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Mycroft was tired of playing his brother's guardian. He had been tired of it many times before, but things had now truly reached a breaking point (certain days, he was almost ready to snap his umbrella in frustration). With the reliable Dr Watson no longer in the picture, Sherlock was particularly obnoxious, disorderly and a general hazard to himself, as well as to his immediate environment.
There was only one solution: someone else needed to take the reins and the mental load.
That perfect someone: a female partner/companion for Sherlock (he would not deign to use the term ‘girlfriend’, much too plebeian). Someone who could mother (or perhaps big sister) Sherlock, take care that he ate, run the practical side of things (groceries, clean clothes, mediate with Mrs Hudson when required, ensure a minimum of social life and a presence at family gatherings) and keep Sherlock’s more undesirable habits in check.
Women, after all, held the keys to unlocking life’s challenges. (As an intelligent man, he could recognise that they were so much better at it than men.)
Now, all that remained was to find the perfect candidate. Obviously, it had to be someone suitably intelligent and attractive to be acceptable for of his brother. However, the person in question also had to be pragmatic, not to put up with any nonsense, self-assured (not to be intimidated by his brother’s usual spiel) and, most of all, patient (for their own sake as well as for Mycroft’s).
It also had to be someone willing to commit to an asexual relationship (Sherlock was Aro/Ace after all), but women could be quite flexible, Mycroft had found.
As he was a modern man, equipped with up-to-date knowledge of the best modern tools, he set up a profile on an upscale dating website (“Successful Singles”): “Well-educated and intelligent man looking for a partner in life. Loves classical music, miscellaneous reading and odd facts. Works in a stressful, high-profile profession. Appearance: tall and handsome. Based in Central London. Serious enquiries only.”
Although a picture was not compulsory, he chose to include one, as it was better for attracting attention and thus getting eligible candidates. The picture was one from Sherlock’s more presentable moments, wearing a tuxedo at Dr Watson’s wedding. He took care to blur the picture from shoulders up (the face would be too recognisable and possibly attract the wrong sort of attention).
Over the following weeks, he proceeded to screen and interview numerous candidates (during a ‘first date’), acting as a stand-in for Sherlock, but all were disqualified for diverse reasons. One was too self-absorbed (dear lord, Sherlock was quite enough), another obsessed with sex, a third detested the violin.
He was beginning to realise that finding the suitable partner was going to be more difficult than he had foreseen. (Ah, the current dating market.)
When he had all but given up, against all odds, the perfect candidate appeared.
He set up a meeting at the chic bar where he had interviewed all the previous prospects. (He even wore his favourite suit to the rendezvous to make the best possible impression.)
She seemed somewhat amused by his three-pieced appearance, commenting that she had not thought that someone like him would resort to dating sites. (Predictably, she was under the misapprehension that he was looking for a partner for himself – he would need to clear that up if she was to proceed to the next phase of the selection process.)
While she was slightly smaller and more delicate than he had hoped for (Sherlock was quite tall, and his oversized ego could make him even more imposing), Mycroft found her utterly charming. She was witty, yet unassuming; empathetic, yet no doormat; calm and collected, yet positively scintillating. He was absolutely smitten – she was a true gem. It was a miracle that she was on the dating market (a sign of the abysmal stupidity of her fellow goldfish, no doubt).
He would later blame her lovely eyes for throwing his carefully crafted plan off course – he goes entirely off script and unconsciously draws his chair closer to hers, which in turn prompts her to delicately pose a dainty hand on his sleeve, her fingertips just grazing the skin of his wrist. The electric shock going through his arm makes him completely forget to ask her her position on asexuality. (God, she was flirting with him; he was surely blushing like a schoolboy.)
At the inevitable, yet regrettable end of their delightful discussion, she looks into his eyes, “I don’t usually do this, but I would very much like to continue this night with you.”
It takes him longer than admissible to understand what she is proposing (he blames the whiskey).
She takes his stunned silence as a refusal: “Forgive me, you must think me too forward.”
“No, not at all,” he finally gets his brain back into gear to formulate a coherent reply. Normally, he would of course refuse, but it is not often (well, never really) that he gets a proposition from such a lovely prospect. “I would be delighted.”
There could be no harm in his ‘sampling the goods,’ so to speak – it was not as if Sherlock would care to enjoy them in any case.
