you.

[girl-next-door-writes]

Across A Crowded Room

Characters: Mycroft x reader

Summary: Your path had crossed with Mycroft at previous events, but perhaps the magic of Christmas would make this party something special.

Word Count: 1487 words

Prompts: Crowded party. Mutual pining. First kiss. Falling into their arms.

A/N: This is for @encounterthepast, @vintagevalentinex and @savvy-devine666 who all requested basically the same fic.

The frost on the windows of the grand estate sparkled like diamonds under the golden glow of the Christmas lights. Mycroft Holmes had been coerced, under significant protest, to attend his mother’s annual charity holiday party. Though he would never admit it, the scene was tolerable—festive, even—with glittering decorations and the warm hum of cheerful conversations. He nursed a glass of wine in the corner, observing the chaos with a quiet air of detachment.

For someone as cerebral as Mycroft, parties were little more than exercises in social endurance. But there was one variable tonight that he hadn’t accounted for: you.

He noticed you the moment you walked into the room. You were a vision in a simple yet elegant outfit that caught the flickering light from the enormous tree, your face illuminated by a radiant smile as you greeted his mother. Mycroft’s heart, traitorous as it was, skipped a beat. It had been years since your paths last crossed—a chance encounter at a gala he barely remembered the details of, save for the way your laughter had stirred something long dormant in him.

And now, here you were again, weaving through the crowd like a spark of warmth in an otherwise cold world.

Unconsciously, his gaze lingered.

You were entirely unprepared to see Mycroft Holmes again. The party invitation had been a surprise, and while you hesitated to accept, the allure of a Christmas evening spent among fascinating characters outweighed your initial doubts. Besides, it was Christmas—a time for magic, forgiveness, and maybe even a little romance.

Still, you hadn’t expected to see him. Mycroft, the man who had simultaneously infuriated and fascinated you during that gala years ago. The man whose sharp tongue and wit had left you breathless, though you’d hidden it well behind playful banter.

As the evening progressed, your paths crossed briefly—a fleeting exchange of pleasantries, polite smiles, and the kind of tension that left you questioning if you’d imagined it. But you hadn’t, had you? His soft gaze, the faintest hint of a smile curling his lips, spoke volumes, even if his words did not.

It wasn’t until you found yourself alone on the balcony later in the evening, savoring a moment of peace from the lively crowd, that you heard his familiar voice behind you.

“So, we meet again.”

Mycroft stood in the doorway to the balcony, his tall frame outlined against the glow of the party inside. He held a new glass of wine in one hand, the other casually resting in his pocket. The sight of him was enough to send your heart racing, though you kept your composure as you turned to face him.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you replied, a playful smile tugging at your lips.

He chuckled softly, stepping closer until he was at your side. “Quite the opposite, in fact. Though I admit, I did not anticipate running into you tonight.”

“Why’s that?” you asked, tilting your head to study him. His sharp suit was impeccable, but there was a warmth to his expression that softened the edges of his usual severity.

“You don’t strike me as the type to frequent such… boisterous gatherings.”

You laughed, the sound light and easy. “And yet here we are, both of us at a Holmes’ Christmas party. What’s your excuse?”

“I had none, save for a stubborn mother with a penchant for dragging me into situations I’d rather avoid.” He hesitated, his gaze flickering to yours. “Though, as it turns out, not all aspects of tonight have been entirely unpleasant.”

Your cheeks warmed at his words, the sincerity in his voice catching you off guard. The silence that followed was not uncomfortable; rather, it was charged with the kind of unspoken tension that begged to be broken. The crisp winter air nipped at your cheeks, but the heat between the two of you was undeniable.

“You’re not so bad at this party thing yourself,” you teased, leaning on the railing. “Who knew the great Mycroft Holmes could be so… human?”

He raised an eyebrow, though there was no mistaking the faint smile that played on his lips. “Your assessment of me is far too kind.”

“Or maybe you’re just too hard on yourself.”

The sincerity in your tone made his throat tighten. It had been so long since someone had spoken to him with such honesty, such kindness, without any ulterior motive. He wanted to say something—anything—to express how much your words meant, but the weight of vulnerability held him back.

Instead, you reached out, your hand brushing his arm lightly. “Are you always this quiet, or are you just holding back to make me nervous?”

The playful spark in your eyes was his undoing. He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You have a rather disarming way about you, don’t you?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“As you should.”

