Chapter Text
Mycroft wasn’t sure what brought the memory back.
Perhaps it was the sharp edge of hunger gnawing at his belly—deliberate, self-imposed. He often skipped dinner these days. Some mixture of control and punishment, discipline wrapped in denial. Lying flat on his back in the dark, the ceiling casting faint shadows from the security lights beyond the window, he felt the ache echo deeper than the body.
Whatever it was, the hunger, the silence, or simply age creeping up on him—it brought back his childhood.
He remembered you.
The neighbor.
He was twelve when you moved into the house next door.
Sherlock was five, all knees and tantrums, with a mop of black curls and a curiosity that bordered on violence. You were seven—grinning, scrappy, with missing front teeth and a pink bicycle you insisted was a "unicorn in disguise." Mycroft had been unimpressed from the moment you waved at him through the hedge like you’d known him in a past life. He didn’t believe in reincarnation. He barely believed in friendship.
Still, you persisted.
Within a week, you had declared that the Holmes boys would be your best friends, and it became your personal mission to break their impressive defenses. Sherlock was easy enough—distracted by your absurd games, amused by your insistence that the garden gnome was alive and needed rescuing. But Mycroft? No. Mycroft was another matter entirely.
He was chubby then—soft-faced and quiet, with a scowl too big for his small frame and trousers that never quite fit right. He was already speaking like a tiny bureaucrat, reading books far too advanced for his age, and brushing cake crumbs off his jumper with a guilty twitch every time someone entered the room.
That was how you caught him—alone in the backyard, crouched behind the lilac bush, shoving forkfuls of chocolate cake into his mouth from a plate he’d clearly stolen from the kitchen.
You gasped, appalled. “You didn’t share?”
Mycroft jumped, cheeks full, eyes wide. “Don’t tell.”
You smiled slowly, devilishly. “Play with me,” you said, “or I will.”
He refused, of course. Flat-out. With a primness that would become his trademark. Until you scrunched your face and drew in a breath as if to cry. That was all it took. Mycroft Holmes, eldest son, future titan of British intelligence, gave in to a seven-year-old terrorist with pigtails and no understanding of personal boundaries.
You made him play tea party. You were the wife. He was the husband. Your dolls were the children, all named some variation of "Princess Butterfly Sparkle," and he was expected to tuck them in, scold them, kiss them on the forehead. Mycroft had never known humiliation quite like it. But when the hour passed and no one called him inside, he realized something uncomfortable:
He didn’t hate it.
You called for him every day after that. Threw stones at his window. Once, you rigged a tin can telephone with string and dangled one end through the upstairs crack in his pane. He woke up to your voice crackling through it, detailing your plan to dig a tunnel to the candy shop.
Sherlock teased him mercilessly. “Mycroft’s got a wife,” he’d sing, until Mycroft threatened to replace all his bath toys with tax documents.
But the truth was this: Sherlock had Victor Trevor. He had birthday parties and admiration, games and a mother who smiled at him like sunlight. Mycroft had… books. Nannies. Obedience.
And then, he had you.
You gave him attention, ridiculous and unwanted and loud—but attention nonetheless. You remembered things. You noticed. You asked him questions that didn’t matter but made him feel like they did.
He told himself he didn’t care.
That he was above it. That he was superior. That your games were childish and your imagination unrefined.
And yet—
He still kept the tin can phone for weeks after you stopped using it.
He still looked out the window each afternoon, half-hoping for another stone to rattle the glass.
And then one day, you were gone.
He got home from school—tie askew, homework untouched in his bag—and the driveway next door was filled with boxes. The door was open. Your mother was arguing with the movers. A man in a corduroy coat loaded books into the boot of a car.
Mycroft froze at the garden gate, staring, heart hammering. He saw you then—your little face pressed to the back window, wide-eyed, looking out as the car began to roll away.
He ran.
He ran faster than he ever had in his life—down the pavement, arms flailing, lungs burning—but he was twelve, and slow, and the car was already turning the corner.
He called your name. Once. Loud. Frantic.
But you didn’t hear.
Or maybe you did—and looked away.
He stood in the street long after the car had disappeared, cheeks red, breath ragged, arms hanging limp at his sides. He hadn’t even said goodbye.
That night, he said nothing at dinner. Sherlock asked why his knees were scraped, and Mycroft shrugged. Their mother didn’t notice.
He returned to his room. Picked up the tin can phone still resting beside the curtain.
Listened.
Nothing.
No static. No whisper. No giggling voice telling him the gnome was lonely or that the dolls had gone to war.
Just silence.
And now, decades later, lying in bed in a flat too pristine to be lived in, in a body too tightly restrained to feel anything but sharp, deliberate hunger—he remembered that moment.
That ache in his ribs that had nothing to do with running.
That silence.
That scraped-knee longing he never named.
And for the first time in years, Mycroft Holmes closed his eyes… and allowed himself to miss you.
