Sherlock One shots and Imagines

Nemesis - Part 8 - Mycroft x Reader

The car slowly pulled to a stop outside an old building, (Y/n) not surprised for one moment that Mycroft would call such a place home. The lady sure that the inside of the abode, would be as pristine as the exterior. That it would be well appointed. That it would smell of seasoned leather and old books. Of aged cognac and perhaps the odd fine cigar.

"This is it, ma'am. Would you like me to stay?" Johnson asked, as he turned around to look at her.

"No, no, I'll be fine. I'll find my own way home. I've kept you long enough today. You get yourself home to that wife and those daughters of yours. I will see you Monday morning, bright and early." (Y/n) replied. Smiling at her driver as he opened the door for her.

"And Mark...................."

"Yes ma'am...................?"

"Thank you." (Y/n) told the younger man. The driver giving her a respectful nod, before climbing back into the driver's seat, and making his way back into the London night.

(Y/n) stood there for a moment. Her heart beating a little quicker as she looked at the door. Part of her was telling her to leave. To just find a cab and go home. To not bring all this to a head. But the rest of her knew that she had already left this too long. That because she had no intention of going anywhere. Be that from her job or from Sherlock's life, she had to confront the older Holmes. She had to tell him that no matter what he did, this time there was nothing that he could say or do to make her leave. To make her leave him again.

She had to admit that despite the fact that she really had enjoyed making Mycroft's life a misery since she had come back into his world. What she had enjoyed even more, was being able to see him every day. To be back in his company. To smell the same cologne that he had worn since they were together in their youth. To have that clash of intellects that their initial friendship had been founded on. For in truth, she had missed him. She had missed his voice. She had missed being near him. She had just...........just missed everything about him. And even though, in her weaker moments, she had hoped that with time, there might grow to be something between them again. Given what she had seen, it was obvious that the man that she had loved, was now completely gone. The funny, silly, loving man replaced by nothing but Holmes-ness. So, she would have to tell him. Tell him that she was there for the long haul no matter whether he liked it or not. Her hand reaching out to knock on the door.

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Mycroft lowered himself into his leather chair. A large snifter glass filled with the best Napoleon brandy on the small table next to him. The dark liquor casting dancing light onto the wall opposite, as the flames from the fire in the hearth caught in the glass. Normally the older Holmes would be spending the evening at the Diogenes Club, after enjoying a quiet little meal at his favourite restaurant. But once again he had no desire to be anywhere but home. Wrapped up in his thoughts and memories. In the pictures in the box.

Initially, as he had made his way back to Westminster, Mycroft had been annoyed that (Y/n) had been able to foil his little plan. But then, he had begun to find the whole thing quite amusing. That even after all these years she still knew him well enough, to know he would do something like he had. She of course had been right. He had been keeping tabs on her while she had been in Buckingham. He had listened to her conversation with his brother. He had had, as (Y/n) had put it, one of his odious toadying little sycophants watching the flat, contacting him as soon as she had got to Baker Street.

In truth, Mycroft had not gone to Baker Street out of any perverse desire to ruin (Y/n) and Sherlock's afternoon. He had gone.........well, he had gone because he was jealous. Many things had been lacking in the Holmes household when he and Sherlock had been boys, and one of the most important things that had been missing, was love. The kind of love that would accept a person for everything they were, good and bad. For all their mistakes and faults. For all their strangeness and uniqueness. And that summer Mycroft had taken (Y/n) home, he had seen that she had been able to give the same love that she gave him, to Sherlock. He had seen the same look in his younger brother's eyes whenever he looked at (Y/n), that he was sure he would get. He had seen it again in his office the day that the younger Holmes had discovered that she was back. And he hated the idea that Sherlock would once again be able to be in (Y/n)'s life and he couldn't. That his younger brother would once again be able to experience the non-judgemental and caring love that (Y/n) had freely and happily given them both in different ways.

With a heavy sigh, Mycroft took the glass into his hand. The smell of the now slightly warm brandy filling his senses as he swirled the liquor around. His other hand reaching for the old photobooth pictures that looked up at him. He wasn't sure what his life would have been like if he had chosen to follow his heart instead of his parents wishes. Would he himself have been a father by now? Would he have been a good father? Mycroft didn't know, but he was sure of one thing though, that (Y/n) would have been an excellent mother. That she would have been able to give their children everything that he and Sherlock had never had. That they would have been happy. Yet all that was just a dream now. He would never be able to reignite what the pair had once shared. So, simply having her back in his life would have to suffice. Watching as she came into the office every day. Asking their assistant to bring them some tea at exactly 10am every morning. To smell her perfume. To occasionally be able to brush his hand over hers.

Suddenly a loud knock rang out. Mycroft grumbling to himself, as he put down the old photo's and looked at his watch. It was really too late for visitors. And he wasn't in the mood to feign pleasantries with whatever goldfish had come calling. Yet as another insistent knock came, Mycroft realised that whoever his late evening caller was, they were not going to be leaving unless they were told to in no uncertain terms to go. And he was just in the mood to tell them to go.

"What?!" Mycroft barked, as he opened the door. His eyes growing wide as he saw (Y/n) on his doorstep.

"Nice to see that you are as pleasant to everyone else as you are to me, Mycroft. Now, you and I need to talk." (Y/n) retorted, before pushing her way into the home.