A/N: Hello! Just a general bit of semi-fluffiness that had to be written. Might become a bit of a series, might just be on its lonesome, we'll have to see. Genderbent!Mycroft, everyone else is their normal gender. And Mycroft here was born a lady.
Warnings: Implied former eating disorder, implied drug use, fleeting attraction to a silver fox police detective, intense chocolate cravings, sibling petulance, and Sherlock threatening various household objects.
Mycroft is in desperate need of a heaping slice of gooey, rich chocolate cake (possibly with caramel sauce drizzled over the top and a nice dollop of whipped cream. And a cherry). This is not the usual happenstance of Anthea-I-will-fire-you-if-you-don't-give-me-that-cake ("I'll go clean out my desk right away, ma'am. The Czech ambassador is on the phone."), this is Sherlock-is-being-Sherlock-and-I-need-either-that-cake-or-a-stiff-branch-to-beat-him-with-right-now ("Chocolate icing or coconut?") sort of occasion. And though she's willing to admit that the impending sugar rush, crash, and weight gain will combine for a rather interestingly cathartic afternoon, Mycroft Holmes hopes at the very least she has trained her little brother when it is and is not alright to make jabs about her weight, if nothing else penetrates that idiotically brilliant skull of his (a note to the wise: the time to tease Mycroft is not when she is doing all she can not to shovel it into her mouth with her bare hands).
She's just gotten back from the hospital after arranging to have Sherlock discharged into her own home when his system is cleansed, her eyes are heavy and feel like sandpaper orbs, and that irritating little reporter from the Nobody Cares Herald is attempting to explode her home office phone by calling every ten minutes. She resists the urge to send the man chasing after a harebrained lead to Siberia and instead quietly disconnects the landline from the wall, settling into her leather chair. For a few moments she is still Mycroft Holmes, immovable as marble and statuesque as a queen in her chair as she surveys London through her window. Something cracks as she spins around, kicks off her heels, and buries her head in her arms. She doesn't cry. Mycroft hasn't cried since she was a teenager and Sherlock scared off the (well-connected) boy she was attempting to date by somehow setting his car on fire and worming a frog into the tea she was making to apologize.
(Though that wasn't quite the reason why she was crying so much as what happened later when she was curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor, trying to be sick because Sherlock also performed a rather nasty experiment on her chocolate bar stash.)
She closes her eyes and massages her lids, breathing carefully through her nose. The door opens and the smart clicks against her hardwood floor announce Anthea. There's an absence of tapping, which altogether isn't terribly unusual, but the clink of china against wood just in front of her arms causes her to look up.
"I've rescheduled your meeting with the Prime Minister," Anthea says vaguely, going back to managing Mycroft's life, "and the officer who collected Sherlock wants to meet with you to discuss options."
Mycroft hears every word and nods, of course, but her attention is arrested by the tiny chocolate cheesecake Anthea set before her, complete with a single raspberry on top. Mycroft makes a mental note to give her a raise.
"Very well. How soon does he wish to meet?" Mycroft replies.
"He said to tell you that it's no rush, but before Sherlock is operating at full strength again would be best," Anthea says. "He also said that there was no need to bribe him; he won't press charges as his thanks to Sherlock for helping him close the Peterson case."
"Thank you, Anthea," Mycroft nods. "The doctors assured me that he would come home tomorrow morning, so there is much to do before he arrives. Send Mrs. Clayton in if you happen to see her, would you?"
"Already on her way." Anthea strides away and closes the door behind her. Mycroft counts to three before stabbing Anthea's gift and taking a delicate, ladylike bite. The cheesecake is sinfully moist and decadent; Mycroft curls her toes and shivers in a way that would shock most of London if they could see her. Feeling gleefully petulant in a way that would put Sherlock to shame, she picks up the plate and swivels around to face London, once more queen of all she surveys and feeling all the way to the base of her spine the kind of satisfying energy that reminds her why desserts were invented (her theory: there just might be a cosmic all-knowing being, and that being loves Mycroft Holmes).
Sherlock-proofing her guest room is tackled with the kind of manic energy she usually saves for tearing down weapons-traffickers and drug cartels, a task she oversees with gusto (because if Sherlock gets into her Percocet supply or purposely ruins her best sheets again she can't guarantee to Mother that he'll be around to ignore her Christmas cards). Her merry managing mood carries her to the moment, at four AM, when the hospital decides he's clean enough and hurriedly dumps him on her doorstep in a wheelchair, with rushed instructions to keep him bedridden and well-nourished until she's certain he's got it all flushed out of his system. The door shuts with a sudden and sobering finality. Sherlock, thin, pale, sunken-eyed, limbs heavy, glares up at her from the wheelchair.
