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Orange Outfits (Bronze Keys)

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This story is No. 7 in the series "The Myffy Chronicles". You may wish to read the series introduction and the preceeding stories first.

Summary: Dawn's making waffles in Mycroft's kitchen. VII in the Myffy Chronicles.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Literature > Crime > Sherlock HolmesJadedFR1511,8653144,86313 Mar 1213 Mar 12Yes
Author: Jaded
Story: Orange Outfits (Bronze Keys)
Disclaimer: Joss owns Buffy, Sherlock (BBC) was created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and is based on the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I write for fun, not for profit.
Summary: Dawn's making waffles in Mycroft's kitchen. VII in the Myffy Chronicles.
Warnings: Again, some mentions of possible slash.
A/N 1: I'm thinking of renaming the series, as Sherlock, John, and Dawn keep worming their way in here and its becoming just as much about them as it is Mycroft and Buffy. What do you all think?

Orange Outfits (Bronze Keys)

It was ten in the morning when Dawn stumbled down to the kitchen. Mycroft, who'd chosen to take a week off to spend time with Buffy as she went through the initial recovery, was sitting at the island and eating a bowl of entirely too unhealthy cereal. He wasn't dressed, was still in his pajamas and dressing gown, and he had to hide a smile at the way Dawn did a double-take at him. She didn't say anything about the lack of a suit (he knew she joked he'd been born in one), but just smiled slightly and started rooting through his icebox.

“Buffy's getting waffles this morning,” Dawn announced, finding a box of mix he hadn't' even known he had and setting it on the counter. Next came milk, blue-berries, raspberries, (again, both of which he hadn't seen before), and butter. Mycroft said nothing. “She deserves a treat and I haven't made her waffles in ages—you do have a waffle-maker, right? Cause I so don't wanna have to ask John to grab mine and bring it over.”

“Bottom cabinet by the stove,” he replied, watching her disappear between the stove and the island before emerging with the iron. “She likes your waffles?”

Everyone likes my waffles,” Dawn corrected as she set the sleek machine down in front of him. She smiled wryly. “Well, they do when I don't add stuff.”

Mycroft, who'd seen her 'add stuff' to perfectly good food before, huffed a small laugh. “So you know how to make normal food then?” he asked as she started going through the drawers, no doubt looking for the utensils.

Dawn froze and slowly turned around. “Was that a joke?” she asked incredulously, eyes bright. He nodded slightly and she gave him a slow, albeit surprised, grin. “Wow. Hell really has melted over.”

That stopped him. “'Melted over?'” he asked, ignoring the insinuation about his lack of humor. He was used to it. “Isn't the correct phrase 'frozen over?'”

“Not if you read Dante,” Dawn told him, shaking away the surprise and going back to rooting in his kitchen. Her voice was muffled as she practically crawled into one of the lower cupboards. “According to him, in the ninth circle of hell, Satan is trapped mid-chest by a field of ice as he eats Brutus, Cassius, and Judas. The ice contains sinners and to walk over it, you have to step on their heads. It's kept frozen by the wings on his three chins, which continuously beat to create a cold wind. Hence, melted over.”

Mycroft had never read Dante's Inferno, though he'd obviously heard of it. Something occurred to him. “Does a hell dimension like that exist?”

“I don't know,” Dawn said, turning back to him and looking thoughtful. “Theoretically it makes sense but I never thought to ask the people who've been in one what it was like. Not happy memories.”

Mycroft made a noncommittal humming sound as he took another spoonful of his cereal.

Having Dawn cooking in his kitchen was...odd, to say the least. Mycroft enjoyed cooking himself, it soothed him, so Buffy had never attempted anything. When Mycroft wasn't cooking, his housekeeper usually was. Bettina was a marvelous woman and once or twice a week she'd come in and make casseroles and the like that he could keep frozen until popping them in the oven. Bettina days, as she called them, were usually the bad days, when he didn't get home until late for some reason or another.

“Is she awake yet?” Dawn asked him, looking over. “I know the mystical stuff Willow gave her always konks her out.”

“She wasn't when I left the room,” he said. Buffy had considered going back to her flat in the Council apartment building but Mycroft had convinced her it would be quieter at his place and she wouldn't be tempted to help out the other girls if she wasn't near them. He'd offered to put her in the guest room, so she wouldn't have to worry about him jostling her injuries in sleep, but she'd rather firmly put her foot down that she wanted “Mycroft Snuggles” and he hadn't been about to say no, even with her sister on the second floor.

Dawn had been calling Buffy off and on the entire day before, worried and fretting, and so her appearance on his stoop last night, bag in hand, hadn't surprised either of them. She didn't know it, but he'd put her in Sherlock's old room, where he'd stayed when he'd been getting (relatively) clean. He thought it oddly appropriate.

Which reminded him, he had to tell Buffy about the new development between his brother and Dawn and what it could possibly mean. Buffy was convinced John and Sherlock were dating without really knowing they were dating (which he privately suspected was right), but what he'd seen of his brother didn't particularly correlate with that.

