Chapter Text
Mycroft knew by all accounts, it shouldn't have happened. But he got some kind of dark pleasure out of having a whole different life, one that was separate from his normal one filled with pressures, secrets, and annoying little brothers. Having something that he enjoyed that no one else knew about, which strictly speaking, he shouldn't partake in. He wasn't even sure why, but it just seemed right that a secret service politician shouldn't have an online presence, or waste his time on fan fiction. He was twenty-six, after all... he should be doing better things with his time, right?
For a long time, Mycroft simply observed. It all started from getting curious one day after watching some of his favourite tv series, Stargate Atlantis, and so he went looking online about it. Originally it was just curiosity about the episode itself; how it was made, the ideas behind it, how the graphics were done... things along those lines. But that's when he saw a link appear on that website to a story someone had written following up from said episode... and having some time spare, he clicked it.
After reading it, he wanted more. He was interested regarding other ideas that writers had. Some were great, and some were cringeworthy. He had often found that he wanted to create an account with FanFicbook simply to comment corrections to authors. The grammar was awful in many cases, but he tried to just let it slide. Not everyone had his education, or intelligence, after all. It wasn't until one particular story that he found enthralling started making extremely blatant scientific errors that he felt obliged to do so.
And that's how he found himself here, sitting before a screen, attempting to think of a username that both reflected him and was obscure enough that it would never be traced back to him. Many users had strange things as their usernames, and some had normal-sounding names that made Mycroft wonder if they used their real names. After longer than he'd care to admit, Mycroft settled on the username 'SuitedLizard'. He found an image on a random site of a Komodo dragon wearing a tie to use as his avatar. Satisfied, Mycroft then 'liked' the work he was reading, and commented on it with some suggestions on how to improve the content so that the mistakes wouldn't detract from the story. He was sure to pad his words with compliments, to ensure the writer wasn't offended by his suggestions - he did really enjoy the narrative, however found the inaccuracies too cumbersome to look past. His observations on human behaviour suggested that people were more receptive to criticism if they were complimented first.
Mycroft then commented on some of the other works he'd read and enjoyed. He liked that other people shared topics he liked, particularly a pairing. Mycroft personally found the idea of a brilliant, socially awkward, and seemingly arrogant scientist having a relationship with a skilled, kind, loveable, and understanding doctor was intriguing. They complimented each other perfectly, so much so that the writers of the show had made them best friends. There were many instances where if Mycroft watched the scenes thinking that the two were a couple, it seemed evident that was the case. He was glad to discover he wasn't the only person to think so.
Before he knew it, it was two in the morning.
"Shit." Mycroft uttered under his breath, and closed his laptop. He had to start at seven, and tardiness was not appreciated by his boss.
~
Mycroft spent much of his day fantasising. There was hardly anything intellectually challenging, or even stimulating, about his job. He was essentially just a personal assistant for a member of parliament, but worked with the secret service unbeknownst to his boss. His job was to appear like an average PA, but use his detailed knowledge about the world and its secrets to help direct public parliament for Britain's interests. It meant that while his work was important, it was mind-numbingly dull most of the time. Filling in schedules, fetching coffee, lying about his boss's attire... he didn't know why his boss had decided that she needed to ask Mycroft if she was 'lookin' good' every day. Mycroft took great pride in his appearance, and often ended up dressing more formally than his boss. He just liked three-piece suits. He couldn't afford the really nice fitted ones, but at least the ones he did have were adequate. In the political world, a nice suit was like battle armour. And Mycroft never wanted to leave home vulnerable without his armour. He never wanted people to see what he was like underneath the mask and suits. He was terrified of the reactions and consequences. This, however, meant that Mycroft spent much of his life in isolation. He didn't have anyone to call a friend, he didn't have anyone to talk to about things that interested him, and he didn't have anyone he could relax with. There was only him. And it was lonely.