Were you alive?
Had you married?
These were not the sorts of questions Mycroft Holmes permitted himself. Not anymore. He had spent decades living in the clean, dry compartments of logic, swaddled in the comfort of distance. But now—here in the dark, the room quiet save for the dull hum of electricity in the walls—the questions pressed in.
He had never stopped to think about you. Not really. Not properly. You had been filed away, like a minor diplomatic incident or a misplaced surveillance report. A childhood anomaly. Irrelevant in the grand scheme.
Locked in a room in his Mind Palace.
And he had never opened the door until tonight.
It creaked now. Dusty hinges in the brain. That old memory—your bicycle, your grin, your grubby palms clutching a tin can phone—pushed against the space he had sealed off. And with it came a weight he could not dislodge.
His mind whispered that he had the resources now. If he wanted. If he dared. He could find you. Learn everything in under sixty seconds.
But Mycroft recoiled.
Government tools were not to be used for personal gain.
That had been a golden rule. He enforced it. Believed in it.
Until his mind countered with a single truth, clean and cold:
You already use them to protect Sherlock.
He closed his eyes.
That stung.
Because it was true—and more damningly, effective. He had broken rules before, bent them like reeds in the wind when it served his brother’s safety. This was… something smaller. Quieter.
Personal.
Still, his jaw tensed. The hunger in his belly had dulled to something else now—something worse. A quiet throb of curiosity. Longing. Guilt.
And so, with a quiet, resigned breath, Mycroft Holmes threw back the coverlet, placed his feet upon the cold floor, and reached for the slippers he never admitted to owning. He padded down the hall in silence, past the clock that ticked precisely five seconds ahead of the hour—just the way he liked it.
The office door opened with a whisper. A dark, windowless room lined with books and glowing screens, clean as an operating theatre. He sat at the terminal. Not his personal computer—the one. The secure console tied directly into every national database. Military, medical, educational, immigration, taxation.
All of it.
His fingers hovered over the keys.
He typed your name.
First and last.
Unremarkable. Common. Hundreds of entries.
Of course.
He began to narrow it down. A birth year—calculated quickly. Seven, when he was twelve. He filtered for the appropriate age bracket.
That eliminated a few dozen.
He added the last known address. Your childhood home. The one beside his. Cross-referenced any legal documentation that listed you as a resident there.
That narrowed it to twelve.
He sat back, expression unreadable, dark brows drawn slightly.
Twelve versions of you.
Married names, perhaps. Employment records. Social media cross-references (though he found that distasteful). Two of them were deceased. That left ten.
He filtered again.
Educational history. Only three had any schooling in Sussex, let alone in the postcode where you’d once lived. Of those three, only one had moved away the year he remembered—documents confirming a sudden relocation due to family separation. A divorce. Custody transfer.
He stared at the screen.
The name stared back.
You.
Still common. Still not conclusive. But… highly probable.
He clicked.
And your life unfolded before him in sterile lines of data: student records, travel logs, employment history. Nothing sensitive. Just… pieces. Movements. Residences. A career that surprised him—art conservation. You restored paintings. Of course you did. He allowed himself the faintest curl of the lip.
You had not married.
No children listed. No spouse.
But a flat. A modest one, in a quiet corner of London.
He sat there for a long time. Hands folded.
Then, slowly, he closed the file.
His throat was tight. He would never admit it aloud—not even under threat of death—but the knowledge soothed something in him. Not knowing where you were had felt, for years, like a misplaced document. An open loop. A broken seal on something fragile and buried.
Now, at least, he had… context.
Still, he did not linger.
He wiped the access log.
Encrypted the search in a maze of innocuous system pings.
Shut off the terminal.
But as he stood—tall, still sharp-edged, pale-faced and perfectly composed—there was a flicker behind his eyes. A spark.
And the faintest whisper of a question he dared not ask:
What would you say… if you saw him now?
Would you remember the boy with chocolate on his jumper and scraped knees?
Would you remember the tin can phone?
Mycroft Holmes returned to bed.
But he did not sleep.
It took him two weeks to come up with an excuse.
Two weeks of pacing his house after midnight, of ignoring half-finished reports, of shutting the file and opening it again with the compulsiveness of a man who should know better. He told himself it was all quite rational. Strategic. Efficient. The government had acquired a painting—damaged, rare, possibly of historical significance—and it required restoration before transfer to secure archives.
You were useful. That was the word he clung to. Useful. Qualified. A known name in a niche field. That made this visit justifiable. Necessary, even.
He could have sent Anthea. That would’ve been protocol. Professional distance. She would’ve handled the task in thirty minutes flat with a the tight, clinical smile she reserved for his more eccentric requests. But Mycroft argued with himself—quietly, insistently—that he needed to do it himself. The painting was important.
Important to what, he didn’t ask.
So that was how he found himself here: outside your studio, disguised in plain sight.
