Sherlock Imagines

Lonely My(MycroftxReader <shocker>)

"I'm not lonely, Sherlock!" Mycroft insisted after his little brother's grandeur display on 'why being different doesn't mean you've got to be lonely'. It was a ridiculous thought for Sherlock to have. Mycroft didn't care! He didn't need anyone! How could he be lonely when he didn't want company in the first place, hm? Just because he's alone, doesn't mean his lonely. Sherlock suddenly came forward, the ridiculous 'Icelandic sheep wool' hat rested promptly on his head.
"How would you know?" The tone was dark, deep, and almost threatening. Inside his head, Mycroft had to take a step back from the situation. Well, certainly he'd know! It is himself, after all. He didn't need company not to be lonely, he had work. A country to run. That was surely enough to keep his mind off such pathetic things as needing companionship... Right? It only took a second to straighten himself back out, but there was still a little shock value to the sudden incursion made by Sherlock's statement. He hadn't even realized Sherlock was no longer in his face, nor was he wearing the hat.
"Yes. Back to work, if you don't mind." That was all he could really say. The subject was one he never had reason to prepare for, the conflict seemed pointless to him. Though, Sherlock had always been so naïve. He would think that, wouldn't he?
"Good morning." He commented, still half-out of it as he passed Mrs. Hudson on his way out. He walked down the stairs, his usual finesse thrown out the window. He thought he had gotten over the comment, but he still wondered. Lonely? What did that even mean? Lonely, by definition, meant one was sad because one has no friends or company. Well, he certainly wasn't sad about it. That he could confirm, anyways. Emotions had always been tricky for him... was he sad? Was he lonely? No, most certainly not. So caught up in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed that he was already in the car, heading back to his office. Sherlock hadn't been lonely before John, but he certainly had been when he was without him. Maybe that's how it worked. He'd have to let someone in, in order to feel 'loneliness'. Further confirming that he was, in fact, not lonely. It made sense. It was logical, and precise. But why did he feel that, in a sense, he was completely and utterly wrong..?

~le time skip brought to you by my latest existential crises! Yay!.. I'm gonna write now... oh, okay, yeah, I know it's bad, but- no- b-bear with me, alright? Yeah, it's shoddy, but SHHH READ!~