Mycroft snatches every detail from his appearance she can get. He's covered with a sheen of sweat over a layer of dirt, so his living has been rougher than she thought. Bandage wrapped around left forearm, so injection, not ingestion. Plaster on the right where the IV was stuck in. Hair hanging lank and heavy with dirt and grease, so no shower for a while. Bruise crawling up his collarbone suggests heavier bruising on the torso his doctors never mentioned. Either he got in a fight with one of his suppliers, fellow partakers, or (given his history and more likely) he visited the underground boxing matches again, possibly for money. If he were wearing his own clothes she would be able to deduce more, but as it is she can tell he is very unwell and needs rest. He doesn't say anything, just glares blearily at her as she steps behind him and wheels him to the elevator (only used when she feels lazy, when furniture is being moved in, or Sherlock is back from the hospital again), and takes personal charge of moving him into bed.
He doesn't fight her this time, but he doesn't help, either, letting her heave his dead weight onto the mattress and meticulously tucking all of his spidery limbs under the duvet. His icey blue eyes never dim, but his blinking gets slower and slower as she adjusts his pillows and strokes his filthy hair away from his forehead. In a way, the glaring and silence put her off more than his whip-sharp snaps. She leaves him to sulk and hopefully sleep as she leaves, and a few moments later a young man recently employed under her takes a sentry position by the door. Mycroft nods wordlessly and goes back to her office to think and plan about what to do when her man-child brother is both clean and done with the withdrawal symptoms (because hang her if she doesn't let him leave before she's certain he'll last a month out of her care without overdosing again).
Detective Lestrade arrives at eleven o'clock and Mycroft has gone for the black suit today, taking care that both are free of lint and choosing her scarlet blouse with care. She wants to look intimidating and in-charge this morning. She wants Detective Lestrade to feel the importance of what it means to be Sherlock's older sister. She softens the blow, just slightly, with a few wisps of hair curling down from her severe bun. Because being Sherlock's older sister is both a powerful and a non-enviable thing to be, and if Detective Lestrade has any sense he knows exactly what she means.
Detective Lestrade is a promising find. Not a terribly clever man, but practical and dedicated and someone Mycroft feels she could, after an appropriate trial period, grow to trust on the force. As she thinks to herself in the private part of her mind she seals away except for when she allows herself an indulgence, the silver hair is not all that bad, either.
"Ms. Holmes," Detective Lestrade greets, holding out his hand as he enters her office, "Detective Greg Lestrade, New Scotland Yard."
"Charmed," Mycroft nods, indicating the chair in front of her desk. It is wooden and uncomfortable and Mycroft chose that chair for a reason. "Please, do sit down."
He does. Winces. Shifts. Rubs his chin (handheld razor, overslept this morning and ran out of shaving cream, missed a spot here and there, really should let a little stubble grow, might do intriguing and attractive things for his face).
"Ms. Holmes, I wanted to talk to you about your brother," Detective Lestrade says. "I'm sure you know what a…" he trails off, looking for the right word. Mycroft smiles, steeples her fingers, and waits. "…special sort of kid he is."
"I'm aware," Mycroft concedes. "And I cannot thank you enough for not arresting him, Detective Lestrade. My brother likes to fancy himself super-human at times, but even the remarkable have human failings."
"Remarkable is right," Lestrade says, though it sounds less like praise and more like cursing. "Six weeks I was working on the Peterson murder, and in the five minutes in the precinct while Sergeant Donovan marched him through on possession charges he had the entire bloody case figured out." He scrubs a hand over the nape of his neck. "Confounded us all, he did, until we got the brother into the interrogation chamber and he confessed to everything with the right prodding. Went to go ask him how he knew, but he was already gone, just left his number and a suggestion not to have the officer with the keys to the cell lock him up."
"How many cases has Sherlock helped you with since then?" Mycroft asks. An idea is formulating in her mind, one that she has a gut feeling Detective Lestrade has already thought about (but no conclusions without data, as Sherlock is fond of saying).
"Just the one, but it was amazing," Lestrade shakes his head. "Sally was all frothing about it, of course, but even she admitted that it was incredible. Didn't think I'd see him again until last night when we got a call from some poor housewife who'd woken up with him passed out by her bins." He shifts again. "Is he going to be alright?"
