Various x Ftm Reader

Drunken Confession ||Mycroft Holmes||

CW: being called beautiful, mentions of vomit, dysphoria/self-doubt, slight angst 
Additional warning: drunk Mycroft kinda just acts like drunk Sherlock in this but a little more calm 

London passes you by in a series of fluorescent lights, and blurry faces—the headlights from the opposing traffic glare at you before they rip past, blazing their way into the night. The heat pouring in from the vents does well to warm you despite the cool air blowing in from the open windows. The man next to you insisted on having them rolled down, and it is another reminder that you don't know him as well as you thought you did, and that tonight wasn't going as planned. 

Normally when nights ended like this—in loud, sweaty bars where you could barely hear your own thoughts, let alone the voice of the person next to you trying to butter you up—you would be doing this for John and Sherlock. They would be babbling behind you, Sherlock occasionally shouting incorrect directions at you, or sometimes just calling your name to annoy you. On the odd occasion, they would go quiet, and you would look in the rearview to see John fast asleep, and Sherlock curled in on himself. You would cherish the silence until you heard Sherlock mutter "oh shit", and you remembered that Sherlock's silence was seldom a good sign when he wasn't on a case. 

The first time it happened, you ended up complaining to Mycroft over tea that you could still smell the vomit. You had done everything you could to get the stench out—you cleaned it numerous times, and even tried to mask the scent, but it had latched onto the car. Not one week later, that same man had arranged a new car for you. 

You still drove it, and now when his brother throws up in it, you get it cleaned out properly for a reduced price. 

That was how your life had been ever since he came into it—you complain about something, and he finds a way to fix it. You weren't sure why he did it—you knew why you wanted him to do it. Every time you are around him, you were painfully aware of your feelings for him—the involuntary affection you knew that he could surely pick up on, but that he never brought up. Of course, you knew that someone like him could never want someone like you. 

You didn't like to assume his attraction, but you knew that even if he was attracted to men, he wouldn't want you. Men like him didn't want men like you. It hurt to think about, so your heart distracted you by thinking about what it would feel like to hold him, to smell him, to have the scent of his cologne stuck in your sheets for weeks long after he's gone. Even now, you knew the smell of whisky and expensive cologne would cling to the interior of your car after he left. You knew that you would drive around with the windows up so that you could hold onto him for as long as possible. 

You didn't remember when he started drinking, or even when he showed up. One minute you were trying to make sure Sherlock didn't get into another bar fight, the next you were watching as he had a spat with Mycroft over who could tolerate alcohol better. In the end, you had to drive three people home instead of just two, and made the decision to drop off Sherlock on John first—not wanting a reply of the vomiting incident, and not wanting Mycroft telling you to pull the car over so that he could strangle his brother who was shouting at both of you.

But now you were alone with him in your car. And once again painfully obvious of your persistent feelings.

A deep humming pulled you from your thoughts.

You glanced over to see Mycroft leaning his head back against the headrest, his eyes closed.

"We're almost home, you just have to stay awake a little longer." You said, as much as you liked him, you didn't want to deal with someone drunk sleeping in your car.