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Lounging on the couch of the flat; It’s a luxury Mycroft doesn’t usually indulge in. With Sherlock out on whatever adventure Gwen’s put him on, Mycroft’s usually needed within the hour from some annoyed shopkeeper.
Laying in some plaid pajama bottoms— which Gwen swears everyone has a pair of— and no shirt, which was the strange thing in all this. They usually go for at least a T-shirt but he’s home alone so there’s no one to judge.
The realisation that exams are approaching rapidly and Mycroft’s only predicted an A instead of that A* to get into the Uni in London– He should study, but they’re tired. Late spring, early summer. No matter the weather, the flat seems to stay at a constant temperature, a miracle really.
Briefly, only for a second he closes their eyes, drinking in the serene peace he’s allowed: No shouting of classmates, no bumbling around of his brother and his friend, no homework that desperately needs his attention. The only sound in the whole flat is Mycroft’s own inhale and exhale...
Well, until the front door opens, the steps up to 221b are familiar but definitely not Sherlock’s. Mycroft eases his eyes open when the footsteps stop at the door, they’d given Gwen a key to the flat a while back; He trusted her implicitly so she got free reign of their house. Even if that meant there was a chance they’d walk right into scenes that may not be for her.
“Afternoon.” Pushing up from his position, Mycroft blinks the spots in his vision away from the large influx of light, his unofficial girlfriend just standing at the threshold of the flat. “Are you going to come in?”
Carrying a tesco bag of what Mycroft deduces is pasta (He can see the familiar box through the plastic), she walks in, dumping it on the kitchen counter. Mycroft assumes she’ll busy themself with putting it all away and hopefully ignore the wreck Sherlock left in the microwave.
Mycroft goes back to practicing using his mind palace, he uses the flat as the basis of it all and builds out what he wants to remember and what he needs to.
The ‘mind palace’ is some interest that Sherlock did a deep dive on, when he was supposed to be doing homework. The two brothers agreed to try it out for a bit and the elder decided it was quite helpful.
Although the next time he opens his eyes there’s one Gwendolyn Lestrade sat next to him, perched on the cushion next to Mycroft, which was odd because he didn’t even feel her sit. “Trapped in your head there?” Sighing in response and leaning into her easy embrace, Mycroft doesn’t even bat an eye at Gwen hiding her hands in her jacket. “Some experiment you-know-who is trying out with me.”
Patting him on the back, Gwen shrugs and just holds him, she presses a hand between his bare shoulderblades. “You want to help me cook?” Occasionally, Mycroft feels bad about letting Gwen spend her job money on him and his brother instead of on herself and their family. Although, the next hour potentially being filled with less small talk and more casual contact lessens that burden.
“Tell me about it, come on.” Gwen stands to lead him to his kitchen, a kitchen that Gwen has found herself to love. Taking out penne pasta, cheese and a small pint of milk for the sauce, she passes him the pasta to measure out for the three of them.
“Have you heard of a mind palace?” He starts, filling a pot up with water and a splash of oil. “Mm... Someone in psych mentioned it once” Gwen replies as she preheats the oven to put the pasta bake in later, she watches Mycroft pour in about 300g.
Scoffing, Mycroft smiles back at her, “Yes, well Sherlock got it into one of his obsessions and came back with an experiment.” Stirring the pasta with a wooden spoon, Mycroft hums to himself, usually he cooks by himself but having her here with him makes everything less lonely.
“The mind palace is a way to memorise long strings of data. To imagine a place you know and fill it with stories and information. In theory you can’t ever forget anything.”
“Is it working?” Letting the pasta boil, Mycroft feels his partner stand behind him. “I certainly remember you, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Keep up that act and your brother will catch you having feelings.” Gwen teases lightly, wrapping her arms around Mycroft’s waist, letting cold hands peek out of warm sleeves. “What a tragedy...”
The duo stands there in silence for a moment, Gwen’s head on Mycroft’s shoulder, staring at cooking pasta. The peace is interrupted by Mycroft wriggling away from cold hands on his bare abdomen. “Must you be freezing...?”
“Oh it’s the chilly London air that keeps my warmth...” Gwen runs her cold hands up her partner’s side, who fortunately runs hot. “Put on some gloves for once!” Squirming, Mycroft points at the pasta and stalks off to grab a scarf that was on the bannister, forgotten since winter.
Taking the girl’s hands in his, Mycroft wraps their hands up. “Why can’t I use you to warm me up?” Gwen complains and Mycroft has many reasons. “Because my body lays in complete equilibrium, I can’t have you mucking it up with cold hands.”
“Cold hands, warm heart.”
Ignoring them, Mycroft stirs the pot and turns the heat down. “Cold hands means you’re keeping them away from me!” Flicking the tap on, Mycroft lets the cold water douse their hand before flicking it at his friend, who shields herself with her arms with a laugh. “Are you staying over?”
“Yeah, cousins coming over for the weekend, she’s taking my room.” Neither seems too displeased and Mycroft starts on the sauce. “Then you can warm up under my heated blanket later.”
“If you’ll join me.”
“Always.”
The two sit with each other for long enough before the door slams open; Sherlock and his friends have come home. So, the two older kids pop their pasta in a dish, in the oven and retreat to their room- far away from the chaos unfolding a door down.