A.N.: This fic is basically going to be story versions of my headcanons. Most of them will be mine, but some of them will be stuff that I've seen on Facebook etc. They will probably be drabbles/oneshots, I doubt any of them will be more than one chapter. This will be updated sporadically and will probably never be completely finished, as I will most likely keep adding to it as I think up/come across headcanons. They also won't be in chronological order and the rating will probably go up at some point. But for now, I'm gonna start with a few milder chapters (cause that's all I have right now).

Genre(s): Drama

Warning: One use of mild language.

Nice Smile

Covent Garden was never very busy just after lunch at the end of the week, especially during term time. In fact, none of London was, really; the entire city became an eerie sort of ghost town while everyone was at home, enjoying their two days off before they stumbled into the office on Monday morning nursing their hangovers.

Mycroft Holmes couldn't remember the last time he'd got a weekend off. There was always some kind of international disaster that needed his attention; these incidents never cared that it was the end of the week and that, by rights, he should be in bed sleeping off all the other international disasters that he'd had to deal with that week.

This week had been particularly trying; one thing after another, almost constantly, until Saturday arrived and he was uncharacteristically knackered. He would never show it, of course, but Anthea – being the intuitive creature that she was – knew instantly, and booked him a longer lunch. He would by no means have the luxury of an entire day off, not with the Korean elections imminent, but a couple of extra free hours in the middle of the day were ensured for as much of a wind-down as he could manage in that time.

He'd chosen Covent Garden for two reasons. Firstly, it was far enough from the office for him to almost forget that he was 'supposed' to be at work. Secondly, it was near enough that he would be able to get there, have sufficient time to wander around at a rather leisurely pace, and get back before his free time ran out.

The quiet was relaxing. There were a few street performers dotted about, but their audiences were small – if not practically non-existent – and the various shops were, for the most part, completely deserted. He considered going in one of them and buying something, if only to give the various bored shop assistants something to do. He instantly dismissed it; he had spent far too much of his morning talking, and he didn't think the coffee he'd picked up from Starbucks nearer Leicester Square had soothed his throat to the extent that it was ready to be put to work again.

The greatest population of tourists and various other people milling around were to be found inside the piazza. The stalls were mostly overlooked, for their products were far too expensive and not nearly novelty enough for their tastes, but people stopped to look anyway. Mycroft wondered if it would have been kinder to the stall owners to just walk passed without acknowledging any interest, however fake that interest might be. He tried this tactic himself; he had no way of knowing whether it was appreciated or not.

He still had an hour left before he had to make his way back to the office when he heard it: a gorgeous voice singing O Mio Babbino Caro. The golden notes were drifting upward from the downstairs part of the piazza, where the opera singers always performed. He paused by the staircase to look down into the chasm. Various chairs and tables filled the space where people were eating servings of a gigantic paella being made in the biggest frying pan in London in the centre of the room. Several tourists were standing, sans paella, to listen to the woman singing.

She was wearing a beautiful blue dress which swept to the floor; long sleeves and a low neckline that still managed to be modest shone like the garment was made of satin – which it probably was. She had a heart-shaped silver pendant hanging from a chain around her neck, falling an inch above said neckline to draw the eyes to her chest. Her hair was long and brown, curled using machinery for it was naturally straight, falling halfway down her back and over her shoulders. She was every inch the conventional beauty. Yet it was her voice that intrigued him the most, and that compelled him to walk down the steps and join the crowd that was gathering before her.

He stayed for the duration of the song, feeling that it was the perfect end to his time off; he had more time to spare, but it would never do to not return early. The gorgeous voice of the opera singer flowed over him like honey, loosening his tense nerves better than any massage ever could. He felt himself physically relaxing as he listened.

Yet the song had to end, and when she finished with a smile there was a round of polite applause and a few of those who had been listening walked forward to flick a coin into the bowler hat that she had on the floor in front of her. Mycroft just turned to leave.

However, he had only reached a shop selling nautical memorabilia when he was stopped by a tap on his shoulder. Unable to think who could want to speak to him here, he turned in confusion which turned to genuine surprise when he saw the singer standing behind him with her bowler hat in her hands.

"Hello," she nodded, seemingly awkward. How could someone who could sing with such confidence in public be so timid when merely talking to a single person?

"Hello?" he said politely, making it very clear that he was unsure as to why she was addressing him.

"I'm sorry, it's just, I noticed you listening to me, and I just wanted to say that… I think you have a nice smile."

"Oh!" He raised his eyebrows in surprise. This, he had not been expecting. It seemed like such a purposeless thing to say. This woman had all but chased him down the road to offer him a compliment, and a compliment that hardly anyone – let alone a fat, boring bastard like him – would usually receive. He wasn't entirely sure how to respond. "Thank you."

It seemed that this was sufficient, for she simply smiled herself and nodded, turning on her heel and disappearing up the steps to the upper floor of the piazza.

~{sh-headcanons}~

It was a small change that occurred over many weeks and months, but gradually, people began to notice.

Anthea, as always, was the first to realise the subtle change in his behaviour. Then it had been Sherlock, then John, then various others that he dealt with on a regular basis. The former had reacted with a shocked kind of sincerity; she was almost glad that the change had taken place. The latter had mocked him and all but insisted that he cease this nonsense at once.

Yet from that day forward, no matter what anyone else said, Mycroft would smile as often as he could.