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Mycroft Holmes is a man who is married to his work. Despite this, your heart had decided that it belonged to him, and as a result, you’d been silently pining over him for months—no, years. Perhaps even nearly a decade. You’d gotten to know him whilst you were both in university at Oxford, studying Public Policy and International Relations. The courses had come easy to the eldest Holmes brother and you, thankfully, were able to keep up for the most part. You’d hang out outside of classes from time to time and work together for group projects, with him one time having said that you’re one of the people that isn’t “completely incompetent”.
After you both graduated, you’d go on to do different master’s programmes and work at different government institutions. Still, you kept in contact, going for coffee or dinner from time to time, and so, you’d seen him work his way up to basically becoming the British Government itself.
Unlike him, you hadn’t stayed in the UK for the entirety of your career. You’d gone off to work in Kazakhstan for a couple of years before transferring to Kyrgyzstan and then Russia. There, you’d stay for several years, first working as a high level official and then the ambassador to the UK. This meant that, just like Mycroft, you didn’t really have time for a romantic life. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself despite several romantic partners having presented themselves to you.
Upon your return to the United Kingdom, you moved to London, starting a high ranking advisory role at the Attorney General’s Office—specifically the HM Crown Prosecution Service Inspectorate—before making your way to the Foreign, Commonwealth & Development Office, where you became the right hand to the head of The Government Communications Headquarters. Indirectly, this means that you’re running the place but not having your name connected to it.
With your return, your contact with Mycroft increased from once every half a year to at least once every two weeks, even with both of your busy schedules. Mycroft being Mycroft and you being you, things never progressed beyond the point of being good friends, even when Sherlock would comment on your friendship from time to time.
Sherlock likes you, he’s always liked you, which honestly, is quite rare—at least to this extent. You liked him too; like a younger brother. When you first met him, the now consulting detective was still in his early teens and struggling to be aware enough socially to not insult just about everyone in his class. So, you’d sat him down and explained to him why some people might not like how he says certain things, and thankfully, he’d understood it to some extent. Naturally, like his brother, he could still be quite blunt; but now it has generally toned down enough not to immediately appall the person he’s talking to. The issue that’s most prominent nowadays is his tendency to want to show off (especially when John’s involved), but alas, every person has their own flaws.
One February Sunday morning, Sherlock invited you over for tea and a chat. You do this quite regularly, talking about his cases or your work; sometimes about his experiments, though you prefer not to, with how disgusting and appalling they are at times. And so, you find yourself in the consulting detective’s living room, sitting in what has been donned as ‘John’s Chair’, holding a cup of tea. Sherlock’s chatting away, talking about a case he’d solved earlier in the week while you nod along when necessary and comment from time to time.
You could feel yourself starting to zone out, eyes barely looking past Sherlock and out of the window; gaze following the sun that’s reflected in the raindrops that are falling down. Sherlock notices, of course, and snaps his fingers in front of your face. ‘Sorry Sherlock, long week.’ You say before pinching the bridge of your nose and squeezing your eyes shut momentarily. And to be fair to you, it has been a long week. Crisis after crisis you have had to try and avert. ‘Mycroft mentioned something about that, yes.’ He replies as he sits back down in his chair, letting out a huff.
‘You spoke to your brother?’ ‘Against my will.’
You let out a quiet laugh at that. ‘He’s your brother, not some bothersome issue you have to deal with.’ ‘But he is.’ Sherlock retorts. ‘Besides, the only times he’s bearable is when you’re there.’ You roll your eyes. ‘Don’t be overdramatic, Sherlock.’ ‘Am not.’ ‘Yes you are.’ You pretend to be stern for a moment before grinning at the detective.
He’s about to say something when the door opens, revealing John who is followed by Mycroft shortly thereafter.
‘Speak of the devil.’ You take a sip of your tea and Mycroft’s eyes immediately find yours. ‘You were talking about me.’ His tone is plain, unsurprised. ‘He was complaining—as always.’ John makes his way to the kitchen as you speak, grabbing a cup of tea for himself.
‘Why am I not surprised?’ ‘Because you, Mycroft, are never surprised. About anything.’ You reply.
