Myc Holmes

The air in 221B Baker Street was thick with the usual tension that came whenever Mycroft Holmes decided to visit. He sat across from Sherlock, posture impeccable as always, though his fingers tapped idly against the handle of his umbrella—just once, but enough for Sherlock to notice. The conversation had been the same as ever: a battle of wits wrapped in condescension, Mycroft pretending not to care, Sherlock pretending not to enjoy it.

Then the door opened.

John stepped inside, shaking off the cold, eyes flicking to the brothers before landing—however briefly—on you. And in that split second, something changed.

Mycroft went still. Not in the usual way, not the calculated stillness of a man who controlled every inch of his presence. This was different. A flicker of hesitation, a breath held too long. He looked away.

Sherlock’s gaze snapped between us, sharp as a scalpel. One look at Mycroft, one at you. A slow blink. Then—oh.

A grin.

“Oh, this is interesting.”