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Perhaps >> Mycroft Holmes X Reader

Title: Perhaps

Paring: Mycroft Holmes X Reader

Warnings: lonely!Mycroft, Author!Reader, fluff, mutual pining (aka, the trope we all live for)

Spoilers: NONE!

Author's Note: So I'd noticed there are a lot of fics out at the moment that have spoilers for season four, and as an Australian who has no way of watching it at the moment (to hell with the idea of signing up for an online TV subscription for actual money to see it!) I just wanted to write a fic with the good ol' Mycroft we know from S1-3 & the special episode. So. Yeah. I just wanted to share my favourite Sherlock character with you all with all I know: fluff fic with 4,000 + words. 

Enjoy!

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Everyone knew the name of _______ _______. It was the same sort of knowledge people had about the names of other people who were mildly famous. You weren't famous like David Bowie, or Maggie Smith. More like the local celebrity, who was known everywhere, but reasonably able to hide in plain sight like the rest of the population if around those who hadn't heard of you. As the first person in your family to rise above the poverty line -- finish your education, study to become something better than a dustbin collector -- you did all you could to help your community, make sure that the kids stayed in school, the adults kept out of trouble.

Not everyone thinks themselves to be the greatest person of all time; not everyone had an ego the size of the River Thames. But when you came across a young gentleman who was investigating a criminal case beside your little apartment with his friend Sherlock Holmes, you felt more embarrassed than flattered that he pulled out a freshly printed copy of your novel to sign.

"Goodness," you pull your glove off with your teeth, and taking the pen to the page, sign it for John's niece, a little punk named Melody who 'loved to play rough with the boys and read your book'. "This is a surprise. I never thought little old Mr. Finnegan was into hard drugs, let alone children into my novel," you blush.

John laughed, glancing to the dark-haired detective who was deeply investigating the exterior of the apartment door. "It's always like that, isn't it? I'm John Watson, and -,"

Your jaw felt slacken, "The John Watson? I'm a fan of your blog!" you grinned, and drew a little sunshine under the inscription for Melody Watson. "I, er, actually based one of my characters after you in the novel - uh, Abraxas Colt." From his position by the doormat, Sherlock Holmes cocked his head, his sharp eyes reading your every move. "In fact, he's a mixture of the two of you - humble and wicked smart." You grin, and feeling your phone vibrate in your coat pocket, a message from your cousin to meet up with. "I'm so sorry, I'm in a terrible rush. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Watson, Mr. Holmes," you nod, and take your leave upon the staircase.

Not everyone knew the name of Mycroft Holmes. And he was utterly glad for that. He was like a white blood cell, cleaning up around the body of the government, changing viruses' courses, so on and so forth. If the younger Holmes was anything to go by, if anyone made the connection between Mycroft and his brother, they should assume that they were brought up well, and had intelligence bestowed upon them greater than their needs or wants, or perhaps, nature. While Sherlock went around doing it for the public, showing off to the police and petty peoples, rivalling James Moriarty, he did it for the greater good, for Queen and country. And perhaps, a lovely retirement in twenty years, and comfortable living.