“Are you enjoying living on Baker Street?” he asked casually, chewing the last bit of his cereal. Dawn nodded absently, pulling out the waffle-mix from the box. She coughed as some of it went into the air.

“Well, it's never boring,” she quipped and he chuckled. She smiled as she started measuring mix. “I do love it though. Mrs. Hudson's a great landlady—anyone who candle all three of our special brand of crazy has to be.”

Mycroft smirked slightly. Oh, what a wonderful opening. “So you spend a lot of time with Sherlock and John?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I've passed out on their couch a few times,” she agreed. “It gets too quiet downstairs.”

“And Sherlock's not quiet?” he asked, surprised. His brother was rather quiet most of the time...

“It's a different sort of quiet,” she told him, frowning as she tried explaining. “It's like...silence in the flat but not...being alone.”

Ah, that explained it. “It's less quiet with someone else to be quiet with,” he clarified.

She beamed at him. “Exactly!”

“And Sherlock just allows this?” he asked. Sherlock had always hated it when he'd tried that as children...

“I don't give him much choice,” she admitted sheepishly and he couldn't help but chuckle. “I usually just plop down on the couch, commandeer the coffee table, and go to work. One time it took him an hour to even realize I was in the flat.”

He laughed at that. “Was he experimenting again?” he asked knowingly and she nodded. He shook his head, standing with his now empty bowl. “Has he taken over your kitchen space yet?” If he knew his brother at all, he could only imagine what he'd been doing to Dawn's flat...

“I told him he did or stored anything in my kitchen without clearing it with me first, I'd tell John where he hid his expensive box of condoms,” Dawn replied matter-of-fact. Mycroft stumbled, the bowl crashing neatly but loudly into the sink. He turned to her, ignoring the smirk on her face.

“Condoms?” he asked and if his voice had gotten slightly high, they both ignored it.

“John apparently found a really good brand he likes but they're insanely expensive,” she agreed, nodding, and not the least bit perturbed at the topic of discussion. The sound of footsteps on the stairs caused them both to glance over expectantly. Dawn continued, not taking her eyes off the doorway. “So he bought a ginormous box and after John pissed him off, Sherlock hid them. John's still trying to figure out where cause he says sleeping with Nancy just isn't the same and he's not buying new ones when he already has a box.”

“I do not want to know,” Buffy declared as she stepped into the room, hair back in a messy ponytail, no make-up, and dressed in his extra dressing gown, a tank top, and short shorts. She was beautiful.

“Probably not,” Dawn agreed, eying Buffy a moment before apparently confirming she should be out of bed. She smirked. “In fact, I'm pretty sure Mycroft wished I hadn't told him.”

“Hmm,” he agreed even as he bent down and kissed Buffy lightly. She smiled up at him, eyes still somewhat hooded with sleep, before plopping down on the stool he'd just vacated. He took the other one as Dawn went back to making waffles. Looking between them a moment, Mycroft picked up his coffee cup and hid a smile. If you took away the dressing gown, the sisters were dressed exactly alike, right down to the color of their tops and bottoms.

“So, basically, you're black-mailing my brother to keep him out of your kitchen?” he asked and she nodded. He lifted his cup to her in a mock toast. “Good on you.”


Dawn left around two, saying Mycroft had everything under control. Personally, Mycroft thought the discussion of Sherlock and her kitchen got her worried what he might do in her absence and she wanted to make sure he stayed out. Buffy said it was just her sister not wanting to feel like a third wheel. It might have been a little bit of both.

Either way, with Dawn gone and the housekeeper with the week off, he and Buffy had the townhouse to themselves and nothing to do.

They decided to make the most of it.


A few days and one ranting phone call between a furious Dawn and her amused sister later, Mycroft had come to a decision. He'd spent most of the afternoon cooking, Buffy being treated to spa day out of the house as part of her “recovery,” which was code for let's spoil his girlfriend since she usually didn't let him do it too often.

Buffy had been almost glowing when she returned that afternoon, having been pampered in the royal way (her majesty had something to do with that, he was sure). She'd been beautiful as she came down to dinner and had been in good spirits throughout the meal.

“I have something for you,” he said once they'd finished dessert. She eyed him, leaning back in her chair. “What?”

“Spa day, romantic dinner, and now a gift...what's going on, Mycroft?” she asked. She didn't seem angry or worried, just nervous. He wondered what was going through her head.

He pulled out the flat box from it had been sitting on the chair next to him, waiting and figuratively burning a hole in his pocket. He slid it across the table, catching what he thought might have been a flash of disappointment. She covered it quickly, picking the box up curiously and sliding the top off. She stared.

“It's a key.”

“Yes,” he agreed, amused, as she picked it up, turning it over in her hands.

“To your heart?” she guessed, looking at him with a puzzled smile.

“And the townhouse,” he replied and her mouth dropped down in an “O” as she got it. He smiled, taking her hand in his as he gently kissed her knuckles.

“Buffy...Will you move in with me?”

The End

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