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Congratulations! The sun had gotten into it's specified spot for this supposedly joyful twenty-four hours, which is intended to make you one with these positive, shining rays and have you feel as if you're the entire spotlight, glistening ever so effortlessly, as you're turning a year older than you once were. However, repetitive events such as this one could be especially tedious after a while, considering the ideology that you're obligated to have the best time of your life on this specific day, which occurs every single year, for the rest of your life til death approaches you, and you must force yourself to be glee for this day, as it's finally a day for you. Even though Victorian England was nothing but strenuous in the workforce for general society, your boss had granted you your dying wish; to slack off for the day. As you had opened your curtains after a few hours of being both mentally and physically entrapped in the darkness you had put onto yourself, you had realized this was nothing special of a day; the sun has a spot each year, and your birthday is only one of them. Your eyes had reflected the frozen, emotionless clouds that bestow your vision each day, wondering whenever the sunlight would open up as you wish you could with anybody.
Your friend of few years was the perfect man you could relate to and bond with, but ever since he had discovered one culprit of a complicated murder case, he had been void of everything but multiple voices, screaming in his ears to solve their cases per day, minute-by-minute, almost in fact you could synonym year-by-year to second-by-second. You understood his working conditions, and how there was no instance of a break when it had come to his capabilities, his mind was sharp like yours after all. In shorter terms, you felt alone. As you were very socially aware of his conditions, Sherlock Holmes was the only man you have talked to in a while, leaving you feel completely isolated. you stood in your small yet affordable homestead, caressing your back, as straight as an arrow, against your front door and you couldn't experience any emotion but the sorrowful feeling of helplessness. He was one of the only men that had understood you, even if his humor had contained insulting your clumsiness and young age, but he hadn't ever discriminated against your impoverished status; you too related in a way when it had come to financial distress. You had also, understood that he was a massive prankster and could poke at you in any possible way his deductions could plan him too, and you had turned your spiraling thoughts back to that feature of your friend when you felt a light bang on the door, your tears feeling as if they disappeared like a ghost.
"Hello my friend! seems as if you're not having the most pleasant afternoon?"
The delivery man had suspected, after seeing your unfortunate visage as on the day of your birthday. That was the unfortunate circumstance indeed, and you didn't ever deserve to feel so trapped and isolated, even if it's in your specially-owned residence. The man had slowly handed you a letter, embracing it with elegance, being persistent in making sure to give you any polite treatment, as the clothes you had decided to wear today were nothing but torn, the holes increasing with every second you had to extend any limb of yours. It was distressing to be seen in public like this as people of higher status had tended to ridicule your suffering, as they hadn't seemed to experience the sacrifices of hardship any waking day in their lives. You had slowly looked down upon the man's ironed glove, wondering how delicate the uniform must be when wearing it, imagining if you could ever possess anything like it if one unexpected day your circumstances begun to get better and you were paid respectfully at your workplace. Your ever-so-slightly, slow but steady, shaking hand had managed to grab the letter, being in contrast very swift and quick at the job. You begun to speak the first time today, as your mouth had felt the tiredness of the never-ending thoughts that your brain had been fixating on all day, and your voice spoke of elegance, almost like a perceived noble. You had perfect English after reading books from the local library as a child, and you had seen some orphans at the same location. You wondered what life was like for them now, and tried to feel grateful for where you were today.
"The day goes along, I suppose. I must admit, you look so happy for such a trek of a job. Would you mind coming in for some tea?" You had realized your water was boiling significantly. The man had chuckled and slightly nodded.
"Ah, I'm alright, I have to leave though. I suggest you direct your eyes to this letter, I have a gut feeling it's for something indeed special yeah?"
He said, still plastering that smile onto his face as he had taken his leave. Without saying your farewells, your eyes exchanged that. What a preserved young man, if only sons of nobles could be of the same use. You didn't realize just yet that this letter was indeed a courtesy from someone of high-ranking, even if not necessarily containing the blood of nobility.