By lunch time, Mycroft had already thought of an entire plot for a fan fiction. He hadn't tried his hand at writing, and was afraid that his mannerisms would reflect in the writing and leave the story seeming cold and detached. While he liked stories that included interesting word choices and scientific principles, he found the most engaging stories were emotional ones. Mycroft wasn't sure he quite qualified enough to write such a story. But, then again, no one he knew would be reading it. It was just for himself... and so writing the emotions he so desperately hid from everyone wouldn't cause any negative consequences.
He was alone in the office, and so after scanning about cautiously, opened up a new document. He stared at the blank screen for a while, before deciding that the best way to start would be to just write as if he was talking to someone. Storytelling had 'telling' in the name, so he couldn't be completely wrong in his idea. Once he'd started, he found that it was fairly easy to continue. He'd written two chapters before he knew it. He even continued it whilst his boss was in her office; typing away at his computer made it sound like he was doing work, and if anything that needed to be done came up, he'd do it immediately.
Mycroft checked the website after having dinner to see if anyone had responded to his comments. One person had, and it was surprisingly positive. They accepted his suggestions to correct some medical inaccuracies they had written, and thanked him for reading. Mycroft smiled. It was not often that his suggestions were taken with so much grace. People usually snapped back at him or sulked to themselves for being proven wrong by someone they assumed to be 'below' them. Mycroft found he rather liked the dynamic of the website where there wasn't an immediately assumed hierarchy. He knew that some people were more popular than others, and so didn't take time to respond or interact with all of their commenters, but such was to be expected. And it was a position that had been earned, starting out from no where. It was so different to Mycroft's day job where people were automatically more 'right' because they were more important in some regard. That regard was often because they, or their parents, had known someone also of this assumed importance.
The small positive feedback gave Mycroft some confidence to read more, and comment more. He found that the most common inaccuracies were medically related, as writers not from a medical background were attempting to write about the life of a doctor. Mycroft could understand it, but still... sometimes, he wished people would just do a little bit of research. Giving someone with O+ blood an infusion of A- is a horrendous error to write, and yet so simple to avoid.
After some time reading through the comments, he noticed that they tended to occur in groups. The same people would comment on a particular author's work, and conversely, that author would comment on the others' works. He suspected that these users knew each other on some level beyond just reading stories on a website. One user, PintofJustice, seemed to comment a lot on other's work, but hadn't written anything themselves. It was fairly easy to deduce their field of work, a police officer, given the username, avatar (a police badge submerged in a pint of beer), and the topics of conversation they'd offer. Mycroft found it interesting to be able to observe social behaviour without people being aware that he was there observing them. It was indeed harder to tell a lot about people through their comments and profile than it was to deduce their life stories from a glance of their person, but the challenge and sheer mystery of it all intrigued Mycroft.
~
A week after Mycroft had created and account with FanFicbook, he already had responses to most of the comments he'd given. One person was rather rude and abrupt, telling him politely to 'fuck off'. Other than that particular user, the responses were nice. Authors seemed to enjoy other people reading, and then commenting, on their works. Mycroft wondered if it was akin to praise. Humans always seemed to love praise, even if it wasn't earned. He still had trouble working out human behaviour, and he didn't have a whole lot of personal experience to make his assumptions on. He often considered himself more of an outsider; smart enough to observe the behaviour and attempt to mimic it enough to get by in the human world, but never really one of them. Sherlock was also an outsider, but apparently lacked the ability to understand the behaviour enough to avoid pain.
While he was reading one shorter story, something predictable about Carson and Rodney getting trapped in a cave, his email alerted him that he’d received a reply. He cast his mind back, unable to recall any comment he’d left that hadn’t been replied to. Mycroft went to his dashboard.
- PintofJustice: Hey, I noticed you gave a lot of insightful comments recently like this one, but haven’t posted any work. Just wondering if you had any stories written? Don’t be shy about sharing :)
Mycroft frowned at the use of the emoticon. He found it strange that someone was addressing him first… was this normal human behaviour? And they seemed interested in his own work purely just out of curiosity. Mycroft hummed uncertainly to himself. No one ever had been interested in his work without some kind of selfish motive before. Mycroft decided to respond to the comment, against his better judgement.