It had been several days since Sherlock's proclamation of 'concern', and he was still lost. Sometimes, even if for a split second, he'd venture off and say he was lonely. But it made no sense. Why would he be lonely, how could he be? He eventually gave up, and just decided to ignore those thoughts, and similar ones. Mycroft couldn't remember a time when he actually wished for someone's company. Wasn't in his nature. But, try as he might to ignore it, the tickle of curiosity always got the best of him. In the lifetime he'd known Sherlock, he'd always been right. He was the smarter brother, after all. Yet, this innate inquisitiveness still bothered him. What if he just so happened to be wrong on this one? Then came the idea that it didn't matter if he was right or wrong, fact was, he didn't like people. Even if he did wish to expel this loneliness, and seek companionship, he couldn't. Whoever he spoke with to try and relieve it, would likely just end up with turning his brain to mush with pointless conversation. Almost as pointless as this conversational topic with Sherlock had been, so why dwell on it? The answer suddenly hit him like a  truck. The spotlights from said vehicle had blinded him before, but now he was be saddled with his answer. And, god, did it hurt.
Sherlock; was right. But so was he. Sherlock was right about Mycroft being lonely, but the more important factor in the game was the information Mycroft held. He'd always be lonely, because he was in a world of goldfish. Taking time out of his teeming schedule to make contact with another person was not only a waste of his precious time, but would physically pain him. He could barely stand the dull manner of speaking he had to do with other government officials, and they were bright enough to typically carry on a worthwhile conversation! He just didn't have the capability of interacting with a normal human being, and he was fine with that. Truly. Okay, only partially, but he'd have to make do with who he was and what he had, and that was all he really needed. His work was imperative, and of the utmost importance at all times. Intellectually, he was one of the smartest people many had ever known. He had decided; he didn't need any friends. He checked his watch for the umpteenth time today, glad it was finally time for him to retire home. It's true all these thoughts had been ever so slightly (meaning near completely) distracting him from his work, and that, in itself, was quite frustrating. The car was already awaiting him, patiently as ever, going home was ever so close, the comfort of his sofa, warm tea, and- His phone rang. Answering it with an annoyed huff, he quickly checked the contact name. Sherlock.
"I do hope we don't plan on making this a regular thing, brother mine." Mycroft forced a semi-pleasant greeting. He just wanted to go home, call it a day and eat cake. But, of course, Sherlock had other plans.
"I need the file on a woman by the name of y/n l/n." He had to be joking. If this was for John's little wedding, Mycroft would not be amused. Telling the driver to turn around and take him back to his office, Mycroft had to look through hard copies, seeing as your file had yet to be uploaded to the database. After finding it (ugh, legwork), he returned to his car to continue the call.
"And where should I be dropping this, brother dearest." As per usual, the word held venom as it slipped off Mycroft's tongue. This, to him, was an utter outrage.
"22 northumberland street." And with that, Sherlock hung up. No thank you or Goodbye, just click. Repeating the address to his driver, Mycroft sat back, frankly quite annoyed at Sherlock, yet curiosity growing. Going somewhere other than Baker Street meant it had nothing to do with John's wedding. Yet, information such as this for a case would be pointless. He didn't need to know the victim, he needed to notice details to lead him to the killer. But if he knew who the killer was, he wouldn't need a file. Noticing they had pulled up to the street, he immediately saw someone he recognized. Stepping out of the car, he put on a warm façade to great the Interpol Unit Chief.
"Ah, Miss Prentiss, how are you this fine afternoon?" Head of the London Interpol Office, Emily Prentiss was likely one of the most important people to keep pleased.
"I'm doing fine Mr. Holmes, enjoying watching your brother argue with Doctors Reid and l/n." She teased, pointing back at you and Reid, who were currently arguing with Sherlock.
"Ah, I see. That's why he requested her file." His lips were pursed in an annoyed line, while Emily just laughed. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Mycroft walked over to drag his brother out of the area, but immediately got pulled into the conversation.
"You are not working this case! We've been helping track this killer for two days! Scotland Yard's only interest in this case is for the arrest, they've no right to call on an amateur to contaminate the crime scene!" Reid had quickly gotten annoyed at the lack of sophistication the case had been handled with.
"If it took you two days, then obviously you need help, Doctor!" He sneered in response. What Mycroft instantly took notice of was your disinterest in the argument. While they kept going back and forth, you stayed silent, quietly examining the bones with flashing e/c eyes. Abruptly, you straightened out, a light smirk tugging at your lips.
"Hold on, Reid. He's right. We need all the help we can get." Your tone held venom waiting to be implanted, and they all stared in suspicion at what you were planning.
"Tell me, Mr. Holmes- is it?- What do you see?" You stared Sherlock down, who was suspicious to your plan. He looked over, not seeing much of anything, but it did seem there was a fine powder over the bones.
"There's a powder, likely from pollen-" You cut him off.
"Okay, that's great. But answer me one thing Mr. Holmes," you spat, stepping towards the 'detective' menacingly, "How many victims does our killer have?" Now, even Mycroft was curious. He lifted himself ever so slightly up, peeking at the bones laid out in the mostly empty hole. With your comment, it wasn't hard to connect the dots.
"That's impossible to tell! We only have one currently-"
"So far, we can tell there are at least twelve victims." The detective's eyes reexamined the bones in an attempt to see what you'd already figured out. Reid smiled quirkily to himself. He usually was so sweet and innocent, a puppy in every sense of the word, but right now, he was reveling in the detective's embarrassment and confusion.
"How?!" Sherlock finally demanded.
"It's obvious." You baited. Emily began getting annoyed, knowing Reid mustn't know either, or he would've just let it spill.
"Y/n!" She snapped, attracting everyone's attention, "Scotland Yard wants him on the case, you know as well as I do that everyone person counts. Now, explain to all of us who don't know, please?" Emily knew how you could be, and though she cared and greatly respected you, it was really easy to be annoyed by your antics.
"The bones." Mycroft mentioned, sending everyone into a muddled shock as they returned to look at you.
"He's right," you said looking him over, "Skull is clearly from a Caucasian female, yet the clavicle comes from someone of Asian decent. Right fibula says they were a male football, English of course, player, but the left shows no such signs, and points to a drug addict. Sacrum appears to have degenerative bone disease, and to be male. The only other bone to show such signs is the left femur, and comes from an African woman, not a Caucasian male. Most of these bones would have to come from different people. It's the only logical explanation." Mycroft found the display of intellectual brilliance quite refreshing. So many people in that day were idiots. Goldfish of the highest accord. But you; you were clearly different. He stayed to watch you, Sherlock, and Reid work on the case. Well, you work on the case while Sherlock and Reid argued. After a thorough examination, you seemed oddly agitated.
"Reid. We need to deliver the profile immediately." The row was quickly over between him and the other genius as he came to your side, examining what you'd been only seconds before. Emily was already off rounding up the officers. Minutes later they stood waiting, impatient to having two Americans solving their case for them.
"We're looking for a man, likely in his late 30s, to mid 40s. Highly intelligent, and with clear psychotic tendencies. This isn't his only dumping ground, actually- this isn't even a dumping ground. We believe he has military experience. Likely Afghanistan. Most likely was dishonorably discharged for getting a little too excited when it came to torturing. His friends and family would never suspect him. He's a master of controlling his urges. Do not apprehend this man alone, call for back up if you think you find someone who fits the profile. Right now, he's on a mission. Each one of his victims for a type, and if you try to stop him, there will be bloodshed."
You and Reid took turns speaking, telling them everything they needed to know about the man they were after. Mycroft watched with a very upset Sherlock. Something was... different, about you. It felt sort of like finding someone who could match him intellectually, and understand his reservation on interacting with the goldfish around them. He waited until after you were done to finally approach you, taking care to recognize Emily was there.
"Oh! Mycroft, this is y/n." Emily introduced, both of you nodding in an acknowledgement.
"Yes. Very impressive, recognizing the bones like that. So few take time to actually know anything of importance these days." You complimented, the unusual touch of sincerity in your voice showing your d friend.
"Well, I'm going to let you two talk, and get to know each other, then. Go wild." She left, immediately going to talk to Reid.
"I think I just found y/n's perfect match." Reid watched you both interact, looking at the obvious signs you both were displaying.
"I think you may just be on to something...
When's my turn?" He joked, both of them laughing as you and Mycroft talked and talked. This was definitely the start to something great.