<b></b> "During the day, we were rivals."<p/><b></b> "And during the night?"<p/><b></b> "During the night, he was the love of my life."<p/><b></b> If anyone wants to use this as a prompt, feel free. Just send me anything so I can read awesomeness.<p/></p>
A/N: Let me tell you, this was NOT easy to write, and I have no idea why. But I did it, hooray! This was an imagine request from @thatdamnokie based on the song ‘They Move on Tracks of Never-Ending Light’, so I hope you enjoy!
Sherlock was clever. Everybody knew that - especially you, considering you had been friends with him since high school. Being friends with Sherlock had its pros, but it also had its cons. Sometimes, you wondered if the cons outweighed the pros, but then he’d do something to remind you that he was indeed human and the thought was pushed from your mind. John had come along after a while, and Sherlock had gotten better at understanding sentiment, but half the time the brilliant man still had no clue.
It was times like today that you wished Sherlock was a little more perceptive when it came to feelings. The detective, was, as usual, absorbed in his work. The two of you were in St. Bart’s, what with John at work, and you were wishing nothing more than to be at home, curled up under a blanket and watching Netflix. Of course, Sherlock had a case, and had decided to drag you along with him, as was normal. The two of you had worked on cases together practically since the day you had met, and after a while your observation skills were nearly as good as his - though apparently not enough to impress, because despite your long history he had started to take less notice of you.
Perhaps you had started to bore him? It was possible, considering Sherlock was known to ignore things that bored him. Like Anderson. You hoped he wasn’t starting to look at you like another Anderson. “Y/N?”
“Tea in the pot.” John nods to the counter, and returns to coaxing Rosie to eat a spoonful of breakfast. “Come on sweetheart. What’s up with you this morning? Mrs Hudson give you too much dinner, hmm?”
Rather uncomfortably, Mycroft hangs his umbrella over the back of a chair and reaches down a mug.
“Actually, Mycroft, could you pour me one too?” asks John distractedly, evading Rosie’s attempt to flick the spoonful of cereal all over him. “This one’s gone completely cold.”
Mycroft lays a long-fingered hand on the teapot. “I shall make a fresh pot,” he says, quietly.
John sighs. “This is taking forever this morning.” He glances up at the clock on the wall. “Barely the morning still,” he adds, to himself. “We were out ’til all hours – well, you know, don’t you – and poor Mrs Hudson had Rosie all day yesterday. Don’t think either of them got much sleep. This little madam’s really grumpy today.”
Mycroft refills the kettle and washes out the teapot. He reaches down two more mugs; places them alongside his own. “I confess I had urgent matters to attend to yesterday evening,” he says. “Was the case concluded satisfactorily?”
“Yeah,” says John, absently, chuckling tightly as Rosie makes a grab for the bowl of cereal. “Oh no, madam, I don’t think so.”
“And Sherlock –?”
“Crashed out,” says John, shortly. “He’s barely slept the past couple of weeks.”
Mycroft recognises the steely tone in John’s voice – protective. Do not wake him, Mycroft Holmes. He sighs, silently, and pours the boiling water into the teapot. Adding two teabags, he puts the lid on and leaves it to steep. He allows the edge of the kitchen counter to dig into the heels of his hands, staring absently out of the small kitchen window at the grey London day beyond. A ginger cat stalks elegantly along the top of the next house’s scruffy concrete yard wall.
He had hardly slept himself, monitoring the negotiations at the summit in Japan until early in the morning. His eyes feel tight with tiredness, his gaze unfocused.
Behind him, he hears the smile in John’s voice. “Ah, you’re up. How’d you sleep?”
Mycroft waits for Sherlock to speak.
“Like the dead,” yawns Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. “Thank goodness. Mornin’ Mycroft,” he adds. “’S’that tea?”
Mycroft’s spine stiffens, and he takes a quick breath in. Nevertheless, his voice is unhurried when he speaks. He does not turn around. “Certainly, Detective Inspector. Am I to take it you would like a cup?”
Mycroft can hear the grin in Lestrade’s voice. “God, yeah. Thanks,” he says. His tone has changed dramatically when he speaks again. “Good morning Rosie posy,” he says softly. “Having your breakfast, hmm?”
