There will be one last chapter to this story. But until then, I hope that you enjoy this.

"Please, come in, why don't you. Make yourself at home........." Mycroft called out as he closed the door and turned to go after his visitor.

"Oh, don't you worry, Mycroft. I will!" (Y/n) called back in reply, as she made her way to find the main living room. The lady determined to tell the older Holmes everything that she wanted to tell him. That she wouldn't allow him to push her out of this new life and role that she had adapted to. That no matter his little schemes, she wouldn't allow him to come between her and Sherlock again. (Y/n) seeing that the younger Holmes was more in need of love than he had been when she had met him that summer all those years ago. That she would be the big sister that she had always wanted to be to Sherlock.

Pushing her way through a heavy wooden door, she slowly moved into the living room. The fire in the hearth the only thing lighting the gloomy room. The room, the home in fact, was just as she had expected. It was formal. Everything in its place. Every book and object perfectly placed. (Y/n) sure that if she were to move anything, even by a millimetre, Mycroft would notice it. 

She had to admit that Mycroft could always be a little dour. That he liked dark and subdued, even in his youth. (Y/n) always doing her best to brighten him up a little. A splash of vibrant colour in a tie. A garish Christmas sweater, when the holidays came around. But this, this reminded her of a mausoleum. The dark, a little suffocating. As if she had climbed into a coffin and had been buried. To her, just more proof that the Holmes-ness had completely taken him over. That the old Mycroft, that she had loved. A Mycroft that one Valentine's Day had stood in the street looking up at her flat window, and recited Shakespearean sonnets. That had brought her flowers 'just because'. That had held her in his arms, and told her that he loved her, was long gone.

But then, she saw something. On the small table next to a large leather chair that seemed to dominate the room. The sparkle from the dancing flames of the fire, caught in the glass of well-aged brandy that she could smell, illuminated something that she hadn't seen in a very long time. A box. Well, in fact it was an old shoe box. A box that she had decorated for Mycroft to keep their little keepsakes in. To keep the letters that she had written to him when they had had to be apart. To keep.............to keep...............(Y/n) finding herself dropping onto the floor next to the chair. Her hands reaching for the pictures of a life that she wasn't even sure had been hers, anymore.

                                                       >>-----------------------------------<<

Mycroft made his way to catch up with (Y/n), as she flew through his home as if she knew exactly where she was going. He knew that he couldn't really complain. Earlier that day, he himself had breezed into Sherlock's flat without being invited. But there were things that he didn't want (Y/n) to see. Things that proved that she had done more than annoy him since she had first appeared in his office. Things that proved that she had managed to wheedle her way back into the heart of the Iceman. Proved that he still had feelings for her. That he had never really lost those feelings he had had for her, despite what he had tried to tell himself.

Pushing his way into the living room that was only lit by the flickering flames of the fire, Mycroft stopped; his eyes growing wide as he saw (Y/n) knelt on the floor. Her hands filled with the old pictures that he himself had taken to perusing every night. The older Holmes able to see the glint of the tears that slowly made their way down her cheeks, as she looked through the old photos.

"Myckie..............I didn't know that you had these." (Y/n) began, as she wiped the tears from her eyes. The salty liquid making it harder for her to see the slightly browning images.

Myckie. Mycroft hadn't heard her call him that for so long. He had always grumbled when she had said it. But in truth, the nickname had made him feel special. Had made him feel loved. The older Holmes believing that he would never hear it again. Mycroft slowly making his way over to (Y/n). Sitting down in his old chair, as she spread the photos across the floor in front of her.

"Oh my god! This is when we went to the Tower of London. I made you put your head on the block so I could pretend to chop it off.........." (Y/n) continued, as she picked up the picture. Looking at it before handing it to the man that now sat in the chair next to her.

"This one was when we went to that masquerade party. How I ever talked you into going to it, never mind wearing that costume, I'll never know. But I'm glad I did............"

"Christmas.........I bought you that terrible sweater, and you wore it all day despite the fact that I knew you hated it. And you got me that beautiful bottle of perfume............." (Y/n) chuckled, as she handed Mycroft those pictures too.

"Its my old flat.........do you remember that awful wallpaper, Myckie? It was ghastly. That atrocious green colour. I swear that whoever chose it, must have been colorblind. Though I can't really say anything. That bright pink old rag rug that I bought from the Portobello market, certainly didn't make it any better..........."

"And...................." (Y/n) gasped, as she found the photobooth pictures. Her fingers brushing over the images of her and Mycroft in their youth.

"I.............I thought I'd lost this. I thought............Good god, we look so young. I'm not sure I can even remember being that young. You look so goofy with my hair over your head. We look so happy. So in.............."

"In love.........." Mycroft interrupted. (Y/n)'s eyes flying up to meet his.

"Yes............in love. Or at least I was with you. I think that was one of the best days I have ever had. If I had known then that it was all a lie..........."

"None of it was a lie, (Y/n)." Mycroft suddenly protested. The Iceman letting his veneer finally crack. The older Holmes reaching forward and carefully brushing the tears from her cheeks.

"I loved you more than you could ever know. In fact.............I still love you. No matter what I said. No matter what I did that day. Despite how I have tried to convince myself since then; I have never, could never stop loving you." Mycroft confessed. The words tumbling out of his mouth as if they were escaping from a prison that they had been locked in for far too long. The older Holmes no long feeling the need to keep them confined. His heart beating at a pace as (Y/n) moved closer. As she placed her hand on his cheek.

"Oh Myckie." (Y/n) replied softly, before her lips touched his.