There’s a moment of silence where you and Mycroft are just looking at each other. He’s wearing a navy coloured three-piece suit, white shirt, and a light blue tie. His shoes are dark blue—nearly black—oxfords; not brogues. He looks nice. Though you have to admit that he always does; even whilst you were still in university together. He’d wear these polo jumpers with a shirt and tie underneath. Always either dress trousers or a dark wash, indigo pair of jeans and a pair of derby shoes underneath. It had been casual yet dressed up in a way. He’d stopped dressing like that once he started working and, at times, you wished that he would wear those jumpers again. There was this navy one he’d wear from time to time; it was by far your favourite—especially when he wore it with this particular red tie.
Whilst at Oxford you’d also seen him in black tie attire plenty of times, as you both were a part of Christ Church college. At one point, he’d even started matching his bow tie to your dress, as you always went as each other's date. You always thought him particularly handsome in these moments, though you never said anything; nor did he. It just… happened.
The suit he’s wearing at the moment looks incredibly nice, as it colours nicely with his eyes. Blue, deep, all knowing— ‘Right, if you two can stop eye fucking, Mycroft can tell us why he’s here.’ Sherlock interrupts and you turn to the detective.
‘Excuse me?’ ‘You heard me. Stop eye fucking my brother. I’d like to know why he’s here.’ Sherlock says casually. ‘I was not-‘ ‘You were. As was he.’
You glare at him for a second before giving up and murmuring a ‘whatever you say Sherlock’ and taking another sip of your tea. Mycroft looks as if Sherlock had just said the most offensive thing possible, but collects himself before speaking up.
‘I’m here to check in on you.’ He says. ‘You never do that Mycroft. Try again.’ Sherlock sounds utterly unimpressed. ‘Fine. Mother told me to check in on you in person.’ He replies. Sherlock doesn’t even glance up. ‘Typical that you happen to stop by when your totally not girlfriend is here.’
You nearly choke on your tea and are trying not to cough too violently. If that hadn’t been the case, you would’ve seen the slightest tinge of blush appearing on Mycroft’s cheeks. John shoots Sherlock a glare and he shuts up. ‘Typical that you shut up when your boyfriend glares at you.’ Mycroft retorts.
‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ Sherlock sputters. ‘He’s just… a very good friend.’
‘Right. Everyone, stop accusing the other of being in a relationship with certain people.’ John interrupts. ‘Sherlock, your brother’s here because your mother is a pain when he doesn’t do as she tells him; and you know how much of a pain your mother can be when you don’t listen to her. Remember the jam incident?’ ‘Don’t start about the jam incident please.’ Sherlock whines.
An hour and a half later you’re standing on the pavement in front of Sherlock’s apartment, Mycroft next to you. Silently, you offer him a cigarette from the steel cigarette case he’d gotten you years earlier for your birthday. It’s got detailed etchings on the outside, consisting of art nouveau-esque swirls that surround a dove and a crow. He accepts, taking out one of the Marlboro Gold’s you have in there before lighting it and offering you a light.
‘Sherlock’s been doing better since John’s arrival.’ You say after taking a long drag. Mycroft lets out a hum of agreement, gaze focused on the street in front of you where cars pass by constantly.
There’s a moment of silence before he finally speaks. ‘The doctor seems to be a good influence, despite him being a bit of a goldfish.’ ‘Sherlock would likely say that I fulfil the same role for you as John does for him.’ You reply casually and Mycroft snorts. ‘You are not a goldfish; you’re far too clever for that.’
‘You’re biased, Mycroft.’ Your eyes momentarily meet his gaze before turning back to the street. Smoke leaves your mouth as you breathe out and the way in which you flick your cigarette slightly to take off the ash is almost mechanical. ‘So? That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be honest with you.’ ‘But it does mean that your opinion is no longer objective.’ He tenses ever so slightly; you can see it from the corner of your eye. It’s a rarity to see him have a physical reaction to what anyone says, but you don’t comment on it. ‘I’m always objective.’ His voice has a slightly higher pitch, indicating him being somewhat flustered. ‘We both know that’s not true; especially when it comes to your brother,’ you pause momentarily, ‘though I suppose I’ll take the compliment.’