Mycroft is horrified to find that he actually likes the adoringly soppy way Lestrade is speaking. Good grief. Baby talk is the very definition of nauseating. Appalling. He stirs the tea with short, tight movements.
Rosie lets out a delighted shriek, and John sighs. “Right, well I s’pose that’s good enough,” he says. “She’s barely eating this morning.”
Mycroft opens the fridge to retrieve the milk, still not turning around.
“I can amuse her for a bit, if you want to get ready,” says Lestrade. “’S’my fault you weren’t allowed in your bedroom last night anyway, isn’t it missy?”
John takes a breath. “Thanks,” he says, standing up and walking around Mycroft to drop Rosie’s cereal bowl and spoon in the sink. “You’re a mate, Greg. Sherlock’s out like a light.” He takes the cup of tea Mycroft passes him and gulps half of it in one go. “Mmm,” he says, appreciatively. “Right. I’ll just take a quick shower. Her toys and all that are in the –”
“– basket in the corner. I know, John, s’alright.” Lestrade’s voice stretches as he picks Rosie up. “Oh, you’re getting so big, aren’t you?”
She chatters nonsense to him as they move away round the table. Mycroft takes a deep breath and picks up two mugs of tea. They are both strong, but one of them has plenty of milk. The bathroom door clicks shut behind John.
Eyes on Rosie, Mycroft walks into the living room and places Lestrade’s cup of tea on the table between the windows, too high for her to reach and spill.
Lestrade, kneeling next to Rosie, looks up at him. His brown eyes are soft. “Ta,” he smiles.
Pyjamas, stutters Mycroft’s brain. Too long for him. Soft white t-shirt. Eyes crumpled from much-needed sleep, but dark circles still. Silver hair ruffled. Bare feet. Dear God.
Lestrade takes a draught of tea and hums appreciatively. “Good tea,” he says, offering Rosie a rounded red racing car. “How about this, lovey, hmm?”
Mycroft takes a seat in John’s chair, and buries his nose in his tea. Lovey.
“Crashed in poor Rosie’s room, after the case,” says Lestrade casually, taking another swig of tea. “Since she was already asleep at Mrs Hudson’s.”
Mycroft gives a short nod. “Indeed. I understand it has been a tiring case.”
“Could say that,” says Lestrade, stifling another yawn. “An’ how’ve you been? Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Quite well, thank you, Detective Inspector.”
Lestrade turns laughing eyes on him. “How many times d’you think I’ve asked you to call me Greg, now?” he asks.
Mycroft smoothes the fingers of his left hand down the seam of his tweed trouserleg. He watches Rosie become frustrated with the bright, clumsy toy, and look around, as though searching for either her Dad or Papa. “Too many,” he rejoins sourly. Greg shoots him a darkly amused glance. “My apologies, Gregory,” adds Mycroft, more meekly.
Rosie gives a burst of thwarted babble at the toy, and throws it at Greg. It bounces off his arm. He jumps with surprise, though it certainly did not hurt him.
“Rosamund Watson-Holmes,” says Mycroft, seriously. “You do not throw things at people.”
She regards him with wide eyes for a moment, then tucks the corners of her mouth in a private little smile. She stands up and walks unsteadily to Mycroft, putting her tiny hands on his knee.
There’s a short, intense silence. Greg has frozen, cup of tea halfway to his lips.
Rosie giggles as Mycroft blinks at her.
“Has she…is she…?” asks Greg, dazed.
“I…am unsure,” says Mycroft.
The bathroom door opens, and John emerges, towelling his hair.
Greg lowers his cup of tea.
“All alright?” asks John, making for the teapot.
“Mmm,” says Greg, looking directly into Mycroft’s eyes. “John – um, has Rosie started walking yet?”
“No,” says John casually, bending to put Rosie’s breakfast bowl in the dishwasher. “She’s been doing that –” he nods at her. “Pulling herself up on stuff. But she’s not quite there yet.”
Mycroft sees Greg’s eyes widen just a little.
“Right,” says the Detective Inspector.
Mycroft shakes his head, fractionally, and Greg grins at him. Of course I’m not going to, you prat, practically writes itself over his face. Mycroft presses his lips together, suppressing a smile.
