#Sherlockfic

[minisherl]

I thought I could like it like this.

So here is my first official attempt at a fanfic, I look forward to all feedback you choose to give :]

................................................................................................................................

As he seals the envelope and places it on the musical stand, he also seals away the storm of emotion threatening to erupt. Not yet. He can’t do this to Dr. Watson, not at his wedding.

He slides out with his coat, with every step that leads him further from John the air seems colder, the night sky darker and his eyes fill up with everything he’s been holding back. How pathetic, he’s not even gotten off the premises of the venue and he can already taste his sorrow, rolling down his cheeks and through the gap in his parted lips. Sherlock has never experienced synesthesia, the associations he did make where always based on facts and logical connections, and this time he realized what heartbreak tastes like. Salty, bitter almost.

Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, indeed. It was supposed to be him and John, just them two against the world, but Sherlock is alone in his loss. Seeing John happy, content, in love makes him smile, while the reason for his friend’s happiness drives the knife deeper into his spine, sending aches and shudders throughout his body.

He’s been wandering for a while now and finds his feet taking him on a familiar path - some turns, a few tunnels, the sound of paper rustling, hushed whispers. Sherlock finds himself taking out his wallet before he even has the time to think and soon enough, he’s on his way to Mycroft’s. “Pick the lock, take a left, crash on the couch, prep everything and off into the sweet numbness, away from pain or anything else for that matter.” he thinks as he enters his brother’s house.

Mycroft’s home was never really a place of comfort, rather it was quite unpleasant to be in for Sherlock, but in times like these it wasn’t a priority, soon enough he wouldn’t care anyway.

“Really picking the lock ? Why can’t he just ask for a spare key, or at least announce his arrival, if not ask for permission to do so.” thought Myrcoft as he headed through the now useless door. He doesn’t bother taking off his coat or shoes, wanting to find out what his brother is up to this time, regretting his own eagerness upon entering the living room.

There lays Sherlock, sprawled on the couch, head thrown back, arm loosely hanging off the side just barely touching the floor, the other one thrown over his head covering his eyes. Mycroft finds the scene akin to a renaissance painting, however the facts aren’t quite as poetic. In front of the couch lay several discarded items, all pointing to one conclusion. And so, he looks for the list. It doesn’t take long, amidst the mess he finds a note, reading its contents Mycroft grows highly concerned, but it doesn’t last as he hears a faint noise coming from his brother’s direction.

“Dis-s-s-appointment” breathes out Sherlock “yes, that’s the word to describe what you must be feeling”, he groans and shifts his position, tucking in his arms and legs until he’s huddled up on his side, with just his head elevated on some cushions. He hasn’t opened his eyes, and Mycroft is glad that Sherlock isn’t a witness to the mess of emotion portrayed on his face.

For a moment Mycroft hesitates to speak, having trouble finding the words, something many wouldn’t believe him being capable of. Another sound brings back his concern, it’s quiet, but unmistakable. A sob comes from Sherlocks throat, sounding hoarse and pained. Of course, now he sees, the unmistakable trails of tears, puffy eyes, the reason for this. “Sherlock, should I call for a medic?” he asks remembering his brother’s state. “No, it seems I can’t be relied on for even the simple task of dying” sighed sherlock, still not opening his eyes.

Mycroft draws in a deep breath and moves from his crouched position to sit on the closest chair. Something in him drives the older man to place his hand amidst Sherlocks curls, slowly caressing him, tying to provide some comfort to his, now shuddering brother. Sherlock jumps slightly at the contact, but doesn’t protest, the detective just keeps drawing shallow breaths in-between quiet sobs.

“I don’t understand Sherlock, why now? Things, things were good, weren’t they?”

“I got involved.”

Now Mycroft understands, of course, John. In fact, he had noted how attached his brother was to the doctor prior, he should’ve known what the wedding meant for Sherlock. He felt guilt in the back of his mind for what he said on the phone earlier “I warned you. Don’t get involved”, the phrase resonated in his skull.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry” Mycroft draws a breath and keeps talking “I should’ve understood, I know that my words couldn’t have made it easier. You can stay if you’d like to, I’ve been there for you before and I still am here to help.”.

A few minutes pass, the detective shifts again and finally opens his eyes, looking straight at his brother he whispers “I thought I could like it like this.”.

