A huge shout out to Writingwife83 for all of her support and encouragement! This story is based on her FABULOUS Sherlolly ficverse: Winds of Change and the sequel A Window Into Change. If you haven't read them yet, I highly suggest you do so, they are amazing, and they set up the established Sherlolly that this story branches off from! So thank you again Writingwife83 for letting me use your story as inspiration! You're the best!
Sherlock was deep in his mind palace, attempting to file away some non-essential information about Molly's favorite type of ice cream. He'd reasoned that he would most likely need that information at some point in the future. He vaguely registered footsteps on the stairs leading up to 221B, which brought him back into the present. The footsteps were too deliberate to be either John's or Lestrade's, too heavy to be Mrs. Hudson's or Mary's, and much too reluctant to belong to his pathologist (although, he supposed he should probably start calling her his girlfriend rather than his pathologist considering that they shared a bed now). That left only one person. Sherlock rolled his eyes and braced himself for the petulant voice that would inevitably accompany those footsteps.
"Do you always leave your door open for just anyone to stroll right in?" the voice bellowed, much too loudly for the room, Sherlock noted.
Sherlock continued as he was, sitting in his chair, right leg crossed over his left, sipping his tea, as if nothing had changed. "Brother. What do you want?" Sherlock replied, his words dripping with disdain. He wasn't in the mood for Mycroft's little digs. He had a way of popping in when it was least convenient. Not that it was ever convenient where Mycroft was concerned.
Mycroft replied with an intentionally forced smile on his face, "Can't a big brother pop in for a quick visit with his little brother?"
Sherlock scrunched up his nose like he'd just smelled something extremely unpleasant. Mycroft's horrifying and obviously forced attempt at sibling kindness was appalling to both Sherlock and himself. Sherlock made no move to reply, choosing instead to continue sipping his tea, which he knew would annoy Mycroft. Immediately, Mycroft dropped the façade and declared his real reason for being there.
"I need a favor. And you know that you are literally the last person on this earth that I would ever come to about something of this nature for obvious reasons-although those reasons no longer seem to apply-but I digress. It seems that you are the only one that can assist me with this…problem. As much as it literally pains me to admit, I need your help." Mycroft rambled on, clearly uncomfortable, but Sherlock had stopped listening.
Sherlock was rightfully shocked when Mycroft had begun with "I need a favor," so much so that he almost choked on his tea; but by the time he was finished with his rambling, Sherlock couldn't seem to clear the smug smirk from his face. Truthfully, he wanted to laugh in Mycroft's face and send out a text to everyone that he knew, declaring that the great Mycroft Holmes had actually succumbed to asking his baby brother for a favor. But then it occurred to him that perhaps he should let Mycroft explain what he needed before shouting his triumph from the rooftops. Past experience had taught Sherlock that perhaps he should be a tad frightened that Mycroft needed his help. It usually didn't signal anything pleasant when Mycroft needed him; in fact, it usually meant that Sherlock was headed to his death in some form or another. Oh God, what could he possibly want?
Mycroft began to pace back and forth, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the look of smug satisfaction on his younger brother's face. He really wanted to just forget the whole thing, insult Sherlock and storm out in victory. But he couldn't disappoint Mummy anymore than he already had. And if he was completely honest with himself, he wanted this too; he'd wanted it for a lot longer than he'd like to admit.
Since it seemed that Sherlock was going to remain silent for the time being (interestingly, his face had transitioned from a look of smugness to a look of apprehension), Mycroft chose to continue. He abruptly sat down in John's chair across from where Sherlock sat, put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, letting out a defeated sigh. Truth be told, Sherlock was actually starting to feel a bit concerned; he'd never seen Mycroft look so…so…out of his element. The man was lost, he was frightened, and now Sherlock was beginning to worry that something was seriously wrong with his brother. However, that concern flew swiftly out the window when Mycroft suddenly looked up at Sherlock and asked incredulously, "How did you of all people get a girlfriend?!" he sneered. "You don't even like people! And the only time that you do, is when they've been murdered and you get to play your little detective game!" he added.