‘Of course you would take it as a compliment.’ Mycroft mutters under his breath and you smirk slightly before prodding his side with your elbow. ‘Oh come on Myc, I certainly wouldn’t be able to be objective about you. It’s normal.’ You tease, though there’s some truth to your words. ‘Don’t start calling me Myc.’ He groans.
Once you’re both done with your cigarettes, he offers to walk you home—as he often does after spending time with you. You agree, as quite surprisingly, the weather’s very nice for it being February. Still, your apartment isn’t too far from Sherlock’s, which means that you arrive at your front door within ten minutes or so.
‘Thanks for walking me home Mycroft.’ You say, grabbing the keys from your pocket. ‘I’m happy to.’ He replies smoothly before silently grabbing your bag so you can open the door to your apartment complex. The two of you walk in and make your way up three flights of stairs. There, you enter your flat whilst he waits in the doorway, still holding your bag.
‘You can come in, if you’d like.’ He nods, following you in and setting your bag on one of the kitchen chairs. You, meanwhile, walk to the kitchen counter and grab the kettle before filling it under the faucet.
‘John’s been trying to set me up on a blind date.’ You say as you put the kettle onto the stove. ‘Oh,’ he pauses, ‘that’s nice of him.’ The tone of his voice is more hesitant than what you’re used to. ‘I’ve been trying to get him to drop it.’ ‘Why?’
You shrug, grabbing two mugs and the tea from the cupboard. ‘Oh come on, there’s always a reason.’ He leans against the counter, crossing his arms as he looks at you whilst you rummage around. ‘I know, but you wouldn’t understand.’ You reply just as the kettle comes to a boil. Quickly, you take it off the stove.
‘I would understand.’ He replies.
‘You wouldn’t.’ Your voice sounds sharper than you meant it to.
‘Then try me.’ His voice is stern, perhaps almost frustrated.
You hesitate. Of course you do. And yet, words come out of your mouth. ‘I’m in love with someone.’ He blinks, silent for a moment. ‘Well, I don’t see the issue, I’m sure you’ll be happy with them.’
‘He doesn’t know.’ You turn to face him.
‘Oh… well, the best course of action, based on what I’ve seen in most people, would be confessing to–’ ‘I can’t.’ You interrupt him. ‘I cannot confess to him.’
There’s a pregnant pause. The air feels thick, almost suffocating you.
‘Why not?’
Rather than speaking, you just look at him.
‘Oh, come on. You’re clever, successful, objectively above average in terms of looks. Anyone would be lucky to have you.’ He uncrosses his arms and runs a hand over his face. ‘Gee, thanks for calling me above average Mycroft.’ ‘Don’t change the subject.’
Knowing better than going up against him when he’s like this, you choose to not use the retort you were about to say. ‘He wouldn’t like me like that.’ ‘If you haven’t confessed, you wouldn’t actually know that.’ He sighs. ‘Look, if you need a wing-man, I’m willing to sacrifice part of my sani–’
‘It’s you.’
‘What?’
‘I like you, Mycroft.’
Your gazes are locked on each other, neither of you moving or saying anything for several moments.
‘Please stop joking.’ His voice is serious, eyes continuing to bore into yours.
‘I’m not joking. I wouldn’t joke about this, you know that Mycroft.’ You can feel panic starting to rise in your chest. You don’t want to lose him. You’ll get over this just so you can continue being his friend.
‘I’m serious, this is not funny.’ His brow is furrowed, voice painfully formal.
‘I want you, Mycroft.’ When he doesn’t reply, you grow frustrated, heat rising to your face. ‘What part of ‘I want you, and only you’ do you not understand?’ You nearly shout at him.
‘—fuck, sorry Mycroft, I didn’t mean to—’ You’re interrupted by him walking up to you and him grabbing your chin. ‘Please stop talking.’ He murmurs, his face closer than anything you’re used to from him.
Your eyes widen and your surroundings seem to disappear as his thumb moves across your cheek. Despite feeling like you’re about to say something, he shuts you up by crashing his lips onto yours.