[tenerifefics]

My first fic in the Sherlock fandom. Please give it a read and let me know what you think. It’s Top Sherlock, which I know a lot of people have asked for lately. 

So far it doesn’t have the kudos or bookmarks or comments a lot Top Sherlock fics have so please encourage me with some kind words.

[penguinpalwrites]

A Top Sherlock / Bottom John fic I wrote a couple years ago. Please give it a read and comment if you haven’t already! 

[ayla-221bee]

Mystade Shades of Purple Chapter 2

  Link to chapter one: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24986056/chapters/60493702#workskin  and https://hogwartsjaguar97.tumblr.com/post/622435736610914304/mystrade-pride-fic-shades-of-purple-aka-the

   Soho 1989  

 It had been about a year since he had that wonderful kiss in a sidestreet in Soho with a stranger and Greg had not been able to get it out of his head.

   Greg had kissed other people in the past six or so months since that evening, both men and women,  but they felt rather empty compared to the kiss he had with Mycroft.  He liked the kisses that they had with those strangers in clubs but they weren’t the same, there wasn’t the same spark between him and the person who he kissed.

 The kisses that he had exchanged with old girlfriends and strangers before Mycroft didn’t feel that exciting. Greg spent hours thinking about that kiss in Soho and he often wondered why it could never leave his mind. He knew that it was somewhat juvenile to think of a kiss as special...but it was.

 Greg wasn’t sure if it was because it was his first kiss with a man or it was the alcohol that made it so thrilling. It might have been the fact that he had been so nervous even stepping into that bar in Soho and he had the feeling that he was doing something rather rebellious, going against the norm. It was half the reason why Greg considered his bisexuality to be somewhat ‘cool,’ other than the fact that he was in the same club as Bowie and Freddy Mercury.

 Greg found it somewhat impossible to move on from that kiss, no matter how many times he tried. He knew that he did tend to fall quickly and hard, and he had not been able to shake off the fragility of his teenage years when it came to matters of the heart.

 He had moped for days after his date with Mycroft had gotten cancelled last minute. He had been so excited and incredibly nervous to go out with Mycroft. He had spent ages picking something to wear, the best way to style his hair, and he spent far too long debating about the best way to greet Mycroft and if he was meant to bring flowers or not.

 It was through a phone call from Mycroft the evening before their date that had put an end to Greg’s plans. He usually loved his phone calls with Mycroft, they had at least two of them a week since they had met. They were often the highlight of Greg’s week when the two of them talked about everything and nothing.  

 Greg hadn’t been that keen on phone calls after the last one that he had exchanged with Mycroft. He tended to associate them with disappointment after the date had been cancelled.

 Mycroft sounded positively upset, almost disappointed as he spoke on the phone, he tried to hide it and put on a bit of a ‘telephone voice,’ that sounded posher than how he normally talked.  He could tell that Mycroft was heavily burdened with something, he tried to ask what was wrong and Mycroft changed the subject, furiously denying that something was wrong before apologising once more about changing the plans.

         He hung up the phone shortly with the vague promise that they would arrange another day. Putting down the phone felt a bit too final for Greg’s liking and the goodbye that they shared felt a bit too permanent for Greg’s liking.

 He had only known Mycroft for a few weeks through one kiss and countless hours on the phone and  somehow Mycroft had managed to leave a permanent imprint on Greg that seemed impossible to move on from.

 Greg smoked two cigarettes to build up the courage to walk into the club in Soho.

         He could hardly understand why he felt so nervous, it wasn’t as if it was his first time in the club these days. It had been the first time he had been in months, his girlfriend didn’t like it when he went out to clubs and he had stopped going to keep her happy.

           Kate didn’t like the idea of him looking at other women and Greg didn’t think that she would be exactly thrilled to catch him looking at a bloke.  He hadn’t told her that he liked men and he kept it hidden deep like an old jacket in the back of the wardrobe.

 It wasn’t as if he was ashamed of being bisexual, he found the fact so unimportant. He never went around telling people who he fancied what hand he wrote with and he didn’t tell people that he was bisexual. It was a pointless bit of information that only mattered to him and no one else.

