on the other hand she doesn't know where she stands with Mycroft but he makes her happy

elerijohansen  asked:

Could you do a Mycroft x reader where the reader gets hurt and looses her memories and Mycroft decides to leave her so she doesn't get hurt again but one day the reader runs into him again and remembers everything.

Originally posted by furawa-su

Memory is a funny thing.

It warps and twists in perception sometimes with little to no time. Gets fuzzy and yet can be as clear as the second it was formed. Can be forgotten and revived with a certain smell or phrase.

Since as long as you can remember you thought that your memory was keen. 

Nothing forgotten, nothing stolen-surely you would have recalled if something happened wouldn’t you?That or at least someone close to you would remind you if you’ve forgotten something important.

Every day is the same. Everyone is content, everyone; family, doctors and friends are happy to see you but they all have that tinge that makes them seem on edge.

You can’t quite put your finger on it but its like they’re all in on a secret and you’re the only one not in the know.

It’s maddening.

Knowing that something was missing; something that feels like it must have been an important piece of your life to feel this hallow. Nothing on your social sites or journals reflect any clues to what is missing and it was truly distressing.

Everything seems…edited. Wiped clean.

No one seems to want to elaborate on it. There are no pictures concerning the last ten months even though everyone says that nothing exciting happened and yet the story changes from person to person.

“You were at a boring job and were able to quit it before things got out of hand.”

“Nah, you were staying at my place helping me with my gran.”

“Eh, I think you were taking a class but I don’t know how it went.”

“Oh sweetie! You were part of a running club and were okay until you were hit by a car.”

“Um, you were just doing your job and got really drink that one time. Can you seriously not remember?”

“______ don’t worry about it! It obviously wasn’t very important if you can’t remember it, now come help me with these boxes okay?”

All their answers seemed kind of dodgy save your aunt’s answer about the car.  When pressed through for an elaboration she was instantly hushed by your mum and the story was changed on the basis of aunt Marge’s memory could not be trusted due to her drinking habit.

Feeling phantom twinges of pain a car accident would explain it but why?

To what purpose? How would you get hit by a car running and more importantly you hated running so why the hell would you join a jogging club?

It didn’t make sense. 

None of it made sense.

Almost it has become a nightly occurrence where there’s a shadow on the edge of your dreams-something, someone important that you’ve forgotten.

No matter what you do the figure’s face is always obscured, the name is always scrambled but the feeling that’s associated with him is just so overwhelming.

Like this person is the most necessary person you’ll ever meet in your life and yet you already met them. That you know what they feel like, their voice and taste but for the life you of you can’t place a name leaving you in tears by the end of it.

I need to know. I have to know.

Although it seemed silly you felt that a private eye could help you. You’re not entirely sure what made you think this particular private eye Sherlock Holmes could help you but considering that the others have all but turned you away on the grounds that it was just a “feeling” you’ve no other options.

Its very strange. The ride to Baker street leaves an impression like you’ve done this before. Stepping in front of the flat none of it feels foreign even as you ascend the stairs thanks to the landlady.

The smells like a commonplace and it just continues to pile onto the ever building instinct that all of this is related to what you’ve lost. That you’re onto something big-the lost piece of you that dizziness threatens to overtake you.

Is it coming back? Is this what I’m missing?

Hyperventilating and bracing yourself on the couch you can’t help but be overwhelmed.

There are bits and pieces coming however none of them are in full glory. You know this place but it isn’t the place where it happened-not where he is from.

It’s a he-you know this much now. His picture mush clearer than before and voice more pronounced but you can’t recall him enough.

What was his name? What was his name?Who was he? Was he important?

You feel that you’ll go mad without knowing that you’re so close that you hardly pay mind to the voices becoming louder up the stairs. 

Voices that come to a full halt once the door is open.

Turning toward the door you can only imagine how you must look. 

Some strange woman standing uninvited in a living room looking like for all the world she’s about to have a panic attack but when you see his face-his face you’re oddly at ease if not confused.

He’s taller than the other two that also seem familiar but not as important as the man behind them.  That face is what’s been missing from your dreams, that suit, those eyes even as they widen in acknowledgement of something you can’t define.

“Do I…do I know you,” you call out cautiously to the stranger still walled behind the shorter two. You’re fairly certain that you do but just need a conformation something-anything to validate this feeling that you have.

He seems to be conflicted for a tick before answering politely, “No, I don’t believe we have. Anyhow Sherlock, please reconsider my offer and call when you come to your senses.”

And with that he turns to leave while the two men shielding him give twin looks of agitation and indignation. 

That can’t be right. You know him, you know him. Go after him.

The men still blocking the doorway down move quickly enough to let you through as you try to follow him. This man-you know this man and with each step that you skip in order to catch up you’re remember. 

His scent. His voice. His touch. His warmth. He was important to you on a level that was intimate and you know it was life changing.

Him. Him. Him Him but what is his blasted name??

He’s already shutting the door to his car when you reach the front door.

What was his name? What was his name? What was his name?

As the car starts to go down the street you cry pathetically, “Mycroftbefore collapsing in the door frame.

For the life you couldn’t profess to understand where that name came from but the moment it did an overwhelming amount of sadness washed over you like you missed the most important person in your life.

It was all over. You lost. 

Never again would you feel happy and you would never recall that piece your body desperately missed.

Body shaking with the full force of despair you don’t notice how the car goes into reverse.

“_______,” that voice calls once more-the same one that haunts your dreams and you look up to see that this isn’t some hazy dream but the real thing.

He’s bent over you looking more ethereal under the early afternoon light and flooding your senses with his presence. 

There’s no doubt in your mind that you knew this man and nothing in the world was going to tell you otherwise.

You know him. You know him. You know him.

 He’s very careful about his stance looking torn between comforting and staying aloof but its a hard battle. He knows you. He does otherwise how would he know your name?

“Do you remember me,” he asks tentatively. 

Taking a deep calming breath you answer, “Bits and pieces. But I want to know you again. Please, let me?”

Looking very conflicted at the plea but unable to deny with the wobble in your brow he replies steadily, “Get in the car _____, we have much to catch up on.”