“Well, she’s definitely getting good at standing,” says Greg, the corners of his lips curling. “Won’t be long, I’m sure.”
“Yeah,” says John absently. “By the way, Mycroft, you’ll be glad to hear Sherlock’s woken up. He’ll be out in a minute.”
“Thank you, John,” says Mycroft, gravely. He cannot look away from Greg’s dark, dancing eyes.
Rosie loses her balance, and sits down with a thump.
They named her Elizabeth Mayinga Holmes. While Mrs. Hudson gushed about the little girl in Molly’s hands, John dig out his phone and did a quick search. And then he groaned.
When his wife looked at him strangely he just showed her the result on the screen. Mary merely snorted and shook her head. She didn’t understand why he was so surprised.
Of course Sherlock and Molly Holmes will name their daughter after an Ebola virus variant. Was there ever any doubt?
As the little girl grew she was called by just about any variation of her name. Only her uncle still called her Elizabeth. He was persistent in his opinion that since she was named that way that is the only name that should be used.
Her mother always called her Ellie. Even when she was angry at her, and her father, for playing with an experiment that was recklessly left out in the open, she was always Ellie.
Uncle John and aunt Mary used the nickname Liz, and her not-real-but-we-don’t-care cousin always called her Lizzy. They were Rosie and Lizzy and they were inseparable.
Her grandparents loved her unique middle name, even though grandma Violet scowled Sherlock about naming his daughter after a deadly disease, but they never used it. Instead to them she was Eliza.
Mrs. Hudson said right away she looked like a Beth, so that nickname remained until the landlady died many years later.
Inspector Lestrade often dropped by the flat to talk to her dad. He too was a honorary uncle, but he always called her ‘kid’. So she never failed to use a different name that started on G when she talked to him.
But from all the nicknames Elizabeth preferred the one her dad used. It was simple.
Prompts: “I can take care of myself” and “Put me down”
Characters: Mycroft Holmes x reader
Gender: Any/Neutral Triggers: None
Requested by: Anonymous
Ever since Sherlock found out you could possibly be the next victim of the most recent murderer in London, due to your work with the business whose workers were being targeted, Mycroft has not left your side. Usually you don’t mind spending time with the Holmes brother, but this was getting ridiculous. You couldn’t go to the bathroom without with lingering outside of the door, listening in case someone somehow it into the small window on the wall.
Though you did not want to be alone, fearing for your self. Having someone constantly hover around you can get on your nerves.
One evening as you were growing hungry, you looked in your fridge, but found nothing but old milk, a small block of cheese and a head of lettuce. Deciding you needed some decent food you grabbed your jacket, intending to go to the store around the corner. But as you reached for the doorknob, a familiar voice stopped you in your tracks.
“Where do you think you are going?”
You rolled your eyes before turning to face the man “To get some groceries from the corner store?”
“You are not leaving this flat, not while that crazed man is on the loose”
“Then come with me”
“It’s still too dangerous”
“Well unless you can open that fridge and pull out enough food to make a decent meal, I am leaving. I’ve been in this flat for three days, you wont even let me near a window, I feel like I’m suffocating. Besides, I can take care of myself”
Opening the door, you began walking towards the stairs, leaving Mycroft to stare after you with a look of annoyance. Before you could even take the first step you felt a hand grab your wrist, forcing you to turn around. Before you could yell at Mycroft you found yourself being lifted onto his shoulder “What the hell are you doing Mycroft? Put me down!”
Mycroft carried you all the way to your bedroom before all but throwing you onto it. He pointed at you “Stay”
“I am not a dog, nor am I a prisoner”
Mycroft sighed before looking down at you “I only want to keep you safe. Until we know who this murdered is, you are in danger, and I will not allow you to be killed. If that required me making you hate me and keeping you prisoner in your own home then so be it.”
