Disclaimer: I own nothing from Sherlock or its creators.
Enjoy this little Mythea drabble, with Sherlock thrown in for good measure.
Unrequited Love
Spilled Secrets
Sherlock thought back to the first time that he met John Watson. He'd gone to Mycroft immediately.
"I've met someone."
Mycroft had stood up from his chair, gently putting the beloved umbrella into the crook of his elbow.
"As I have said countless times, maybe once too many, caring is not an advantage, brother mine. Do not let emotion cloud your better judgement. Don't expect him to love you back."
Sherlock leaned back into his chair, legs crossed, not even bothering to ask his brother how he knew that someone was a he.
"How would you, of all people, know that? You with your… ways, running around like you're the King of England, like you could give less damns about who you hurt, like you don't give a single bloody anything about me."
He positively throws away the words, pushing them out of his mouth, coating each syllable with venom.
"I'll bet that you don't care about anyone. You never have, never will. Guess you've really taken that maxim to heart."
At these words, Mycroft Holmes, epitome of the British Government, stared up at his younger brother. For a single moment in time, Sherlock saw the hurt and anguish clearly etched into every area of his brother's face. He could see Mycroft's normally steely and icy exterior shatter in his eyes, and immediately regretted the words that had just left his lips.
The one second of emotion allowed Sherlock to make a deduction. A few, to be precise.
"You do care," he realized, slightly ashamed of what he had said to Mycroft.
Mycroft inwardly cursed himself for not keeping his tells in check.
"You care about… about me. And… there's more than one. Someone who isn't Father or Mummy or family."
No hiding it now, Mycroft joked to himself without a trace of humour. Not when your dear brother is a genius detective. He's also a sociopath with no manners and could care less if he blurted it out to the whole Diogenes Club.
Not that they'd react, of course, he added as an afterthought.
The elder Holmes quickly glanced at the door behind Sherlock, where, unbeknownst to Mycroft and his brother, his personal assistant lurked, eavesdropping on the British government and the world's only consulting detective.
"It's her, isn't it?" asked Sherlock.
"Who?" gulped Mycroft, already knowing that he couldn't hide any longer.
"Her. Your PA. She goes by… Anthea, am I correct?"
The dumbfounded, embarrassed, and frustrated expression on Mycroft's face would have made his younger sibling laugh under different circumstances.
"And you worry she doesn't love you back."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement. Mycroft knew that he was right; there was no use now denying it. Not when it was obvious enough.
"Yes… yes, brother," he coughed out, clearing his throat more and louder than was really necessary.
"And you would do well not to utter one word of this conversation to another person, Willi-I mean, Sherlock. I cannot have Anthea knowing that I… care for her, for lack of better words. I am always so worried during our missions, be it political or actually requiring legwork, that something terrible will happen… and that I will perpetually push the blame upon myself. It's easier."
The unspoken words hung between them.
It's easier - pretending not to care.
The conversation trailed off into a deafening (and quite awkward) silence, which was ended by Sherlock exiting the office, wrapping his scarf (which Mycroft had given to him last Christmas) around his neck and turning his coat collar up.
He sighed into the stillness of his office and put his head between his arms and onto the mahogany desk, wondering what would happen now that Sherlock had that particular piece of information.
And as for Anthea...
Well...
If you happened to look outside the door of Mycroft's office, into his assistant's smaller cubicle down the small corridor, you would see a shell-shocked Anthea, gripping the sleeve of her blazer tightly after hearing this revelation, tears silently rolling down her face.
A/N: If anyone's confused, this takes place right after Sherlock and John meet, like the night that they meet at Bart's. For me, Anthea has been Mycroft's assistant for about two years or so.
Please leave a review down there to let me know if this was all right!
Maia