jenna221b:

Imagine Mycroft and Sherlock finally being alone together after Magnussen’s death. Mycroft is trying to keep as still as possible, but he can’t quite hide that he’s shaking ever so slightly. “I can’t fix- I can’t get you out of this, Sherlock,” he says, voice harsh and sharp; God, he’s so angry, what is the point of him if he can’t-

But, Sherlock just looks at him, so calm. “I wasn’t expecting you to.”

And, Mycroft actually offers him a cigarette, but Sherlock shakes his head. They stay silent for a few moments. Then, Mycroft dares to say it: “You’re in love with him.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question because some part of him has always known, really. He’s just gently testing the waters with those words, wanting to give Sherlock the option to talk about it, if he needs to. He owes him that, at least.

Sherlock doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns and gives a small, sad smile, the sheer honesty of it painful to Mycroft.

“Six months?” Sherlock asks, and Mycroft simply nods because he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

There’s a little pause. Then, Sherlock reaches into his coat pocket and throws something into the air. Instinctively, Mycroft catches it- a lifetime of childhood reflexes. It’s the spare keys to Mycroft’s house.

Mycroft exhales, then carefully presses the keys into Sherlock’s palm. “For when you come back,” he tells him. And, they both allow themselves the luxury of pretending, just for one moment.