You frowned, feeling a pang of guilt for having snapped at him earlier, he only wanted to keep you safe “I don’t hate you, I hate what’s happening”
Mycroft watching you for a moment “I will have someone go to the store for you, just write a list of what you need”
Mycroft turned to leave the room “Thank you Mycroft. For not leaving me alone”
Glancing back at you, he gave you a small smile “Of course”
Greg came home from work and shouted a “Honey, I’m home!” down the hallway with no response from his other half. He knew the man was in because he had messaged him to say he would be home first and it wasn’t like Mycroft to lie.
So, concerned, he kicked off his shoes and continued down the hallway to the living room. The top of Mycroft’s head could be seen over the top of the couch. “Hiya, love.” Greg tried again. Maybe Mycroft hadn’t heard him the first time, caught up in his thoughts.
There was still no reply.
“Mycroft?” Greg walked across the room and around the couch so he could see his husband properly.
Mycroft was awake. He was aware. He was pouting.
Mycroft was fuming.
“What’s the matter, love? Something happen at work?” Greg knew Mycroft wouldn’t talk about the details, but if it was something to do with work they had made an agreement to be slightly more open. Especially if it brought The Pout™.
Mycroft rolled his head across the back of the couch until he was looking at Greg and furrowed his brow. “No. Not work.” He finally answered. Greg nodded in acknowledgement but was still confused.
“What has you all moody, then? Sherlock been ‘round?” He ventured a guess, though he knew Sherlock had been with him today anything was possible.
“Okay…” Greg dragged out the word, hinting that he needed more information.
The other man huffed a reserved sigh and slouched further as he mumbled something unintelligible. Mycroft never mumbled.
“What was that, love?”
Mycroft gave him a look and shook his head.
“Did someone die?”
“Does your mother want you to take her to another show?”
“Did I forget to pick up my dirty underwear?”
Mycroft twitched a small smile, but only momentarily. “No.”
“Did Anthea kick you out of the office again?”
“Did a politician say something you told them not to?”
“Daily. However, not the cause of my anguish.”
“Then I’m out of guesses. You’ve got to help me out here, Myc.”
Mycroft sighed again and made eye contact with Greg for a moment before quickly looking away again. “They cancelled Sense8.”
It’s Mycroft’s birthday and Sherlock decides that he’ll prank him as a present.
He makes it past an outraged John. He makes it past all of Mycroft’s security. He makes it all the way to Mycroft’s living-room door and here, of all places, he stops.
He stops because in said living room he finds Mycroft dancing (cough, Swaying) with Greg (to Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect”, obviously) and he must really be going soft because all he does is take a short video to send to John with the caption ‘Maybe next year, then.’ before sneaking back out of the house.
Request: Hey can you do a Mycroft x reader that shows how every fall you would spend time with Mycroft our doors. And how one fall when you were 17 you fell in love. And also like when he proposed under this tree in the fall time. I hope this makes sense.
- It makes sense! It might end up a little different than you probably intended, but I still hope you like it :)
Characters: Mycroft Holmes x reader
Gender: Any/Neutral Triggers: None Words: 1,131
You sighed contently from under the tree, looking around at the familiar sight that never seemed to change. Every couple of seconds a leaf would fall from the tree, falling on the path in front of you, or drifting in the breeze, only to land in the small pond nearby. As you waited, your mind started to go back through time. All the times you met him under this very tree, on this same day.
You were walking down the path when your eyes went to a nearby tree. It was bigger than the rest, it must be very old. The colors of the leaves were every shade of autumn. It was beautiful. You wandered over to the tree and stared up at it, becoming lost in thought.
“Beautiful isn’t it?” you heard a voice from behind you. Turning you see a boy, about your age looking up at the tree “I walk by it every single day, and it never ceases to gain my attention” he said taking a couple steps closer.
You smiled at him before looking back at the tree “This is my first tie seeing it It’s amazing. It’s so different from all the rest”
Mycroft glanced over at you “That explains why I’ve never seen you before. Did you just move here?”
“No, I’m visiting family for the autumn. I’m leaving tomorrow. I never got the chance to explore by myself, so I was doing it today” you said turning to him.
He nodded his head “Have you been to the market down the road” he said pointing towards where you were going.
“No, but I was headed that way” you said smiling.
“Mind if I walk with you, that’s where I was going” he excused.
“Sure” you said smiling, turning to walk with him.
