I'm appalled by the lack of one of favourite pairings on this site, and this is the start of my quest to change that.
Written for the Prompt One Hour Challenge on the Sherlock Fanfiction Challenges Forum, using the prompt 'Fairytale' by Alexander Rybak, specifically the line "I'm in love with a fairytale even though it hurts"
The role of DI at New Scotland Yard brought with it a lot of expectations – high speed chases, loads of paperwork, what have you. But none of those expectations included the Holmes brothers and their assistants.
When Will Dimmock first heard about Sherlock Holmes, he found it difficult to believe that any one person could live up to his reputation. Like most people who had only heard of him, Will was sure that the legend of Sherlock Holmes was exactly that – a legend.
But then came the case with the Chinese smuggling ring, and he was forced to concede that Sherlock Holmes was everything he was rumoured to be – a genius crime solver, but an abrasive pain in the arse at the same time. If it weren't for the fact that Doctor Watson liked him, he would have been hard pressed to find any redeeming qualities in Sherlock.
When the case ended, he thanked the stars that there was only one of Holmes.
Of course, the next day he was kidnapped and brought in front of Mycroft Holmes.
To be fair, he was sure it was supposed to be intimidating, being threatened by a mysterious government agent who probably doesn't exist on paper. But his mind was occupied by two thoughts – damnit, there are two of them and I wonder if his assistant will agree to go out with me.
(Mycroft wasn't stupid. He resolved to kidnap the young DI again at another time. Maybe he would manage to get the importance of taking care of Sherlock into his mind then.)
After the warehouse incident, as he had dubbed it, Will started to notice that Mycroft was a frequent visitor to the Met. It was only the fact that he knew how to be discreet with the help he offered that kept his existence from being general knowledge among the detectives. He wouldn't have noticed it either if it hadn't been for the fact that his assistant was always present during his visits.
When questioned, Greg had a lot to say on the topic of the mysterious woman who followed the elder Holmes around. Her name was generally Anthea – it wasn't her real name, but that was all Greg knew on the topic – and she was definitely not in a relationship with her boss. Whether she was in a relationship with someone else wasn't something Greg could help him with, but at least Will had the assurance of knowing that if he ever did manage to find his balls and make a move on Anthea, he wouldn't have to worry about an angry Holmes coming after him for hitting on his girl, which was a huge relief.
(He had nothing to worry about when it came to Sherlock. The only person the introverted genius was interested in was John Watson.)
But he knew he would never make a move. She was perfect and gorgeous, way beyond anything he could ever expect for himself.
He wasn't stupid. Being the assistant of someone as powerful as Mycroft Holmes obviously was meant that she had a considerable amount of power and wealth herself. The last thing she wanted in her life was a DI who was just starting to build his career.
It was so much like the fairytales his mum used to weave for him and his sister when they were kids. The rich girl, the poor boy, and the ocean of obstacles they crossed because of their love for each other.
Only, he wasn't living in a fairytale, and in the real world, the rich girl always found a rich boy for herself, and the poor one was left waiting.
And here he was, the poor boy in love (well, deeply in like at the very least) with the rich girl; the man mad over a fairytale, and it hurt like hell, knowing that it would always be unrequited, that he would never get the opportunity of knowing if it could have been love.
If only –
Ping.
He looked down at the phone he reserved for personal use. The notice of the screen read blocked number. No one at the Met knew this number, and neither his parents nor his sister would show up as a blocked number.
Halfway tempted to trace the message, he flipped open his phone to check the message before he did that.
We've got reservations at Chez Amélie tomorrow at eight. I'll be sending a car to pick you up from the Met at seven.
Don't worry; your schedule for the rest of the night has been cleared.
Dress formally.
-A
As he read it, a delighted grin spread over his features, and he had to force himself not to do something stupid, like whoop in the middle of NSY.
It seemed he'd forgotten the main draw of fairytales – they always ended with a happily ever after.