 At one point in the five months of his relationship with Kate, Greg wondered if his bisexuality was a phase. He felt as if he had forgotten that he liked men at one point in his efforts of fitting in with other couples and pretending to be straight.  He felt as if he didn’t really fit in with them, almost as if he was an outsider as he had been with men right before his relationship with Kate.

 He put the thought out of his head as quickly as it arrived once a good looking bartender caught his eye.

 Greg scuffed his cigarette out with his boot and sauntered into the club with great ease despite not being there for months.  

 He couldn’t even understand why he felt so nervous, it wasn’t as if the security by the door would ask him about his dating history before they let him, or the bar staff would refuse to serve him once they found out that he had not long ended a relationship with his girlfriend.

 Greg ordered himself a drink, stood by the edge of the bar and allowed himself to enjoy the music.  He knew that after a drink or two, he would be on the dance floor amongst the large group of men dancing to Dead or Alive and Culture Club, it would be the perfect way to recover after a disastrous breakup.

 Greg made his way to the dance floor and allowed himself to get lost in the music. The Smiths had never been his favourite thing to dance but Greg did not care, he needed to dance and escape the real world for a bit.  This song and being in this club were the only things that mattered.

 After dancing to two songs, someone across the bar caught his eye.  It had been about a year since he had last seen Mycroft and months since their date was cancelled the day before, but  Greg was thrilled to see him regardless. Greg wasn’t too sure if it was the alcohol that was talking but honestly couldn’t care.

 Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement and shot him a shy grin across the bar once he had caught his eye.

 He tried to give Mycroft his best inviting grin as he made himself to the bar, swaying to the music as he walked.

 “Fancy seeing you here,” Greg said with a grin as Mycroft approached him. “I thought that gay bars weren’t your thing? What brings you here tonight?”

 “I do like the music,” Mycroft said with a sheepish expression on his face. “I was wondering if I could buy you a drink? It is the least that I can do after the last time we talked.”

 Greg nodded enthusiastically, he had never been someone who turned down a drink.  “I’ll have the same as you.”

 Mycroft nodded and braved the packed bar and eventually came back with two glasses in his hands. “I ended up with rum instead of whisky, I hope that you don’t mind.”

 Greg happily accepted the glass that was pushed into his hand and he huddled up close to Mycroft, partly to hear him better. “How is university?” Greg asked, rather unsure about what he was meant to say. “I suppose that it was crazy enough that you had to cancel all those months ago.”

 Mycroft grimaced and sighed before he spoke. “I can assure you that I did not want to cancel on you. I am surprised that you were happy to see me, then again, going by that dancing of yours, I assume that you might be somewhat intoxicated.”

 Greg raised an eyebrow and removed his glass from his lips. “I am not that drunk,” he said. “Am I not allowed to be happy to see you?”

 “No one is usually happy to see me,” Mycroft replied.

 “Well, I’m glad to be the first one,” Greg said with a smile.

 He was pushed close into Mycroft’s side as someone shoved past him to get to the bar. Greg didn’t move away and stayed in close, Mycroft didn’t seem to mind too much.  He scanned Mycroft up and down   taking him all in, making Mycroft blush slightly as he noticed. “You look really good,” he said into Mycroft’s ear. “I like your shirt.”

 “I like your hair,” Mycroft said somewhat awkwardly as if he had never really complimented someone before.  “You make me think of James Dean when you have that jacket on. The earring is new.”

 Greg ran his hand through his hair and shuffled in closer. “Have you come here to find someone? Anyone caught your eye?”

 Mycroft took in a deep breath and took a long sip of his drink for courage before he nodded.  “I do not think that he might be interested...We were meant to be going out for dinner before I regretfully had to cancel.”

 Greg finished off his drink and grabbed Mycroft’s hand before the other had much a chance to respond. “You can have a dance with me and we’ll see what happens.”

 “I do not dance,”  Mycroft said. “I have never danced in my life and I will never dance.”

 He did not let go out his hand despite his protests and allowed Greg to drag him to the dance floor. He stood there somewhat awkwardly, swaying to the music as Greg started to dance.

 “God, I love this song,” Greg said loudly that Mycroft could hear him. “Come one, have some fun and let your hair down. I reckon that you are too serious.”

 “I am capable of having fun,” Mycroft protested.