After talking with him for the rest of the day, you said goodbye. Knowing you would never see him again. But knowing he wouldn’t leave your mind.
One Year Later
You wandered down that same path, looking for the familiar tree. When it came into your sights you smiled at it. It seemed as if it grew bigger. But maybe that was just you. Admiring the leaves you eyes fell to a boy standing under it, looking through a book. Your heart started pounding. It was him. The boy you never thought you would see again.
“Mycroft” you said, the name was too unique to forget
Looking up, it only took him a second to recognize your face. You had aged by a year, but you were still the same. Still beautiful.
“Y/n” he said straightening up before walking over to you. You smiled at him as he approached “Back for another family visit then?” he asked, trying to remain calm, though his heart was beating fast at the sight of you.
“Actually…my family had moved here. To be closer to my other family members” you said slowly.
His eyes grew a bit “That’s great! Well, I mean…is it?” he fumbled, slightly embarrassed by his excitement.
You giggled at him “Yes, it is great”
Two Years Later
You stared down at your hands as you sat under the tree, another tear falling. Sniffling you rubbed your sleeve across our face. You and Mycroft had been dating for about three months and you just had your first fight. He left you alone under the tree. You had been sitting here for what felt like hours, hoping that he would come back, but you began thinking he never would.
“Y/n” his voice was gentle and he approached you
Looking up, shocked that he had actually returned, but relieved “Why did you come back?”
“What do you think? I’m here to apologize. I over reacted and I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry” he said leaning down in front of you, his hand coming out to wipe a stray tear.
You avoided his eyes and looked back down at your hands. Sighed when you saw his hands take yours “You don’t have to apologize to me Mycroft, it was equally my fault”
Sighing he moved to sit next to you “I’m still sorry” he said as he kissed you on the shoulder.
Finally looking into his eyes, you noticed his eyes were a little red as well. Sighing you leaned your head against his, knowing that you two would be okay.
Mycroft was turning 45 and Molly wanted to do something special for him.
And once she learned from Anthea that he preferred yellow cake with
chocolate frosting she knew just the thing to make.
And it turned out perfect. Absolutely perfect.
It took more time than usual to make it, mostly due to the fact she wasn’t using her own kitchen but the one in Baker Street, but finally Molly was done with the cake and carefully moved it to the fridge. Of course she personally cleaned and disinfected the whole thing to ensure she doesn’t accidentally poison anyone.
Sherlock was suspiciously quiet the whole time and just watched her from his spot on the leather armchair. A few times she glanced his way, expecting to hear a barb about his brother needing to go on a diet and not a Birthday cake, but it never came.
“Everyone will be here at 7. Make sure you text Mycroft shortly before and tell him there is an emergency.” she instructed before turning to walk to the bedroom and get some clean clothes before jumping under the shower, “And do not tell him about the surprise party.”
Molly entered the bedroom so she didn’t hear Sherlock huff, or saw him sink lower on the armchair. He was sulking and he knew it. But he couldn’t help it.
It was so unfair.
When they celebrated his Birthday he knew beforehand about the dinner at Angelo’s and Molly brought store bought cake. But Mycroft gets a surprise party and a home made one.
He eyes the fridge for a moment, arguing with himself. It would be so easy to sabotage Molly’s hard work and make the cake inedible. But he loved Molly and would never intentionally do something that would make her upset. The cake she baked looked really good.
Really, really good. And he was certain it tasted great too. Molly Hooper was skillful in many ways.
With an over-dramatic flair Sherlock got out of his armchair and sauntered to the kitchen. He opened the fridge and looked at the perfectly round, chocolate frosting covered cake. And he just had to know.
Later on when Mycroft arrived he was pleasantly surprised to see tea and biscuits and friends. And then Molly announced she baked cake especially for him.
And then she look it out of the fridge.
There was a deep grove in the frosting, going all around the cake. A trench in the chocolate frosting made, she was absolutely certain of it, with a finger.
“You just couldn’t help yourself?” she grumbled after entering the sitting room, the cake in her hands. There was no use trying and fix things. It was too late.
Sherlock just shrugged, “I wanted to taste the frosting and you refused to give me the spatula. It’s good, by the way. When will you make it again?”