A Second Chance- Mycroft x Reader x John Chpt. 5

You swished down the halls trying to soothe your frazzled nerves and came to the music room, a familiar black grand piano calling to you from inside. At this point you didn’t care who heard, you were upset and you were going to play that piano because that was the only way you could think. Your fingers fell on the keys in an angry flurry, the notes of Liszt’s Piano Sonata in B Minor filling the air and hitting the ears of your companions in the sitting room.

Violet tilted her head, “I wonder what has her playing Liszt…”

Sherlock sighed, pressing his fingers together and resting his forehead on them, “Mycroft.”

As if his ears were burning, the man appeared in the doorway, giving Violet a warm grin, “Hello Mother.”

Violet frowned at him, “Mycroft Holmes, what on earth did you do to that dear girl this time?”

His face fell as both his mother and Sherlock looked at him expectantly, “Nothing. I merely asked why she was singing in the garden.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, reading his brother, “You didn’t recognize her.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, “It has been quiet a long time since I saw her last.”

“And how long would that be to not recognize family?” John wondered aloud, his brows knitting together.

Mycroft gave him an unamused look, “She is hardly family but it has been fifteen years.”

“What have I told you about talking like that? (F/n) is family and I will not have you suggesting otherwise,” Violet scolded her eldest son.

Mycroft looked like a reprimanded child as he hung his head and grumbled, “Of course Mummy.”

A moment later, Sherlock was about to go and calm you when Violet suddenly grinned mischievously at John, “John would you be a dear and see if you can coax her away from that piano? Down the hall, third door on the left, but I suppose you could just follow the music if you forget.”

John looked to Sherlock who just gave a small shrug, indifferent as to whether John should do it or not, and then gave Violet a nod before wandering out of the room. It was probably for the best that John be the one to go to you, Sherlock reasoned, as he had never been good with the whole comforting thing, you certainly didn’t want to see Mycroft, and Violet just wanted her two children to get along.

Following Violet’s directions, John stopped outside the open door to the music room to watch you for a moment. Your face was set in a frown as your fingers flowed over the keys in complicated successions of rhythms, your eyes closed since it was a piece you knew fairly well.

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do so he knocked on the doorframe as he cleared his throat. To his surprise, it worked, to an extent, as you didn’t stop playing or open your eyes but your face softened slightly and you called, “I’m terribly sorry that my mother has sent you to deal with me, Watson.”

He stepped into the room, “How did you know it was me?”  

A small smile graced your face, “You knocked.”

Hitting a good stopping point in the piece, you opened your eyes and pulled your fingers away from the keys to pat the place next to you on the piano bench, “Come sit.”

He sat next to you, facing away from the piano so he could better see your face, “I’m supposed to be coaxing you away from the piano, not joining you.”

You gave a soft chuckle, “You’ve gotten me to stop, which is far more than either Sherlock or Mother can lay claim to. Especially with Liszt.”

“What’s so different about Liszt?”

“I only ever play pieces by Liszt when I’m upset. Which is likely why they sent you as I’m afraid Sherlock is rubbish at calming me down and Mum gets rather emotional.”

“And me? How am I doing?”

You turned to look at him from underneath your lashes, “I would say you’re doing rather well, though, as I’m still at the piano, the end result remains to be seen.”

It fell quiet for a moment and your hands came back up to the piano to play the beginnings of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. John frowned and asked another question, trying to get you to stop as succeeding where Sherlock had failed was now a point of pride, “Why do you hate Mycroft so much?”

You didn’t stop the music but still answered which he took as a good sign, “Hate is a strong word, I prefer very much dislike him… and even then I’m not even sure if that’s what it is. I feel that maybe we just misunderstand each other.”

John studied you face, which actually looked beautifully peaceful if slightly troubled, “What do you mean?”

After pursing your lips in thought for a moment, you began to explain, “I have never asked this family for anything, John. Violet and William have always been very giving yes, but my parents left me enough money to live comfortably and pay for top schooling. I even got a full scholarship to Cambridge when the time came… and yet Mycroft insists that I’m a burden, that I some how drag his family name in the mud by just being associated with them even though I never actually took the Holmes name as my own. Maybe it is because my parents weren’t from old blood or that I’m far less logical than he or Sherlock… I don’t know for certain.”

You paused to let the music from the piano swell before falling again and then continued, “He’s always been cold towards me and I attributed it to his impressive intellect and the fact that we never really got a chance to know each other… I mean he never truly knew anything about me so how could he have known my own intellect at times surpasses that of Sherlock- though he would never admit it…. so I could understand if he felt he couldn’t relate. You know?”

John turned in his seat to face the piano so he could watch your hands move across the keys as he listened, “What changed?”

Your hands faltered noticeably as you recalled the last time you’d been in the same room as Mycroft, “When I turned eighteen he decided I’d been ‘playing house,’ as he put it, with his parents long enough. He told me to leave and never come back because I wasn’t worthy of calling the Holmes’ friends and much less family… That I was a burden to him, his mother, his father, and the world. He cut himself off after that… I think he realized what he had been about to say was incredibly cruel, not that it really mattered. The damage was already done.”

Even after all these years thinking about it could spill tears and a few trickled down your cheek, causing you to stop playing so you could wipe them away as John wrapped an arm around your shoulder. You looked up at him sorrowfully, “I just wanted him to like me, John. No. Not even that. I wanted him to pretend to like me or at least tolerate me. Was that to much to ask?”

“No (F/n). It wasn’t,” he answered, pulling you into the hug that he knew you desperately needed as a few more tears crept down your face.