"With rest and a very firm talking-to, I believe he's going to be just fine," Mycroft assures him. "Detective Lestrade, do you know what it feels like to be cleverer than everyone around you?"
Detective Lestrade looks startled by the question. "Er…no, I don't believe so."
"Sherlock's mind is the kind that cannot sit idle," Mycroft enunciates carefully. "It races through every problem presented to it, and when it has nothing to do, it turns on itself." She stands, a way to relieve her sudden nervous energy, and takes a turn about the room. "Sherlock's singular passion has always been solving the crimes that confounded the police. From a young age, he has always shown a particular proclivity for it. However, when his mind has nothing to occupy itself with, very much like a starving person's stomach it turns on itself and begins feeding on its own thoughts and memories, churning and boiling until it drives him to do something…" her hand spasms despite itself as she curls it around the back of her chair, "profoundly stupid."
"Alright," Detective Lestrade says slowly. "What are you suggesting?"
"Come now, Detective Lestrade, I believe you understand me perfectly," Mycroft smiles, "but to spell it out in black and white, I want you, every so often, to allow Sherlock to help with cases the police force find trying."
There's a dense silence as Lestrade mulls over her request. She waits patiently, listening to the silence just in case Sherlock wakes up and decides to throw a tantrum all over her very expensive décor. Patience has always been where she and Sherlock differed most; it taught her how to listen to people and understand how to manipulate and suggest and blend in, whereas Sherlock…well…didn't. She supposes she's lucky she got that trait, because otherwise Sherlock could easily have died already without her interference.
"That's more than a little bit illegal," Lestrade reasons, and deliberately Mycroft lets her fingers twitch.
"Surely it's not illegal for the police to consult with an expert," Mycroft wheedles pleasantly.
"But Sherlock's not an expert."
"Isn't he?" she asks delicately. "My brother is the type of man who can discern your wife's multiple infidelities—shame about that, I wonder you don't divorce her, but I suppose a traditionally romantic man like yourself would find it difficult—and the exact brand of aftershave you use in under a minute. He is the kind of man who found you your murderer in five minutes when it took six weeks for you to even gather enough evidence to suggest that it was someone close to the victim. My brother is many things," Mycroft leans on her desk and looks Lestrade (who's gone a rather alarming shade of violet that does not become him, must have been her mentioning the wife, but it had to be done to make her point), "but he is, most definitely, an expert in observation, and would be an invaluable resource. I would suggest you take his considerable powers and what he does when he has nothing better to do into account."
She looks into his face then, lets the full weight of her own brand of Holmes intellect sink into Detective Greg Lestrade's mind. She doesn't blink. She doesn't move. She lets the silence become oppressive and weighty, waiting on Lestrade to make his decision. He's worked with Sherlock before, and with the right encouragement, he could possibly learn how to handle him. It is imperative to Mycroft to press on Lestrade the importance of his choice—both to Sherlock, and to herself.
"Yeah, alright," Lestrade nods finally. "Just on a few cases, mind. I could get in serious trouble if he gets himself into a bind on my watch." He stands, then hesitates at Mycroft's wide smile. "So I'm just agreeing to be Sherlock's chew toy so he doesn't go mess himself up into a coma?"
"If you wouldn't mind," Mycroft says sweetly, walking around her desk to shake Detective Lestrade's hand. "You have my brother's number still, I trust? Good. I'm glad we had this talk, Detective Lestrade."
As the man walks out of her office Mycroft sends an idle text to Anthea to have him promoted. She texts back less than an hour later to report that the gears are in motion.
Sherlock works himself into a tantrum over the next few days as Mycroft purposely babies him. She's busy with work (international incidents don't divert themselves, after all), and he's growing restless, until, one week exactly after he was first admitted to the hospital he tears into her home office with a soaking wet robe wrapped around himself and the declaration that if she doesn't let him out soon he's going to soil all of her best feather pillows.
"Sherlock," Mycroft says indulgently, "do come in. And please, continue to drip on the rug, it's not as though it's a priceless Persian antique."
"If that were truly the case, Mycroft, you would have it in the parlor instead of your office," Sherlock mopes, throwing himself on the uncomfortable wooden chair. Mycroft notes the water stains (though it's not exactly priceless or antique, it is still a nice rug and she quite likes it) and draws deeply from her well of patience (wells, she has to remind herself, absolute deep-mountain-spring wells of patience. Mounds of patience. Loads. Heaps. More patience than anyone in the world should ever have). "I want to be let out of this gaudy prison you call your house."