The building was unremarkable. Tucked into a side street in Clerkenwell, a narrow brass plaque beside the door bore your name and a smudge of white paint. The interior, when he stepped in, smelled of turpentine and varnish and something faintly floral. It hit him all at once—not just the scent, but the feeling of being inside something human, something warm. Sunlight filtered in through tall windows dusted with city grit, catching on floating specks of pigment.
There were canvases everywhere. Some mounted. Some leaning. Some stripped bare with the bones of old frames visible beneath linen. Jars of brushes and scalpel blades stood like soldiers at uneven attention along the windowsill. The entire space was cluttered with life and mess and colour. It looked nothing like his world.
Mycroft stepped forward, immaculate as ever—navy three-piece suit, dark umbrella in hand, polished shoes echoing softly against the wooden floorboards. He cleared his throat.
“Excuse me?” he called out, voice firm but even. “Is anyone in?”
He heard the rustle before he saw you.
And when you appeared from behind a hanging drop cloth—smudged cheek, paint-stained trousers, an old shirt half-buttoned over a tank top, hair pulled back in a messy knot with flecks of ochre on your temple—Mycroft froze.
You smiled at him. That same, familiar smile. Wide. Careless. That same absurd brightness in your eyes, as if the world had never quite gotten around to disappointing you. You looked older, of course. Grown. But not changed. Not really.
Not the way he had.
“Hi,” you said, cheerful. “Sorry—was halfway through a retouch and forgot what year it was. Can I help you?”
He stared, stiff as a statue.
You didn’t recognize him.
Of course not.
Gone was the boy with cake on his jumper and dirt on his knees. He was tall now, and thin, his face all sharp lines and hollow cheeks. His dark hair was meticulously groomed, parted and combed with the precision of someone who schedules haircuts three months in advance. His suit was expensive, his posture ramrod straight, his entire body locked in a vice of control. His complexion was still pale, but now in the way of someone who rarely sees the sun, not someone who hides in libraries out of shame.
You tilted your head, waiting.
He opened his mouth.
Paused.
And gave a name that was not his own.
“Langford,” he said. The false surname rolled off his tongue like silk. “Michael Langford. I was told you might be available for a conservation commission.”
You extended your hand without hesitation, friendly, paint-speckled fingers reaching for his pristine, gloved one. “Michael Langford,” you repeated, smiling. “Well, nice to meet you.”
He took your hand carefully, as if you might break it. His grip was firm, but restrained—another layer of polish on a man made entirely of sharp edges and self-discipline.
“Funny,” you mused aloud, letting go, brushing a stray curl from your cheek with the back of your knuckle. “You remind me of someone.”
Mycroft stilled.
The air between you shifted almost imperceptibly. He kept his face neutral, but a flicker of panic lit behind his eyes. His breath paused.
“Someone from a long time ago, actually,” you added thoughtfully, tilting your head to study him again. “Not that you’d know him. My cousin. Also named Michael. Bit of a prick, actually.”
Mycroft blinked.
You grinned. “Carries an umbrella everywhere. Dresses like he’s afraid of sudden government hearings. Has that same 'stern headmaster' thing going on. You two could be twins.”
He inhaled slowly, silently. His shoulders, which had tightened in anticipation—bracing for recognition, revelation, maybe even a name—slumped just slightly. Not visibly. Not to anyone but himself. But to him, it felt like the whole room shifted an inch to the left.
“I see,” he said coolly. “Quite the coincidence.”
You gave a light laugh, completely oblivious. “It really is. Same name, same wardrobe, same tragically British air of repression.”
Mycroft’s jaw twitched.
“But,” you went on, placing one paint-streaked hand on your hip, “unlike my cousin, you have the decency to be charming. You even made an appointment.”
He gave you the barest hint of a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “I do pride myself on punctuality.”
You clicked your tongue. “Of course you do.”
Your eyes swept over him again, critical and amused. “I have to say, Mr Langford, you don’t exactly look like an art collector.”
“Oh?”
“You look like a politician.”
He flinched. Barely. But he flinched.
“I hate politicians,” you added lightly, with the tone of someone who had once lost a beloved library to austerity cuts.
“Rest assured,” he said, adjusting the cuff of his immaculate sleeve with deliberate calm, “I’m simply a bureaucrat. Glorified middleman.”
“Ah,” you teased. “The shadow behind the curtain. Even worse.”
He allowed the smallest of huffs to escape. “Shall we discuss the painting, then?”
You shrugged, already turning toward the rear of the studio. “Sure. Where is it?”
“In my car,” Mycroft replied.
You glanced over your shoulder, brow arched. “You didn’t bring it?”
“It’s rather large,” he said smoothly. “And fragile. I thought it best to confirm your availability before subjecting it to further movement.”
“Right. Sensible.” You paused at the door, keys in hand. “Sensible and uptight. You might be the most British man I’ve ever met.”
