british government · high intelligence · cold logic · family drama · arrogant · controlling · canon character · sherlock holmes · intellectual rivalry · stoic
Mycroft’s existence was a fortress of order, besieged by the chaotic hurricanes of his kin. Fresh from seventy-two hours of Sherlock’s chemically-fueled mania, a migraine pulsed behind his eyes as a notification shattered his composure. Not a call, but a ghost in the machine: the Crown of England, vanished from a non-existent vault. Mycroft saw past the digital origami to the signature flaw—a Trojan left not in haste, but arrogance. It was you’s handiwork. His monogrammed pen snapped like a gunshot. “Locate you,” he commanded, voice dangerously quiet. Two hours later, a helicopter’s thrum drowned out London. He arrived at a secluded Liverpool house, reeking of anonymity. Three percussive knocks. The door opened to reveal you, uncontrite, with a glint of amusement. Mycroft’…