"As ever, your taste is abysmally lacking," Mycroft replies. "And I am not about to unleash my dearest little brother on London until I am satisfied he can survive in the real world without caving in to the manifold temptations it offers."
"I'm not your prisoner, Mycroft!" Sherlock complains loudly.
"I never said you were," Mycroft shakes her head. "I merely wanted to point out that you are not yet well, and will not be well until you shake your foolhardy addiction."
"It's not an addiction," he sulks. "I can stop whenever I want."
"It's the wanting part that's difficult," Mycroft replies wryly. "You're lucky I haven't told Mummy yet. Although I certainly will if you will not stay put and attempt to get well again."
"Threaten me with Mummy all you like, it still won't stop me from picking the locks or breaking your windows," Sherlock pouts. Mycroft smiles. "Getting into the dessert tray again, are we, Mycroft? You've gained six pounds since last I saw you. Possibly more."
"And you've lost far too much." Mycroft deflects the jab today. "Have you eaten today?"
"Dull," Sherlock snorts.
"Dull is what happens when a silly little boy takes too many injections and dies," Mycroft frowns. "Dull is what happens when a silly little boy lets his boredom win out over his sense and worries his mother and sister into an early grave." Judging by his smile Sherlock doesn't entirely think that the latter is all that dull. "Dull, Sherlock Holmes, is what happens when a silly little boy puts so much cocaine into his system that he gives himself permanent brain damage and loses all of his wonderful powers that make him so special." Mycroft stands and lets her words either glance off of Sherlock's uncaring mind or sink in, she doesn't much care what happens. "We cannot afford to keep going through this, Sherlock. Loathe you may be to admit it, but I am your older sister and I am concerned about you. You can't always rely on me as a safety net, nor will you use me as an outlet to take your frustrations out on when I am trying to help you." Now thoroughly in a lather, Mycroft stomps towards the door (to go to the kitchen to make her ingrate of a brother some breakfast, she tells herself, but her feet know where she's going before her mind will let her think it). "I want you dressed and in the kitchen in an hour. And do shower before you come down. Sitting in a bathtub with a dressing gown on hardly counts as good hygiene."
If Sherlock replies she doesn't hear it, busy slamming the door and stomping to the kitchen as she is. There is a special cupboard in the spacious pantry that only opens with the use of a key, usually held securely on Anthea's keychain. Today, the lock gives way to the prying of a hairpin and a butter knife, and Mycroft snatches a box of assorted bonbons down from the top shelf. She angrily shoves one in her mouth, chewing furiously, not letting the succulent cherry syrup in the middle dance across her tastebuds before another bonbon follows. She manages to fit four more in her mouth before closing the box, throwing it back into the cupboard, and relocking it. Once she swallows the hodgepodge mess of chocolate, cherry, coconut, and peanut butter, a weight like a brick descends into her stomach that almost turns into nausea. For a moment, a very small one, she considers reliving old habits and letting her finger and her throat become acquainted once more. A sore throat and a thorough tooth-brushing would be a small price to pay to escape the consequences of her latest (small, comparatively small) binge.
But she swallows again, licks the corners of her mouth, and takes a calming breath. No one can escape consequences. If she allows herself to go down that road again, she'll be little better than Sherlock, who, despite his irritating demeanor, still needs her guidance. Time to be the big girl and make it right, she thinks, walking out and to the refrigerator. A simple omelet, to start the morning. She pauses and listens for the guest room's shower, hears it, and continues cooking.
Sherlock makes it downstairs just as she fishes the last rasher of bacon out of the pan, hair wet and dripping all over the shirt he's wearing (silk, pricey, but not irreplaceable). He looks quite a sight healthier than he did just a week before, expression now neutral. Mycroft pushes his plate towards him and tucks into her own, waiting for Sherlock to make a comment about the smudge of chocolate on her chin and her falling-down hair thanks to the loss of a hairpin, but he merely eats his breakfast and washes the plate when he's finished.
The weeks pass and turn into months, and Mycroft is feeling very proud of herself (for not breaking into the cabinet since Sherlock's stay) and of Sherlock (he's just moved into a new flat and is looking for someone to help pay the rent). So much so that when she gets the email from Anthea containing information about Dr. John Watson, and gives the order to arrange a "meeting" with him, she's feeling positively feline with smugness.
She pauses by the pantry on her way out of her house after a quick wardrobe change and considers the innocence of the wide-open door and the key left sitting on the island. Considers, but nothing more; she promises a return visit as she leaves her house and goes to meet with the man she hopes will be the making of her brother (or, as she muses en-route, his undoing. But let's be optimistic).