Sherlock, his moment of brotherly sympathy now gone completely, replied haughtily, "And you do? Where do you think I learned to dislike the goldfish as you so aptly put it? " Sherlock got up from his seat and stood towering over Mycroft, this being one of the few times that he could literally look down on his big brother, and he continued, "What does any of this have to do with my having a girlfriend? What do you care about my relationship with Molly?" Suddenly it dawned on him. "Ah, I see now. You're jealous. The great Mycroft Holmes is jealous of his little brother's relationship status! Oh this is good. This is just…oh I have to text John!" as he pulled out his phone.
Mycroft was sincerely regretting ever coming to see Sherlock. This was not going like he had envisioned at all. It was bad enough that he had to admit this problem to himself, let alone to his little brother. This was utterly humiliating. Sherlock was not supposed to have the upper hand. Ever. He needed to take control of the situation before it went to Sherlock's head.
Mycroft spoke up. "Alright, put down the phone. Yes, okay? Yes, I admit it, I'm jealous. Does that make you happy?"
Without a word, Sherlock sat back down, his gigantic smile slowly fading from his face as he realized that Mycroft would never, under normal circumstances, ever allow him to win an argument. Okay, something was really wrong. Sherlock looked at him suspiciously.
Mycroft began again, "You and I are cut from the same cloth brother. We have never fit in with our peers because, quite frankly, we are better than them. We didn't even fit into our own family! Neither of us required friends because no one could keep up with us anyway. Truthfully, I've never needed anyone else because I always had you as my intellectual equal, or rather, almost equal." At Sherlock's incredulous stare Mycroft paused and said, "Alright, calm down, that's as sappy as I get brother."
"The point I'm trying to make is that I thought that we were both the same in this respect; that we didn't need anyone else. But clearly, you do. You need John and Mary, and Mrs. Hudson to keep you right; but none more than Molly. They balance you out in a way that I never could. In a way that I never thought I needed."
Sherlock sat frozen in his chair, mouth agape, his teacup raised halfway to his lips but never quite making it there. He could not comprehend this version of Mycroft that was before him, offering a confession of sorts.
Mycroft continued begrudgingly, "I've never seen you so happy (Mycroft shuddered at the word as he spoke it aloud), and don't you dare try to say that Molly has nothing to do with the change, because we both know that it would be a lie. I must admit, she is, well, she's a good influence on you and our family dinner last week made me realize how beneficial the arrangement, er, relationship has been for you. Watching the two of you interact and noticing how happy it made Mum and Dad to see you in love, yes I said love-wipe the shocked look off your face!-made me, for lack of a better word, jealous. Of you and Molly."
"Not to mention, Mummy has been on my case non-stop since meeting your little girlfriend. So, thanks for that little brother. She seems to be under the impression that the Holmes men are a much more agreeable lot with women in our lives. Whatever."
Sherlock's mouth was now hanging open. He couldn't, for the life of him, figure out how to shut it. He might need to consult his mind palace to remember how to properly close his mouth. "What is happening right now?" he thought to himself in utter disbelief.
"I've been having…feelings," Mycroft begrudgingly admitted. Just the word, feelings, made him want to vomit. Unfortunately, he could no longer escape the fact that it was true. He had romantic feelings for another human being, and he could no longer lie to himself, or to his poor mother. It was time to fess up.
The words burst out of Mycroft before he could stop them: "I need you to help me get a girlfriend. Specifically, I need you to help me get Anthea."
If Mycroft had known that someone else was within listening range to hear that last sentence, he never in a million years would've admitted it aloud. Because right as he uttered the word girlfriend, Sherlock could be seen with his mouth hanging open even wider than before, a look of amusement in his eyes as he heard Molly's shriek of excitement. She dropped her shopping bags on the floor with a thud and exclaimed, "Yes! Yes we'll do it!"