The hours seemed to blur after that. The two of you returned to the party, though you found yourselves naturally gravitating back to one another again and again. It was easy to forget the crowd around you when his low, smooth voice wrapped around you like a blanket, drawing you deeper into conversation.

At some point, the music shifted, and couples began to take to the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room. You felt Mycroft stiffen beside you, his discomfort at the display evident, though he remained stoic as always.

“Not a fan of dancing?” you asked, teasing him lightly.

“Dancing,” he said dryly, “is a frivolity I’ve never quite mastered.”

“Oh, come on,” you said, holding out your hand. “It’s Christmas. Live a little.”

He hesitated, his gaze darting from your outstretched hand to your face. “I’m not sure that’s advisable.”

“Advisable?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Are you afraid you’ll enjoy it?”

His lips quirked into a reluctant smile. “Perhaps.”

“Then you’ll just have to take the risk,” you said softly, your hand still extended.

After a moment of silence, he placed his glass on a nearby table and took your hand in his. His touch was warm, steady, and it sent a thrill through you as he allowed you to lead him to the dance floor.

The music was soft and slow, a classic Christmas melody that enveloped the room. Mycroft was stiff at first, his movements measured and careful, but as you guided him with an easy smile, he began to relax. His hand rested lightly on your waist, and the other held yours with a surprising gentleness.

“You’re not so bad at this,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the music.

He tilted his head, his eyes meeting yours. “I have an excellent partner.”

The warmth in his tone made your heart flutter. For a man who was often so guarded, his openness in this moment felt like a gift—a rare and precious thing you didn’t want to squander.

As the song came to an end, the two of you lingered for a moment, reluctant to break the connection. His hand slid from your waist, but before he could step away, someone bumped into you from behind, sending you stumbling forward.

Without hesitation, Mycroft caught you, his arms wrapping around you protectively as he steadied you. The world seemed to stop as you found yourself pressed against him, your hands resting on his chest. His heart was racing beneath your palms, and his eyes searched yours with an intensity that left you breathless.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly, his voice low and steady despite the flush of color in his cheeks.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, though your voice wavered. “Thanks to you.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he. The air between you was thick with unspoken words, and you realized, with a sudden clarity, that this was the moment.

“Mycroft,” you began, your voice trembling slightly, “I—”

He silenced you with a kiss.

It was soft and tentative at first, as though he wasn’t quite sure if this was allowed, but when you melted into him, his grip on you tightened, and the kiss deepened. It was as though the years of pining, of unspoken feelings and stolen glances, had all led to this—an explosion of warmth and sweetness that left you both dizzy.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, your fingers brushing the lapel of his suit. “Probably as long as I’ve wanted you to.”

His laugh was soft, and he pulled you closer, wrapping you in his arms as though he never wanted to let go. “Merry Christmas,” he said, his lips brushing against your temple.

“Merry Christmas, Mycroft.”

And for the first time in years, Mycroft Holmes felt truly at peace.

[fancyfeathers]

@zainiscompletelydone333 asked a question

wait, what's the age gap between the yans and their darling's??

William is 24 and I think his darling would either be 20-21 so that’s a 3-4 year gap between them, and also making her the youngest out of the brothers’ darlings.

Honestly I think Albert and his darling are the same age, 27, which would have made her a spinster at the time which would make sense with how quickly her parents married her off to him. Then also she has to be older than her sister, Mycroft’s darling and the oldest out of the brothers’ darlings.

Louis is 23 and his darling is 26 so that’s a 3 year age gap and something his darling gets to poke fun at him for.

Sherlock is 24 and his darling is 25 bu it’s one of those age gaps where for like a few weeks or months of the year they are the same age and Sherlock gets really smug about it.

Mycroft and his darling have the biggest age gap out of them all, his is 31 and I think she would be around 23 which is an 8 year age gap, but at the time it was more normal for the man to be older than by today’s standards so this wasn’t too unusual. The reason I put her at this age is cause she is decently younger than Albert’s darling.

Moran is 35 and his darling is about 29, so a six year age gap between them. Which makes sense with her doubling as an information broker since as she gets older there are less shows for her to do.

Bonde is 21 and his darling would be about the same age, maybe a few months younger than him. I honestly think it would be funny for their birthdays to fall on the same day because they are so similar.

Herder is 30 and his darling is 26, the same age as Louis’ darling since they attended and roomed together in college, though it probably took her longer to graduate since she was studying medicine.