You sat down slowly, embracing the biggest curiosity in life that you had today; a letter just for you on your special day, with an outstanding gentleman having suspicions of something bright happening, something that you could manage to look at with a bright smile on your face past all of the gloomy clouds that had viewed to be getting only darker and darker, losing its saturation in the process. Enough wasting time, you begun to think, you must read the note and see what the purpose of something so coincidental is! Your hands clenching tightly on the sides, you forgot about your boiling water once again as your eyes got locked on the words of the letter. Your eyes had paced steadily on the words as you felt your adrenaline begun to emerge;
"Hello, (y/n.) My apologies for writing to you so late, as I'm unsure of when this letter is going to be in your hands, but hopefully it arrives on your birth day. . . speaking of that, I wish you a very happy birth day. I apologize once more if you're busy, as I don't see why you could not be, you're quite the brilliant person to be around, your joyfulness being nothing more of contagious. I had wanted to inform you, if you have any spare time, that I'm looking forward to seeing you again, (y/n.) I've missed you truly, and I'd be pleased if we could catch up on our lives through some warm tea. If so, come to 221B Baker Street, which is where you go often, I know. I second my happy birth day wish, and desire that you come here, preferably at 4 in the afternoon. See you soon, greatest-case-scenario."
As you finished the letter, you felt some warmth inside of your chest, yet you were puzzled on why there was no signature below the invite. Perhaps he had forgot it, as you believed this must be Sherlock Holmes; you had never had many meetings with Doctor Watson or Misses Hudson, as you had only expressed a feeling of security and closeness around the Holmes brothers. You felt happy that Sherlock must be inviting you to his place for a day to catch up on your day of persistent spotlight, but your heart was still missing something more; you felt as if someone else, or different, was meant to be in Sherlock's place; surely, he was your closest friend, and you had always shared every detail with oneself to each other, and Sherlock has nothing but the brightest memory, so why would he need to catch up with you? Furthermore, the writing was formal, something unlike Sherlock's, as he was even unprofessional when working. You knew the man very well, regardless if it's been a couple months since you had last seen him anywhere else but the localized newspaper. He would never apologize for even his most significant, feckless mistakes or atrocities, and you believed for a second that it could be just a setup, as this wasn't the first time you were tricked by someone of the supposed superiority that your country wants you to be a subject of. Perhaps these uprising suspicions is what made you feel as if there was someone else behind the letter, as you knew that Sherlock would never write something like this unless he had smoked too many cigarettes and were out of his mind. . .
Nevertheless, you had decided to put on your fanciest clothes as your bare feet were unconsciously walking the rest of your body to your dilapidated wardrobe, and you had decided to put on the most formal-appearing outfit you possess, even so if you were anything but formal, and your bestest friend had been aware of that, it's not as if he couldn't relate to your circumstances, the only difference being you hopefully don't get whacked with a steel cooking pan whenever the money you've acquired isn't significant to live in your household, but at this moment, your visage was nothing but of somebody in a trance; you weren't thinking straight, and you didn't quite understand possibly why you would be putting on delicate, fragile clothing for someone you had known for so many countless years that your poor memory couldn't keep track, regardless of its sharpness. You had strapped upon yourself a nice bowtie you found resting near your cracked mirror, but with your sleeve erasing it's fog, it became clear that you looked nothing but brilliant, regardless of the tiny holes in your completely black, basic but rather bold trousers. As the mirror was fogging up again after that memorable glimpse of yourself, finally freshened up for something so little, your mind was in fact doing the exact opposite; like the delivery man, you were feeling yourself for once; you felt connected to your body, and you felt ready to venture. You closed the door behind you, keep in mind your water is still boiling like bloody hell... (I'm not being serious on that) You had also made sure to bring your wallet, even if a few coins were only inside of it; it seemed like a reasonable price to do something exciting with Sherlock possibly.