- SuitedLizard: Thank you for your words. I, as of this moment, have not yet completed a work to share. I was unsure whether or not to post it.
He returned to finish reading the story, albeit with a lot more anxiety swirling in his gut. He didn’t have to wait long for a reply, thankfully.
- PintofJustice: You don’t have to finish it before you post it! You can just submit what you have, chapter by chapter. I don’t mean to tell you what to do! :) I was just curious.
Again, an emoticon. Mycroft was starting to wonder about this user’s age. A wave of panic overwhelmed Mycroft at the realisation that he was interacting with people that were entirely anonymous, and therefore could be anyone. He could be conversing with a fourteen-year-old girl. In the case of PintofJustice, it wasn’t likely, but some of the other authors definitely could be as young as that. And he’d commented on their works.
Deep breaths…
Mycroft was able to swallow the panic inside himself. He did’t know why it scared him to know so little about the users. Ultimately it didn’t matter… he was only interested in the ideas the authors presented in their works. But it still bothered him on some subconscious level… perhaps because it was so unfamiliar. But all of this was unfamiliar, wasn’t it? And the anonymity of it was precisely why Mycroft was able to participate. And perhaps even experiment with boundaries?
- SuitedLizard: If I do, would you be interested in reading it?
- PintofJustice: Duh! That’s why I asked!
- SuitedLizard: Very well. Please excuse any grammatical errors, I have not proof-read it properly yet.
- PintofJustice: If it’s anything like your comments, I’m sure it’ll be fine :3
Fifteen minutes later, Mycroft had posted the first chapter to his first fan fiction. His stomach flipped uncomfortably over and over from the anxiety which he couldn’t place. No one knew it was him posting it, and the only person who’d find out wouldn’t care in the slightest. Thinking of Sherlock, Mycroft decided he should probably call his brother to see how he was getting on.
“Good evening, brother mine.”
“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock’s voice grumbled.
“I am just checking up on you.”
“You don’t have to watch me all the time, you know.”
“Well, this was more out of concern for your wellbeing rather than ensuring correct behaviour. I take that to mean that you have indeed been good?” Mycroft hummed.
“You know where to shove it.”
“Enough with the hostility, brother. I simply want to know how you are coping with your study load.”
“Fine. The work’s dead easy, but it’s at least interesting this time.”
“Good to hear.” Mycroft said, inclining his head. There was an awkward silence as neither was sure if it was a good time to end the call politely.
“Your work is boring as always, I assume?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft raised his eyebrow.
“Quite. I seem to be on the receiving end of an endless stream of mundane tasks. It would all be so much easier if I could just replace the idiots giving me the work.” Mycroft groaned. He honestly would prefer to be the one giving the orders and not having to deal with the small selfish minds of the general population.
“One day you’ll get to run the government, Myc, but you have to lick some arse to get there.”
“Where on Earth did you pick up that expression? I don’t think that’s exactly how it goes…”
“Just some of the kids at uni.” Sherlock said nonchalantly.
“I’m beginning to think that university is becoming a bad influence upon you, dear brother.”
“Yeah well, too bad. You don’t have the power to force me to do anything yet.”
“Have a good night, Sherlock. I will talk to you again soon.” Mycroft sighed, realising that the conversation was going to go nowhere from now on.
Mycroft ran his fingers through his auburn hair, trying not to think about it thinning out on the edges, and took a deep breath. He’d hoped that Sherlock focusing on something he wanted to study would keep him away from temptation, but it was sounding like he was once again spending time with the wrong crowd. And it was frustrating to him that his little brother was right: he didn’t have the power to force Sherlock to do anything, or manipulate the situation for Sherlock’s benefit. Maybe one day, he thought with a wistful tone.