Mycroft followed you outside, silently tallying every unnecessary word, every unpredictable gesture, every minute you spent laughing and tossing off remarks like you hadn’t once been the single most terrifying seven-year-old to ever hold him hostage over cake.
He shouldn't be here.
It was foolish.
But God help him… he missed you.
And now he was walking beside you down the steps of your studio, his polished shoes clicking against the concrete as you unlocked the gate and motioned toward the street with an amused look on your face.
“So,” you said brightly. “Lead the way, Mr. Langford. Let’s see this great treasure of yours.”
Mycroft nodded once, steeling himself.
And walked toward the car.
Mycroft’s car was parked with surgical precision at the curb: a sleek, black Jaguar XJ, polished to an obsidian gleam that reflected the London overcast like a mirror. You slowed your pace beside him as you approached, brows lifting in mild surprise.
“Well, well,” you murmured, eyes tracing the graceful lines of the car’s body. “Not bad for a bureaucrat.”
Mycroft's expression didn’t shift, but there was a faint flicker in his pale eyes—something caught between amusement and caution. “You’re familiar with automobiles?”
You gave him a sideways glance, lips quirking. “Granddad was a mechanic. Taught me to change oil before I could spell ‘carburetor.’ He used to take me to classic car shows, let me crawl under the old Jaguars and Austins while my cousins screamed about grease stains.” You ran a finger along the elegant curve of the bonnet. “This one’s newer, obviously—but it’s got that same soul. Long lines, quiet engine, unnecessarily dramatic. You don’t just drive this kind of car. You arrive in it.”
Mycroft allowed himself a tight nod. “It serves its purpose.”
You grinned. “Yeah. That purpose being to tell the world you earn more in a month than I do in a year.”
His lips twitched ever so slightly, but before he could respond, the passenger door opened.
Out stepped a woman—tall, willowy, poised. Sleek coat, tablet in hand, immaculate posture. She moved like a swan—graceful, purposeful, utterly unbothered by the world around her. Behind her, the driver waited by the curb, hands folded neatly behind his back, wearing an expression of disinterest that was almost certainly rehearsed.
You blinked.
“Wow,” you said under your breath, then turned to the woman with a cheerful smile and extended your hand. “And you must be Mrs. Langford. Pleasure to—”
“She’s not my wife,” Mycroft cut in, a little too quickly.
You froze mid-handshake, blinking once.
The woman arched a brow but said nothing.
“She’s my assistant,” Mycroft added, cool and clipped.
You turned slowly, fixing him with a look that hovered between suspicion and delight. “Your assistant, huh?”
Mycroft’s brow twitched. “Yes.”
You tilted your head. “Who rides around with their assistant and a personal driver?”
“A man with an overburdened schedule,” he replied smoothly.
You looked back at the car. Then the assistant. Then the driver. Then at him.
And whistled. “Damn. I really should’ve gone into bureaucracy.”
Mycroft didn’t respond. His face remained perfectly still—composed, unreadable—but his ears had flushed faintly pink.
You smirked. “Tell me something, Mr. Langford. Do all middlemen have state-funded chauffeurs, or are you just particularly important?”
Mycroft adjusted his gloves with exquisite care. “I find it... helpful to optimize travel time.”
You leaned in slightly, teasing. “Translation: you hate traffic and being late.”
His mouth twitched. “Something like that.”
The assistant cleared her throat—just enough to remind them both she was still there.
You straightened, offering her a polite nod. “Sorry. I’m annoying when I’m curious.”
She gave you a tight smile. “No trouble at all.”
You turned back to Mycroft as he opened the boot, revealing the carefully crated painting. The moment shifted—professional now. You stepped forward, eyes scanning the edges of the frame, fingers gentle as you examined the cushioning.
“I’ll need to bring it inside,” you said thoughtfully, already half-lost in your inspection. “Temperature’s a little unstable out here. Shouldn’t be a problem.”
“I presumed as much,” Mycroft said, already pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves from a hidden compartment inside the case. “I’ve brought the documentation as well. Provenance, prior storage conditions, and a high-resolution scan of its last verified state.”
You blinked, looking up at him. “You don’t just look like a man who alphabetizes his spice rack, do you?”
Mycroft inclined his head. “It would be inefficient to do otherwise.”
You bit back a laugh.
You gestured casually to the crate. “I’ll take it inside, make the estimate, and send it to you by phone. Shouldn’t take more than a day or two.”
Mycroft gave a crisp nod, but before he could retrieve a card or recite a secure line, you pulled your mobile from your pocket—an older model, well-loved and utterly battered. You handed it to him without hesitation.
“Type in your number,” you said, eyes still focused on the crate as you circled it again. “Don’t worry, I won’t sell it to scammers. Probably.”
Mycroft took the device with a subtle lift of one eyebrow, saying nothing as he examined it. The screen was scratched—deeply. Not from one accident, but many. The glass bore the dull matte finish of having spent years sliding across workbenches, counters, perhaps the occasional pavement. There was even a chip at the top-left corner, dangerously close to the front-facing camera.