As the rain was making itself comfortable, preferably always in the city of London, you couldn't help but be angry that you weren't predicting that your gifted natural hair would turn out to be soaking wet by the time you were to arrive at Sherlock's estate. It was only a mile away, so you weren't anticipating that could would be an elongated trek, but you had begun to feel lethargic as your muddy shoes were beginning to stick onto the concrete with how compacted they had seemed to be, and absolutely no soul on this soil would enjoy being accompanied by that after meeting with suspiciously a friend perceived in such a high regard, now would it? You understood though that he doesn't bother to clean up his heinous messes as if a tornado corrupted his man-cave, so you had began to stop worrying. You had begun to shiver as the holes in your finest attire had failed to keep you warm in the freezing rain of London that could barely compare to a hailstorm.
Your low self-esteem had trusted you into believing that you were okay, and you had strived to proceed forward to 221B Baker Street until a gentle hand had been placed on your shoulder. As you slowly turned around, you were in pure shock that had felt like a wave of static electricity rushing through your body as you realized you were acknowledged by a nobleman. He had quite the differentiated hairstyle, his blonde locks looking like they had been raised to perfection, the pouring water from the sky seeming to compliment it. He appeared to be in his typical suit, undamaged by the umbrella he had been placing above your head. However, you were a tad-bit tardy to realize that as his eyes had captivated you like nobody else's; a bright, crimson red, matching the feelings of a flaming fire. His natural beauty weren't to distract you though, and your experience with noblemen had begun to make you feel nothing but shy around this intimidating man. He had slowly patted your shoulder and slightly smiled, still enough however to fill an entire room with joy. (My experience) His gaze hadn't wandered off, he still stared at you even if you were frightful back to him. You saw his eyes widen, as if he was eager to say something.
"I'm dearly sorry if I startled you! My name is William, formally known as William James Moriarty!"
He had said, talking in a cheerful tone. You had never seen nobody like the man before. You had anticipated that he was planning to move on with his speech, and so be it.
"From afar, you seemed to look a bit cold. Thankfully, I was returning to the streets after staring at the lovely displays from the local business-owners in the shops' windows today, it feels special in a way. Hm. . . I wonder what today could be?"
You could see a conscious change in his face, seemingly becoming aware that you weren't in the mood to converse as much as he was opening up an opportunity for you to do so. His smile didn't fade, but the realism of it appeared to grow more convincing once he had realized this. You felt comforted, knowing that he was not going to leave your side even if you were nothing but a mute commoner at this instance. He wasn't done, however, and begun to elaborate on his point;
"I was going to lend you my umbrella. As I shall be returning home to my brothers very shortly and my clothes are snug, I've decided that I don't necessarily need to have this over my head,"
He said, tipping his black and shiny top hat forward to cover his bangs more. The angle that the shadows had hit this man on was immaculate, and you wondered why he was so comforting yet intimidating at the same time. This was very random, after all.
You were scared to take the umbrella, as you thought it was so unpredictable that someone of high-status such as himself would offer something so useful to one covered in rips and tears. He insisted however, motioning his arm with the umbrella in hand, and you couldn't help but break your barrier and enforce a large smile on your face. He had chuckled a bit, seeing you so happy all of a sudden.
"I hope you enjoy it truly, before you thank me it's nothing but my pleasure to be helping you out in all these ways. . ."
You stared at him as he slowly walked away, his head turning towards yours, your eyes meeting with his saturated, scarlet ones for a secondary time. His mouth began to move a tiny bit, following the words below;
"Make sure to do something nice with him, he IS the government after all."
You were puzzled, but didn't think much of it, just appreciating the gratitude that that man had bestowed upon you. As your legs began to move faster now, your motivation uplifting, you could feel the clinking of coins. You had placed your hand in your pocket to dig out your wallet, and you were mysteriously left with more than you started with. A generous man indeed, you hoped you saw him again one day. You're not sure what Sherlock is up to, but he seems like the ideal man he would get along with.