         “It’s impossible not to have fun when you are on a dance floor with good looking blokes,” Greg teased, pulling Mycroft in close. “You are the best-looking one.”

 Mycroft snorted loudly and shook his head. “You must be very drunk.”

 Greg pulled him in close and shook his head. There was a slight buzz from the alcohol but it was pleasant. The atmosphere of the club, the music and being with Mycroft was responsible for his good mood than the alcohol. He had needed this so badly after being in a disastrous relationship.

 “We don’t have to dance,” he said to Mycroft once the song had ended. Mycroft seemed to enjoy watching him dance than actually wanting to dance himself and swayed awkwardly to the music.

 “I told you that I couldn’t dance,” Mycroft said into his ear. “You are a fantastic dancer, everyone is watching you.”

 Greg cast an eye around the room and turned his attention back to Mycroft. “I haven’t been dancing in a while, my  girlfriend didn’t like it.”

 Mycroft looked him up and down and bit his bottom lip, he looked rather deep in thought. “Would this girlfriend mind if I bought you another drink? Or if I took you somewhere else?”

 Greg wrapped his arm around Mycroft’s waist and attempted to sway with him to the music in the attempt to get him to ‘dance,’ with him. “I’m unattached,” Greg murmured. “I would very much like another drink with you. Where are you thinking about going?”

 “Another dance and we can see where the night takes us?” Mycroft suggested with a grin.

 “I don’t normally do anything like this,” Mycroft murmured, grinning, as he ran his fingers through Greg’s hair. “I did not expect to see you at the club tonight.”

 Greg leaned back against the headboard and traced his fingers along with constellation like freckles on Mycroft’s arm. It was impossible not to smile back. He had the odd feeling that the earth had turned a certain way for them to meet up again. He did briefly wonder if it was fate. He had always been a bit of a romantic.

 “What would you have done if you didn’t see me then?” Greg asked with a grin. “Just listened to the music?”

 Mycroft let out a chuckle and Greg couldn’t help but join in. “I suppose that I would have done that and gone to bed for ten. I did not plan to go out tonight.”

 Greg stretched out on the bed and ran his hand along Mycroft’s thigh that was covered by the duvet, and pressed a kiss on the outside of his wrist. “You must have done something right for fate to bring us together and to spend the early hours of the morning getting shagged.”

 Mycroft wrinkled his nose in disgust and rolled his eyes good naturally. “‘Shag,’ is such a common word, Gregory,” he lightly scolded.

         “You did say worse things earlier on,” Greg smirked. “I did not expect those words to come out of a mouth like yours. I didn’t think that posh boys even knew words like that.”

 “I’m full of surprises,” Mycroft grinned. “I suppose that this does make up for last year?”

 Greg shrugged and played with Mycroft’s long fingers, he felt the need for a cigarette but he had finished off his box before he entered the club.  “What even made you cancel? University deadlines?”

 Mycroft worried his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head, dismissing him. “Nothing for you to worry about. I doubt that you would understand.”

 “What wouldn’t I-”

 He silenced off Greg’s question by crowding him against the headboard and kissed him, teasing.  “I am just really glad that you were willing to forgive  me and that you happened to be in the club tonight.”

 He ran a long-fingered hand up  Greg’s thigh and hummed into the kiss. Greg’s hands gravitated towards his arse. It was the lushest arse that he had ever seen on someone. Greg wondered if fate was doing him a favour tonight.

         “I’m very glad that decided to have a bit of fun and have a dance with me” Greg smirked. “You are very forgiven.”

 Mycroft almost had a rather tender expression on his face and placed a hand on his cheek. Greg felt a jolt inside him almost as if the atoms in his body had been rearranged. It would have frightened him in any other situation.

 “Me too,” Mycroft murmured, “I rarely let myself have any fun.”

 He let out an undignified squeak when Greg suddenly flipped him over onto his back. It broke into a breathy chuckle as Greg started to press kisses from the scattering of freckles on his nose and started to work his way down.

 It was a loud ringing of the phone that loudly taken Greg out of the moment that he was in. He had hoped that Mycroft was going to ignore it,  but Mycroft had worked his way from under him and slipped a dressing gown on before Greg could hardly think about what planet he was on.

 He could hear Mycroft talk on the phone in a low and serious voice. He sighed several times and sounded so exhausted from what Greg could make out on the phone.