He didn’t say a word about it.
But he noticed.
You hadn’t been careful with it. Or rather—you hadn’t had the luxury of being careful. You were busy. You lived hard. Messily. You hadn’t changed.
Mycroft’s gloved fingers hovered above the cracked screen, then slowly typed out a number.
Not the secure line.
Not the switchboard.
Not the standard redirection node through Whitehall.
His personal number.
The only one Sherlock had.
The only one Anthea used without being prompted.
He paused after typing it. Watched the digits on the screen with an expression that betrayed just the smallest flicker of conflict.
Then he pressed save.
“Here,” he said, returning the device with careful precision, as though it might crumble in his hand. “You’ll find it under M. Langford.”
You glanced at the contact. “No emoji?”
He blinked, perplexed. “…Should there be?”
You smirked. “You strike me as a black umbrella emoji kind of guy. Mysterious. Stormy. Secret agent vibes.”
He gave you a look—flat, dignified. “I’m afraid I must decline the emoji.”
You grinned. “Tragic.”
You turned back toward the studio and carefully lifted one end of the crate, waving a hand dismissively behind you. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it. Thanks for the delivery, Mr. Langford. I’ll message you when I have the quote.”
And just like that, you disappeared inside.
The door clicked shut behind you.
Mycroft stood still on the pavement for a moment longer, the faintest crease between his brows. The air felt different now. Emptied of your presence, yet oddly full of static.
He turned back toward the car with a measured exhale.
Anthea was already standing beside it, tablet in one hand, a brow lifted in cool expectation.
She didn’t look up as she spoke.
“Langford?”
Mycroft’s jaw tightened.
“Don’t,” he said sharply.
Anthea finally looked at him, expression utterly unreadable. “Of all the cover names, sir. Langford?”
“She didn’t recognize me.”
“She could have.”
“She didn’t.”
Anthea said nothing.
Mycroft adjusted the cuff of his jacket with sharp precision. “The name was... strategically appropriate.”
“Emotionally indulgent,” Anthea countered quietly.
He turned a slow, deliberate look on her. “Are you offering a professional critique, or a personal one?”
Anthea held his gaze for a beat. Then lowered her eyes to the tablet.
“I’m updating the route,” she said neutrally. “Shall I factor in a detour for regret?”
Mycroft gave her a withering glare. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“I haven’t had lunch,” Anthea replied, unbothered. “This is my substitute.”
He sighed, low and tired, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Schedule a follow-up in five days. No earlier. No reference to previous contact. I’ll determine whether the quote warrants review in person.”
Anthea typed without looking up. “Of course.”
Mycroft paused, one foot on the car’s step, eyes flicking back toward the studio door.
He said nothing.
Just stared for a moment too long.
Then, with a sharp motion, he climbed into the backseat, the door closing behind him with a muted click.
The car pulled away.
But he didn’t look forward.
He kept watching the studio through the back window.
Until it vanished behind the corner.
Later that night, Mycroft stood in front of the mirror, the light above the sink humming with soft, sterile efficiency. He had not bothered with his usual night-time rituals—no lavender eye cream, no herbal tonic, no rearranging of the cufflinks on his valet tray. Instead, he had wandered out of the shower, towel-dried and silent, moving on instinct alone.
He stared at his own reflection. Blank. Barefoot. Dressed in navy silk pajama bottoms and a matching button-up shirt, the cuffs slightly too long where they hung over his wrists. His hair was damp, pressed flat. His face, as ever, gave nothing away.
Slowly, with a kind of quiet reluctance, he lifted the hem of the shirt.
His pale stomach met the mirror’s gaze.
It was flat now. Trim. Disciplined. Not soft like it had once been. No leftover roundness at the edges, no fold at the waistband when he sat. His body was a project long completed—reshaped and rewritten through years of private gym sessions, strategic fasting, and a militant aversion to second helpings.
He looked at it.
Then looked away.
You hadn’t recognized him.
Not even a flicker of doubt in your eyes. Not a pause. Not a breath caught in the throat. Not a name that almost slipped. Just polite professionalism, mild curiosity, and a handful of well-placed jokes.
And why would you?
He looked nothing like the boy you’d known. No more baby fat. No braces. No stupid hair that curled at the ears in humid weather. His voice no longer cracked when he got flustered. He hadn’t laughed without restraint in over twenty years.
Still—he had hoped.
Hoped for… something.
Recognition. A smile. The gasp of your name on your lips. Something that would undo the years and make it feel as though he hadn’t buried you in some locked room of his memory just to survive.
Instead, he stood here, in front of a mirror he barely looked into anymore, wondering not when he had changed, but why it mattered that you hadn’t noticed.
Was it the weight?
The lack of softness?
Had you liked him better when he was less polished? More awkward? When he had chocolate on his sleeves and no idea how to respond when someone held his hand?