You skipped happily now, the clouds seeming to disappear in the sky above, the rain beginning to slow down, the sun beaming on you lightly, even tho your mood could replace the light in the world itself, you felt as if your kindness could help anybody out after the nobleman by the name of William had helped you out so courageously. Sooner than your eyes were to deceive you, you were at 221B Baker Street's stairway, your eyes lightening up, excited to see the bestest friend you had always treasured, as you started to ponder on if he would truly push away cases temporarily for a day to welcome you, as this was technically your special day, and nonetheless even if it doesn't go the way you seem to perceive the situation, at least the sun never leaves, and it'll forever greet you with an undying promise of an uplift mood, every single year this were to happen.
Your heart began to skip beats as you had slowly pushed yourself to walk up the stairs, as you're massively unsure of why you feel so nervous. You were overthinking about how professional the letter sent to you had seemed, and your suspicions were overgrowing when you had realized the door was unlocked, and you were unconsciously stepping through the darkness of the narrow and short hallway, your footsteps echoing throughout the room. Whoever was waiting for you above the stairs you were now unknowingly thumping upon one-by-one must've heard you, as the building had given a huge trace of deafening silence. You were feeling a bit hot and uncomfortable, wondering if this were to be another sick prank that Sherlock was playing on you, as he loved to scare you out of nowhere. You had begun to caress the dusty railing of the stairs, and the fence that had followed it on the second floor. You weren't surprised that this dust was enough to make you cough, but you heard what you believed was a tiny chuckle from his lounge. With the dwindling candle you had lighten up from the candle downstairs, you were fearless; you desired to see what was truly happening, and you were tired of being ridiculed, especially not on your birthday!
You had creaked the door open, and your heart has felt as if it stopped altogether when you saw a flame swallowing the room whole, an orange tint covering the man sitting in the wooden, but unusually cushioned chair, his small cowlick, in similarity to your best friend's, being highlighted significantly, he was smiling with his teeth, but you could only see the front: he didn't seem to have much experience in the facial expression. It wasn't only the cowlick that had reminded you of London's greatest detective, no; he had shared his hair color as well, along with the same eyes that appeared to glitter like a filter had been put over them in subtle lighting. You also had observed that his hair was way shorter, and he had dark circles underneath his eyes.
He was smiling genuinely at you, crossing his legs underneath the table with something you had just laid your eyes on, as you were distracted by the main candle's light; all of these mini candles, placed precisely on the most decorative cake you have received in all of your years of birthdays, with your favorite color circulating it, which gave this cake the final touch. You couldn't believe your eyes as you had looked up at the man, and you began to slowly step forward, placing the melting candle that lay in your hand on Sherlock's sofa, knowing that this guy was familiar to a man you had met years ago unexpectedly when you were visiting Sherlock's, and you were ever so desiring to meet his gaze again after so much time; he didn't change at all, but your entire mood had. He had gestured that you were to sit down at once, as he seemed quite interested in talking to you. Ah, this all makes sense now; he wanted to catch up with you since you hadn't seen each other years ago, and you honestly felt the same. His humor, even if he's in such a serious position when it comes to the country, was immaculate in your view. It's as if Sherlock's you, and Mycroft was Sherlock; the teasing was similar in a way, and it was very entertaining when you were the audience. His hair was messier than usual, and he seemed as if he was trying to be unbothered by that fact as you scooted your chair in closer, enabling his hair to be more visible. It had been obvious that he was working endlessly to create quite a utopia of an entrance. Before you could get your thoughts straight, he had cracked his knuckles and began to speak.
"Oh dear, you have changed a lot since we last crossed paths, don't mind me breaking into my brother's estate while he's out solving some foolery, my friend."
