I Have Made So Many Mycroft Edits But I Will Never Post Them Anywhere Because Of How Terrified I Am 😃

Did you kiss the brick before throwing it at me?

Rest easy

Hii I'm a new one here in your blog! How are you love?

Can I request a tooth rooting fluff of fatigued Mycroft from work (Moriarty The Patriot)x overprotective fem!reader?

Thank you have a nice day <33

a/n: hellooo❕ forgive my late welcome but i really hope you enjoy your time here. i'm good, thank you :) hope you're just as well ! ALSO AAAA i think i went ahead of myself and typed way more angst than fluff 😭😭

##: angst, fluff, maybe implications of depression if you squint ??

MY KIND OF WOMAN 𓍢ִ໋ ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ myc. holmes x f!reader

tonight the moon was far too dipped into the shadows of the dark to come out; too tired, too weary. mycroft seems to deeply relate as he trudges his way in, head throbbing and utterly exhausted.

his younger brother, sherlock, was being investigated for homicide of the media mogul charles augustus milverton but thankfully no proof had risen. yet.

that, atop the stress he's facing with the people of the nation complaining and pressuring that the lord of crime be caught and punished to death—not that he could life a finger, though. he'd already been bound to the moriarty's by the contract and his vow.

“haaa..” he exhales gruffly, taking off his shoes—he barely has enough energy to crawl himself towards the couch before plopping down on it. it's quiet, utterly quiet. and dark; like his current state of mind. dark, yet a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

mycroft's thoughts drift to the weight he carries—the responsibility of his work, the burdens of a brilliant mind constantly analyzing and strategizing for the sake of the nation. it was a relentless pursuit, one that often left him feeling isolated and exhausted, tired and battered. wrecked. he's tired, utterly so.

“....” mycroft pops open the abandoned whiskey on the coffee table, drinking from it. were you drinking? he wishes he could share a glass with you.

it's been too long, hasn't it?

it's been days since he's properly even had the time to look at you. he leaves for work at the break of dawn when you're still asleep and returns in the middle of the night; a perpetual, tiring cycle.

he feels like crying for the first time in a while—the weight is too heavy, too harsh on him. and he dips his head low, ducking his chin, even in the dark. as if someone would or could see him like this, so vulnerable and exhausted. he's glad you're sleeping in your shared bedroom — at least you won't have to see him this way, weak and pathetic.

“mikey?”

mycroft freezes, neck of the whiskey bottle still touching his lips. “...(name).” he croaks out and instantly regrets it. his voice is hoarse, cracked at the end, almost whiny. he hates being this way.

“you okay? how was work?” slowly you tiptoe your way to him—the atmosphere was heavy and you could sense it from miles away. your fingers rest themselves on his shoulder, standing behind him and you realize just how tense his muscles feel.

“the same as always.” he replies plainly—the same neverending work. of course he'd like to say more than just that one sentence to you but he worries that if he starts, he won't stop, and that once he starts, it won't end in a simple complain—it'll end in a breakdown, tears and all.

so he sits there quietly. still as a rock. not facing you.

clack. he says the whiskey bottle down.

“i see.” you mumble. you know he hates being perceived as weak and vulnerable so don't force him to face you either. instead your fingers begin to slowly knead his shoulders, massaging him.

and mycroft swears he feels a lump grow in his throat. he leans back against the chair in silence, further back against you. it feels good, he thinks. to be cared for and loved as much as you do to him.

“...thank you, (name).” he whispers earnestly. he recognises he became so accustomed to shouldering the weight of the world that he had almost forgotten the simple joy of being cared for. “truly.”

plop.

a tear falls down onto his lap.

“..of course, honey. anytime.”

but neither of you say anything.

plop. another tear.

he's embarrassed—the tips of his ears are red but he's also grateful that you're not saying anything further. he likes that you're respectful of him and his boundaries and that you're not forcefully prying it out of him. he would tell you himself, anyway.

“i thought i'd lose my little brother today.”

mycroft says it so suddenly that it makes you pause—and it makes your heart ache painfully. he seemed to be going through a lot these past few weeks.

“i thought that he'd end up behind bars, that we'd never be able to bicker again,” he continues slowly, as if spoken too fast and he'd overwhelm himself with his own words. “the constant demands and pressures placed on me... they never cease.”

your hands have gotten softer on his body, more gentle and kind. “i can see the toll it takes on you, mikey. it's okay to feel overwhelmed.” you press a faint kiss to his nape. “you're only human, after all.”

a small silence. and then he breaks it: “i'm...afraid, (name). i'm afraid of failing. of disappointing everyone. and most of all, i'm afraid of losing you because of this— this darkness that surrounds me.”

he's at last allowing himself to feel infront of you.

and this time mycroft turns his head to look at you; you're faced with a grief stricken mycroft, heavy tears dripping down his face. you are strong. stronger than you give yourself credit for. but even the strongest of people need support and love. let me be there for you. share the burden with me." you cup his cheeks and he nuzzles himself against your warm palms.

“i love you.” he whispers softly. weakly.

“i love you too, mickey. i'll always love and stand by your side. no matter what happens to either of us.”

“even if i were to be brandished a traitor the next day for conspiring with the lord of crime & keeping silent even after i became aware of their true identity?”

“even then i would love you.”

“and if i were to be executed the next day?”

your heart hurts for him—you realize this is one of his genuine fears that he's been constantly wracked with. “then i would follow you wherever you go, mickey—even after death, i will forever be yours.”

a mix of emotions flicker across mycroft's face! fear, longing, a glimmer of hope. he takes a shaky breath, his voice barely above a whisper. "promise me you won't give up on me, no matter how difficult it gets."

“i promise.” your voice is filled with determination and he breathes a sigh of relief—something he desperately wanted to do for a long time now. “you're not alone, mycroft; you never will be. as long as i'm alive you will always be well and protected.”

mycroft nods silently, lets himself be embraced by you—he'd allow himself this much of respite. he could face all the horrors the world has to show tomorrow. as long as he can rest in your arms tonight.

there were still a lot of thorns and you were certain there'd be more along the way, but you would never allow even one of those to graze him. you were dead set on clearing a better, smoother path for mycroft and make sure that no one would stand in his way.

you look down and for the first time you feel him softly sobbing into your chest. you kiss the crown of his head and hold him tighter.

yes, you think to yourself as you pat him. the scheming and mind wracking can be set aside for tomorrow. all you want to do is be with him right now.

and you're sure mycroft feels the same.

I am my father’s daughter - I only know how to let people take

This is why we can't have nice things.

[Time skip Moriarty Gang]

Albert: Sherlock's eyes are blue right?

William: They’re sapphire! With hints of deep blue and silver when the light hits just right.

Louis: And when was the last time he smiled?

William: This morning. 10:38 am when I offered him tea!

Sebastian: Right...and when is my birthday?

William:

Sebastian: When is my birthday Will?

Albert: How would you describe Sherlock Holmes?

William, without hesitating: Mine.

Gaslighting myself into believing I'm fine.

HES LAUGHING AT HIS OWN FUNERAL BECAUSE HES ACTUALLY ALIVE (i scream as they drag me back to the padded room)

This is reminding me to sit myself down and make the notes of The Chronicles of Death Foretold that I have been piling up for a week.

the most fun a girl can have is finding parallels, noticing patterns, making connections, contemplating

[NY time line]

William, attempting to ask Sherlock out on a date: What if we went to dinner... not as friends?

Sherlock: As enemies???

William: ... Sherly we are past that.