Or—more damning still—had he simply not mattered that much to you in the first place?
A neighbor. A playmate. A means to cake.
Mycroft lowered the hem of his shirt, smoothing it with the edge of his palm, and turned from the mirror.
But the ache remained.
A strange, dull burn beneath the ribs—something he had trained himself to ignore in adulthood, but which had grown louder lately. Since you.
He sat on the edge of the bed, stiff-backed, the room dim and cavernous around him. No music played. No telly hummed. Only the faint ticking of the fast-forwarded clock in the next room. Five seconds ahead. Just the way he liked it.
Still, the quiet pressed in.
And then—suddenly—he was there again.
In his Mind Palace.
Age twelve.
The light was different here. Summer-yellow. Dappled through leaves. The air smelled like grass and lilac and dirt—real dirt, the kind that gets under fingernails and stains the knees of too-short trousers. Mycroft lay flat on his back, arms crossed beneath his head, the ground warm beneath his shoulder blades.
Beside him, you.
Seven, wild-haired, dirt-smeared, eyes squinting up at the clouds with a fierce kind of determination. A stick—excuse him, wand—lay abandoned near your elbow. Your cheeks were flushed from running. A scrape bloomed bright red on your knee.
“There,” you said, pointing up. “That one’s a dragon.”
Mycroft followed your finger.
“It’s not,” he said. “It’s a cumulonimbus. Precipitation imminent.”
You groaned. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m accurate.”
“You’re boring.”
“You’re making things up.”
“That’s the whole point of clouds, Mycroft. They’re meant to be things.”
He frowned at the sky, unimpressed. “They’re meant to be weather patterns.”
You rolled onto your side, poked him hard in the ribs. “You’re just scared to say what you want them to be.”
He didn’t answer. Not right away.
Because you were right.
And that irritated him more than anything.
But before he could formulate a response—before he could counter with something cutting and well-practiced—there came a whoop.
Loud.
Too loud.
Then a second.
And a shout of “Prepare to be boarded!”
Mycroft sat up sharply just in time to see Sherlock sprinting across the lawn, a mop tied around his head like a bandana, one arm flailing wildly. Behind him came Victor Trevor with a garbage bag slung over one shoulder and a gleam of pure chaos in his eyes.
They had water balloons.
You screamed.
Mycroft barely had time to roll to the side before a splash exploded on the grass where his head had been.
You didn’t run away.
Not immediately.
You charged.
“TRAITORS!” you yelled, launching yourself at the bucket you’d spotted behind Victor, scooping up a balloon and hurling it with shocking accuracy. It smacked Sherlock right in the ear. He shrieked and fled, shrill with laughter.
Victor ducked. “She’s unhinged!”
“She’s winning!” you shouted, grabbing another.
“Retreat!” Sherlock screamed. “The goblin queen is too powerful!”
“YOU WISH I WAS A GOBLIN!”
Mycroft just stood there, stunned, watching as the entire backyard turned into a battlefield of shrieks, slaps of water, and unrelenting chaos. His shirt was damp. His book had been soaked. His carefully mapped afternoon had been ruined.
And yet—
He found himself ducking behind the lilac bush again, tugging you down with him as Sherlock regrouped near the shed.
Your hair was wet, clinging to your forehead. Your eyes were alight. Your hand still clutched a balloon like a grenade.
“We’ll flank them,” you whispered, serious. “You go left. I go right. Steal the whole stash.”
“That’s idiotic,” Mycroft hissed. “They’ll see us.”
“They’re pirates, Myc. They’re overconfident. That’s our advantage.”
He blinked.
You gave him a sharp grin.
And before he could protest further—you were off again. Darting across the grass like a soldier in a miniature war, shrieking with laughter, arms full of stolen ammunition.
He remembered the sun on your cheeks. The thrill in your voice.
The way, when you finally slipped and fell in the grass—clothes soaked, palms scraped, knees filthy—you had laughed.
Laughed until you couldn’t breathe.
And Mycroft had stared.
Utterly helpless.
Utterly yours.
The memory dissolved as quickly as it had come.
He returned to the present.
The silence.
The silk shirt against his skin.
The cold floor under his bare feet.
But his chest was still warm.
Still aching.
Still full of clouds and dragons and tin-can phones that would never ring again.
He lay down in the dark without turning off the lamp.
And this time, when he closed his eyes—
He let himself remember.
You looked at the address scribbled on the scrap of paper, your heart thudding harder than it had any right to.
221B Baker Street.
It sounded made up. Like something from a detective novel. But the blog had been real—The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson—and you’d spent nearly two hours reading through the posts with growing fascination. It had started as curiosity. A random rabbit hole. You weren’t sure what drew you in. The name, maybe. Sherlock Holmes. It had leapt off the screen like a stone skipping backward in time.
You remembered him. Of course you did.