Were his first words. You weren't exactly sure how to take this, but you were getting quite pink from the embarrassment of this entire incident; he clearly remembered it was your birthday, but how? He indeed is a brilliant man when it comes to his deduction skills and observations, but you didn't expect him to remember something of such importance to you after all of these years. You weren't taken aback though, once you processed what was occurring, your face had flushed at that beautiful cake he crafted for you and all of the generosity that was being sent your way today. Without much thought put into it, you decided to make a change to your lifestyle for just this moment in bliss; you had decided to let your feelings take over your speech. You smirked, letting out a little chuckle, being honored by all of this. You had leaned back in your chair, you seem to have gotten that habit from how much Sherlock had did it around you.
"Now, how am I supposed to take that?"
You teased, having a playful tone in your voice. He liked your sarcasm, and tried not to let out more chuckles; he didn't want to seem unprofessional, even in such a silly situation like this.
"Ah I see, you have a tone like my brother's. Don't take too much from him though, I wouldn't want you ruining yourself with drugs now."
He was kidding it seemed, but at the same time he sounded serious.
"Mycroft, stop the random thoughts, how have you been?"
You said, sounding cheerful, Mycroft leaned forward in his seat towards you, so unusual of him yet it had startled you as much it had startled your cheeks, already embracing a rosy-like appearance. You didn't know why you felt so nervous, but the nervousness almost felt comforting in the way. You had observed that unlike the nobleman you met on the street, you didn't only feel safe with the man you haven't seen in years, but you also felt a sense of security. Mycroft was no fool; he could see right through you as if you were only a reflection in his mirror. He smiled noticeably, knowing what you were experiencing before you even did. He had continued on the casual conversation.
"I have been doing well, supposedly. Much work to attend to of course, but I don't necessarily mind when its purpose is to your majesty,"
He had paused a bit, unsure of when to go on. You felt a tad bit awkward, as you knew hesitance was something you would never ever see typically. Was he alright perhaps? Was he in need of a refreshment? Before you could think straight again, he had continued.
"However, there is a matter that I must acknowledge, and it has to do with you, (y/n.)"
You were nothing but puzzled, non-admittedly. You saw him take a deep breath, you knew he was well regulated with his emotions.
"And that is?"
You said, unsure of what's to come.
"Even if life has been going along regularly, the same day feeling as if it's extending, like if the clock striking midnight never concludes it, as I'm in the state of experiencing nothing new, this lifestyle would rather be significant for my satisfaction. In simpler regards, you have been on my mind ever since we had met. Whenever you had visited Sherlock in his spare time, I had asked of him to tell me how it went and what activities were you guys participating in. (Y/n,) in improved terms, I'm ashamed to admit this. . . my reputation is unsuitable so. . ."
When his speech ended, you had noticed your heartbeat, and how it had increased, and you hadn't moved a single muscle in your chair as all of the flattering words hitting you like a tsunami could ever help your absolutely flustered self. You couldn't think straight anymore, your observations becoming abstract and illogical, as all your eyes were focused on were Mycroft's dazzling gaze, as his expression was rather calm compared to the emotions he had just shared with you. You weren't sure how to reply, and as Mycroft was getting up out of his chair, you couldn't resist but being in that paralyzed state of mind while he moves towards you, your eyes only following him.
"This isn't an easier way to say this, so I shall be more silent than loud when explaining my guilts. Ever since we had met, I couldn't picture my life the same anymore,"
He had explained, stepping closer to you minute by minute. You felt your heart hurting in a odd, pleasurable way. What was going on?
"I couldn't picture my life without you in it, (Y/n.) You felt as if you were the last piece of a complicated puzzle, yearning to take place in it, beholding a perfect photograph. You. . ."
You noticed he was at the right side of your chair, aware of the invisible ice block that was freezing you. Your face said it all, you appeared bright red, it was more than just embarrassment; your mind was attempting to tell you how you were enjoying his glazed words. He had kneeled beside the chair, facing you, considering he was much taller, (no offense,) and he was willing to accustom you at any cost.
"I believe. . . you're needed in my life. . ."