At her suggestion, they head to her flat, passing through the quiet streets of London in his car. She asks him whether she may kiss him almost as soon as they get into the backseat of his car. He feels at first incredibly nervous, but the feeling quickly passes, replaced by a raging desire and keen anticipation. It all flows naturally from there on, and they spend the duration of the ride kissing increasingly passionately.
The night at her place is just lovely, with only some inevitable awkwardness inherent in first encounters. He delights in the invitation to let his hands roam all over her form (he had much admired it at the bar), and she does the same with surprising enthusiasm (self-conscious, he knows that his physique is no match for Sherlock’s sculpted physique). His girth is objectively impressive though, and he enjoys her apparent admiration.
Waking up in her bed the following morning (alas, another error of judgment), his head is clearer, and he knows that he has mucked things up: she might have been left (definitely still is) under the impression that he is looking for a partner for himself. He has, however, confirmed that she is an eminently suitable candidate (except for that one minor point with regard to her views on asexual and aromantic relationships); he must therefore proceed according to the initial plan.
However, it all goes awry again when he’s making his getaway (regretfully kissing her goodbye).
At the door, (dressed only in a bedsheet,) she asks him whether she might see him again. Her eyes are so full of hope that he cannot bear to let her down, even gently, as he’d planned. “An afternoon tea this Saturday?” he proposes instead, and her eyes light up at the prospect.
That Saturday, he devours some delightful petit-fours in a quiet corner of The Savoy, though none as delightful as she. He also devours her later that night, in the privacy of his own bedroom. She spends the night, and on Sunday, he cooks her a home-made delicious breakfast. (She had even brought her toothbrush, very far-sighted of her). After breakfast, she devours him in return.
After that, they continue to meet regularly, but it takes him several months to fully admit defeat. It seems that she is not going to tire of him any time soon, and he certainly can recognise an extraordinary stroke of luck when he is met with one. (How novel, that such a lovely lady should be interested in him! It flatters his dented ego.)
Alas, there is something that he has been dreading: he must take her to meet Sherlock. After all, she had been hand-picked to be his brother’s future companion. He just hopes that seeing her fawn over Sherlock’s dazzling cheekbones and that distinct brand of superior charisma will not entirely break his heart.
At the six-month marker, he finally proposes that they should pay a visit to his brother and ask Sherlock join them for brunch. She is intrigued (it bodes ill). They ascend the stairs at 221B Baker Street to find his brother in the sitting room, pouring over something that looks like the remnants of cigarette ash, still in his dressing gown at 11 am. (Mycroft had naturally sent a message to inform that they would be coming by.)
Mycroft proceeds to greet his brother and politely present his companion. When Sherlock finally deigns to look up from his bits and bobs, an annoyed “Ah, it’s you, Mycroft” is all he gets in greeting. Then those dreaded cold eyes move on to scrutinise his partner (lady friend?).
His brother once again draws the entirely wrong conclusion (as is his unfortunate habit): “Good grief, she’s already in love with you – how positively disgusting,” wrinkling his aquiline nose and abruptly turning back to his occupations.
Mycroft can see that his companion is upset, and they leave shortly, Sherlock unsurprisingly refusing to join them for brunch.
Descending the stairs, Mycroft is feeling almost light-headed with relief: his lady does not seem in the least enamoured with his arrogant brother, no matter how dazzling his looks. (Thank god!) However, she is visibly upset. In the car, he tries to reassure her, apologises for his boorish brother, telling her that Sherlock often draws hasty and entirely wrong conclusions.
After some cajoling on his part, she finally meets into his eyes, looking uncharacteristically insecure: “Mycroft, I’m not upset that your asocial arsehole of a brother was wrong – I’m upset because he was right. I wanted to tell you myself, at the appropriate time.”
He is speechless, gaping at her in a surely very unflattering, goldfish-like manner.
He is still trying his hardest to formulate a coherent reply when she reassures him: “You do not need to say anything.”
But he does; he feels it might be the most important thing he has ever said. “I feel the same,” he finally settles on, which seems entirely too understated for such a momentous sentiment residing in his heart (he cares).
Her luminous smile is all the encouragement he needs to passionately embrace her. They finally decide to get a takeaway from the brunch place, as he desperately needs to worship her in a manner that would surely shock third-party observers.
She is way too good for his ungrateful brother in any case; Mycroft will just have to keep her all to himself.