Scrappy, sharp-tongued, eternally filthy, and always running. Mycroft’s little brother, all teeth and mop curls and an obsession with magnifying glasses and frogs. You hadn’t seen him since you were seven. But when you saw that name again—Sherlock Holmes—paired with the most outlandish collection of crime-solving exploits, your breath caught.
So you wrote the address down.
You told yourself it was nothing. A passing curiosity. A walk through old memory lanes.
But by the time you reached the black front door and knocked, your fingers were trembling.
It opened with a cheerful creak.
An older woman with a kind face peeked out from behind the door, her cardigan covered in a dusting of flour.
“Oh, hello there,” she said brightly.
You smiled, nervous. “Hi. I—um. I was wondering if Sherlock Holmes lives here? I’m an old… friend.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh! He does, yes. I'm Mrs. Hudson—his landlady, though I try not to use that word. Come in, love.”
The flat smelled like tea and books and something faintly acidic—maybe the ghost of an old chemistry experiment. You stepped into a room that looked like a hurricane of paperwork and antique furniture had passed through it. Bullet holes in the wall. Skulls on the mantle. A strange bee-shaped teapot.
And then—
A tall man in a sharp coat, curls barely tamed, turned at the sound of the door.
“Yes, what is it now—”
His eyes landed on you. Blue, sharp, assessing.
You smiled, cautiously hopeful. “Hello, Sherlock.”
He frowned, hard. Blinked.
Nothing.
“…Do I know you?”
You chuckled gently, lifting a brow. “Well. You used to throw mud at me. So I’d say yes.”
He tilted his head like a crow considering a puzzle.
Mrs. Hudson gasped. “Oh! A childhood friend?”
Sherlock's frown deepened. “I didn’t have any of those.”
You laughed. “No offense taken. You were five. I doubt you remember the neighbor girl with the pink bicycle and a war plan involving garden gnomes.”
He blinked. “You’re the gnome terrorist?”
You grinned. “And you’re the frog smuggler.”
There was a beat.
“…Huh,” Sherlock said, finally.
A man seated nearby, previously quiet, straightened with interest. You hadn't noticed him—average height, sandy hair, jumper and jeans. Eyes like a soldier. Kind.
“I’m John,” he offered, extending a hand. “Watson.”
You shook it warmly. “Nice to meet you. I was mostly curious. I found the blog, saw his name—and it pulled something from the past. I hadn’t thought about this place in years.”
John tilted his head. “Wait. You grew up with Sherlock?”
You laughed. “Not quite with him. Next door. He was more of a chaos gremlin. But Mycroft… we spent more time together.”
Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “Pity.”
Your breath caught. “How is he? Mycroft, I mean.”
Sherlock shrugged with casual disdain. “Dreadfully alive.”
You gave him a look.
He sighed. “He’s fine. Busy ruling the world. I’ll let him know you stopped by.”
You smiled. “Would you? Just tell him I said hello. He might not even remember me, but… I remembered him.”
You scribbled your number on a scrap of paper and handed it to John.
“Lovely meeting you both. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” you called as you slipped your coat back on.
And just like that, you were gone.
Sherlock stared after you for a long moment.
John leaned in. “You really don’t remember her?”
“I remember a pink bicycle,” Sherlock muttered. “And shrieking.”
“That's probably her.”
Sherlock glanced at the note in his hand, considered it, then pulled out his phone.
He dialed a number from memory.
It rang once.
“Mycroft Holmes,” came the cool, disembodied voice.
“She came here,” Sherlock said flatly.
There was a pause.
“…Who?”
“Your childhood trauma,” Sherlock replied. “Apparently you had a friend once.”
Mycroft didn’t answer. But the silence said plenty.
“She asked about you,” Sherlock added. “Left her number. Wants to see you.”
Another pause.
Then: “I’ll handle it.”
Click.
Sherlock stared at the phone, shrugged, and returned to his laptop.
Mycroft contacted you that afternoon.
Not as Michael Langford. Not as the bureaucratic mystery man with an umbrella and a half-smile. But as himself.
The text was brief. Precise.
“This is Mycroft Holmes. I understand you visited Baker Street. I’d like to see you.
Tomorrow, 4 PM. The Wallace Collection. Courtyard café. – MH”
No emoji.
Of course.
Your stomach flipped.
Not because of nerves (though maybe, a little), but because the name alone struck something deep. Something that hadn’t stirred in years—buried under the hum of adult responsibilities and rent and grotty tube rides and overdue deadlines.
Mycroft.
Your childhood partner-in-crime-suppression. Your tea party husband. The boy with a cake addiction and the most tragically stern frown you’d ever seen.
You smiled at the message like an idiot.
And replied, simply:
“I’ll be there.”
But Mycroft didn’t show.
At least, not the way you expected.
He arrived early, of course—invisible. Not physically, but effectively. Hidden.
Unseen.