He didn't know how to communicate his feelings, and you knew it. If you could still understand what he was trying to elaborate on, you didn't mind. You listened to him carefully.
". . . for it to be ideal, (Y/n.)"
He said, his eye bags not being the main structure of his face anymore but rather his flushed cheeks, something you'd never expect to see in the man.
"I understand if it troubles you, I acknowledge that this sounds insane, My apolog—"
Before you could be socially aware of what you were doing, you had stopped him from talking, your body had thawed and you had placed a finger over his lips, wishing for his everlasting silence as you had something to tell him in return. Indeed, you agreed with him that it possibly sounded insane, but back when you were getting ready to visit Mycroft, you had felt as if there was a missing piece to the puzzle as well, as you were fastening your bowtie and carefully detailing your undershirt and trousers, making sure no controllable wrinkles were to be spotted in his presence. You knew that this weren't Sherlock that had written that letter, and had realized it could be none other than his older brother; the government in his flesh. You were in love with his writing style, and you had still remembered an hour ago how that letter was clutched to your chest, as you had breathed some what felt like fresh air when you received reassurance that he noticed you as much as you noticed and remembered him. You wanted to be his, and you in fact desired it more than you ever wanted a birthday in your life. No; you didn't only want to spend your birthday with him, but your entire life; you felt destined, you felt as if your worth was settled in the creasing palm of his hand. You had begun to speak, eliminating your stutter and becoming more confident than you ever had been since your childhood presumably, you had felt something you weren't experienced with, but you loved it.
"Maybe it is insane, Mr. Holmes, but I want you in my life as much as you do. . ."
You had gotten out of your chair, you could feel the butterflies in your stomach feeling as if it was equivalent to anxiousness, you could feel the sweat collect in every crease. You had went to the side of the chair he was kneeling upon, and had kneeled down the same as he, facing him while looking directly into his eyes. He was startled indeed, widening his eyes, as he was unsure of how you were going to perceive this situation but you were in fact acting in a romantic matter. You knew what your body wanted, so you had to fulfill it.
"You're sure of this, we could not let anybody know, I despise the idea of you being in danger."
He said, leaning in closer to you.
"I'm sure. . . I'd get assassinated for you if it ever comes to that, for your information. . . "
You claimed this in a breathy tone, waiting to just relax, something you hadn't felt since you became an adult. He had chuckled a bit while swiftly leaning against you, his arms beginning to cradle your backside, and all you could feel was the sensation and warmth of his hands ever so softly putting pressure between you and him. This had moved quite fast, but you were glad you had came, you were glad you have taken the risk of seeing your long-lost friend after so many years, and not having to hide the feelings that you once were horrified to express in front of the official before. You two didn't talk many words for a while, but the grip he had on you became tighter and tighter, and you had shown your gratitude by leaning your chin on his shoulder, your legs intertwined. You had never felt this secure in another's arms before, and you were enjoying it. You had kissed the back of his neck, but it was more of a little peck than anything else. He had rubbed his head against your hair, as he tried to show non-verbally that he believed your hair was void of anything but elegance and gorgeousness. You wanted this man to provide for you, even if he was busy indulging in his work all the time, you couldn't resist anything about him. He may seem serious, but you enjoyed that about him, you enjoyed knowing that unlike Sherlock you weren't likely to be fooled. You grabbed onto his hair, acting as if you were to use it for a pillow. It was an exaggeratedly warm situation both physically and mentally, but you two didn't mind. You two, in fact, enjoyed the company of each other more than anything. No words were able to leave your mouth except one common phrase, one that you never had felt the courage or duty to announce until this particular instant; you had to get these feelings distant from your chest, as he was cuddling you so gracefully you felt as if you were going to explode. You two had forgotten everything you were doing, as the candles dwindled altogether, and your wallet had left untouched. You didn't need money to feel happiness.
"I love you, Mycroft."
. . .
"I love you, too."