Work Text:
Anthea paused in front of a shoe display, tugging her fur coat tighter around her shoulders. She and Mycroft liked to walk down Oxford Street once a week and neither of them could go without pausing a few times to stare in windows at beautiful, expensive things. This display happened to be for one of the more upscale shoe stores. Designer and couture shoes displayed themselves in a flourish of color and cut, many one of a kind. Mycroft caught Anthea’s eyes lingering on a pair of champagne, strappy Guccis but his own eyes found themselves inevitably attracted to a pair of violet stilettos perched on the top right and paired with cream-and-pearl handbag. The heels were almost paper-thin—a strange illusion of balancing on the edges of knives—and they were closed toed, sharp and simple, but dangerous and stunning. He wasn’t one to wear women’s shoes and he really wasn’t one to have his incredibly attractive Detective Inspector of a boyfriend wear women’s shoes… which lead him to a pang of guilt and an ache that had never really completely vanished.
Dear god, Sherlock would look gorgeous in those shoes.
The man’s ankles were made for being seen and these violet beauties would do just that. Besides, despite Mycroft being naturally taller, the shoes would give Sherlock a nice little boost and hell, no one could deny that Sherlock’s confidence wasn’t sinfully indulgent. Even Mycroft couldn’t help but admire Sherlock’s vanity when he was at the top of his game—at the height of his beauty. It was a problem. It had always been a problem. It was good Sherlock would never feel the same way. It was good Mycroft had walked out long ago. It was good he’d hurt Sherlock enough to keep him from coming back. It was good, he kept telling himself.
Sherlock had John, now, and that was a precious gift that Mycroft could never give him. And Mycroft had Lestrade. The two couples were both perfectly harmonious—not meaning they never had tension, never had any rows or pain, but that their souls complimented each other perfectly. John completed Sherlock and Lestrade completed Mycroft. That was why it was good he’d hurt Sherlock, good Sherlock would never love him. It was good. Neither John nor Lestrade would understand.
It didn’t mean, however, Mycroft couldn’t send a gift. It wasn’t wrong to want to slip his brother beautiful things, was it? And god he did want to see Sherlock wear the shoes. There were enough cameras in the flat where he’d catch the man if he ever tried them on (and Mycroft knew he would… Sherlock fancied beautiful shoes).
Mycroft licked his lips and glanced at Anthea. She met his eyes and somehow, some god forsaken way, knew exactly that he needed an excuse to go inside.
“Sir, might we—”
“Do you want those shoes?” he asked Anthea. She nodded, so they ducked inside and Mycroft bought two pairs of shoes—the champagne ones for Anthea and the dangerous violet ones, which he arranged to be delivered to 221B Baker Street.