From his tinted car window across the street, Mycroft watched the entrance to the Wallace Collection’s café with surgical precision. His jaw was set, his umbrella resting against his knee. He wore a charcoal suit today—sharper than usual—paired with a coat that whispered detached elegance and a navy tie knotted to strangulation-level tightness.
He looked immaculate.
He felt ill.
The decision had been made hours ago.
He couldn’t face you.
Not yet.
So he did what he always did when emotion threatened reason: he compartmentalized.
He deployed a stand-in.
The agent’s name was Fuller.
Chubby, soft-cheeked, polite to a fault. A low-level field analyst whose demeanor landed somewhere between overworked accountant and confused bear cub. Fuller bore a passing resemblance to the boy you’d known—round face, gentle eyes, a sort of anxious charm that made him less threatening than most of Mycroft’s usual operatives.
He’d be perfect.
Harmless. Forgettable.
Or so Mycroft assumed.
He hadn’t accounted for you.
You were already seated when Fuller arrived—curled in the shade, sipping something iced, your eyes scanning the surrounding courtyard with the half-distracted air of someone who hadn’t yet decided whether they were nervous or excited.
When you saw him—saw Fuller—you lit up.
Lit up.
“Mycroft!” you gasped, leaping to your feet so suddenly your chair skidded.
Fuller froze.
You didn’t.
You launched yourself across the space like a caffeinated lemur and threw your arms around him, clinging with the unfiltered affection of someone who’d waited decades for this moment.
“Mycroft Holmes, you absolute bastard! You haven’t changed a bit!”
Fuller made a noise like a crushed accordion.
In the car, Mycroft blinked once. His hand went to his earpiece.
“…Did she just jump on him?”
Anthea, seated beside him with her tablet, didn’t look up. “Indeed.”
“She… accepts him? That quickly?”
“You underestimate your childhood impact,” she replied, not quite smiling.
You pulled back, hands still on Fuller’s shoulders, inspecting his startled face like a beloved artifact. “I can’t believe it. Same cheeks. Same glower. Same weird gentleman smell.” You sniffed. “God, what is that—bergamot and guilt?”
“Uhm…” Fuller said weakly.
“I missed you,” you breathed.
Then, as if remembering something urgently, you reached into your pocket.
“Look!”
You pulled out a battered, scratched little keychain—a cheap, plastic thing in the shape of a Union Jack with a missing corner and faded letters.
“You gave me this when I ‘married’ you at the tea party. Said it was my dowry. I carried it around like it was jewelry. Look! I kept it. All this time.”
Fuller stared at it like it might explode.
In the car, Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line. “That… wasn’t a dowry. It was a promotional keyring from the 1987 Parliamentary Educational Fair.”
Anthea scrolled silently. “She’s repurposed the memory. That’s rather sweet.”
“She’s clinging to him like a koala.”
“She missed you.”
“She missed him.”
“She thinks he’s you,” she replied calmly.
Mycroft said nothing.
You tugged Fuller toward the café table. “Sit. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or a deduction.”
He stumbled into the chair, sweating slightly.
“Let me guess,” you said brightly, stirring your drink. “You got even smarter. Became the shadowy ruler of Britain. You’re probably married to your job and still refuse to eat birthday cake.”
Sheepishly, Fuller attempted a smile. “Uh… yes?”
You beamed. “Knew it.”
Mycroft, from the car, exhaled. He should have felt relieved. It was going better than expected. You were happy. You hadn’t questioned a thing. The stand-in was working.
But…
He couldn’t stop watching.
Couldn’t stop seeing how your fingers curled around your drink like they always had—clumsily, wrist bent. How your laugh hadn’t changed in pitch or cadence. How you talked with your whole body, still, even after all these years. And how someone else was sitting across from you, absorbing all of that warmth that had once been his.
“End it,” he said suddenly.
Anthea looked up. “Sir?”
“End it. He’ll say he has to leave. Emergency meeting. Whatever it takes.”
Anthea tapped her screen once. In the café, Fuller’s phone buzzed.
You saw the expression on his face change.
“Oh no,” you said softly. “Work?”
Fuller nodded, rising reluctantly. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cut this short. I’ve just been… summoned.”
You stood too. “It’s alright. I’m used to Holmeses disappearing on me.”
He paused. “It was really… good to see you again.”
You smiled.
Then reached up and kissed his cheek.
A soft, nostalgic press of lips against skin that wasn’t his.
“Don’t wait another twenty years this time, yeah?”
Fuller nodded.
And left.
Mycroft sat in the dark of the car, unmoving.
Anthea didn’t speak.
Eventually, he broke the silence.
“…She brought the keychain.”
Anthea blinked. “Yes.”
He stared out the window.
“She thought he was me. And she… wasn’t disappointed.”
“No,” Anthea said gently. “She wasn’t.”
A long silence followed.
Then:
“Sir… are you going to tell her?”
Mycroft’s expression didn’t change.
But his voice, when it came, was quiet. Fragile, almost.
“…Not yet.”
And the car pulled away.