         Greg tried to position himself on the bed in a more dignified position when he walked back in. Mycroft looked as if he had aged several years in the two minutes that he had been on the phone and he started to flatten down his very ruffled hair.  

         “Is everything alright?” Greg asked with a frown, he pushed back his fringe from where it had flopped down over one eye.

 Mycroft started to collect their clothes from the floor and organised their items into two piles in the bed. “You need to go, “ he murmured. “I am so sorry.”

 Greg stood up from the bed and put on a clean pair of boxers that Mycroft had shoved in his direction. “Is your boyfriend coming home or something?”

 Mycroft looked up at him as if he had told a joke and let out a humourless chuckle. His posture was unnaturally stiff as if he was propped up to a metal pole.  “That would be an easier situation to deal with.”

 He started to pull on his clothes that managed to stay relatively crease-free despite being tossed on the floor earlier on. His eyes were calculating and he seemed to be lost in his own world as he worried his bottom lip between his teeth.

 “What’s happening then?” Greg asked, “You were fine a moment ago.”

 “And I’m fine now,” Mycroft said briskly. “Thank you.”

 “Are you seriously going to do this again?” Greg asked as he shoved the last pieces of clothing on. “I don’t mind you blowing me off once but twice.”

 Mycroft sighed and sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. “This is not my own choice,” he murmured.  “I have enjoyed the night we had but -”

 “You don’t think it’s a good idea?” Greg answered for him, somewhat bitter. “Are you even going to call me ?”

 Mycroft fastened up his trousers and sighed. “My situation would not allow me to have a relationship even if I wanted to. I do like you, Greg.”

 The words fluttered in Greg’s stomach teasingly. He tried to not let himself get caught up in the moment as he knew that he would be severely disappointed. “What is the situation?”

 “You wouldn’t understand.”

 “I’m a very good listener,” Greg countered. “I doubt that it is that bad.”

         Mycroft seemed to consider it for a moment,  the words ‘my brother,’ fell out of his mouth but he had quickly closed his mouth again and shook his head.  “I had a really good night with you,” Mycroft tried to smile but it did not reach his eyes. “I think that in another world  we could be very happy together but the timing isn’t there.”

 “I could wait for you,” Greg replied. “I think you are just scared. You know that this a good thing that we’ve got going on and you are running away.”

 “I thought that you were a police constable and not a psychologist,” Mycroft snapped before he apologised with a sigh.

 Greg shook his head and scolded himself for getting wrapped up with someone who had already ditched him before. He knew that things wouldn’t happen between him and Mycroft, they seemed to come into difficulty from the moment they met. He didn’t even know Mycroft’s name in the first night they met.

 “Your loss,” Greg shrugged as he shoved his jacket on.

         “This isn’t my choice,” Mycroft sighed. “My life  is...complicated.”

 “Isn’t life meant to be ?” Greg countered. “I think that you need to have a friend at least, someone who you could talk to.”

 Mycroft seemed to consider it for a long moment and sighed. He reached out his wallet and pulled out some money and placed it in Greg’s pocket when he refused to take it. It made him feel rather cheap.

 “It is for a taxi home,” Mycroft said. “I am truly sorry. I do like you and I cannot drag you into this mess.”

 Greg pushed back his hair and sighed. “You can phone me if you want,” he said. “I think that you do need a friend...I’m willing to be that for you.”

 Mycroft perched on the bed and looked rather small, the confidence that he had in the club seemed non-existent. He bent down and kissed him goodbye, he had the odd feeling that it would be the last time that he would see Mycroft.

 Greg straightened himself out and sighed. “I will see you around, yeah?” he murmured.  

 It took all of Greg’s strength to leave Mycroft’s flat that evening.

     Mycroft didn’t know what inspired him to go to the club that night, he had never enjoyed clubs. He didn’t even really enjoy the music that was being played.

 A part of him hoped that he would have seen Greg.  He had always kept an eye out for him on the rare occasion that he felt brave enough to venture down to Soho and when his burdens had lifted from his shoulders slightly.

 He hadn’t seen in Greg in a long time, he had assumed that he had managed to get himself a girlfriend or a boyfriend and it had put his days in the club to an end.  He knew that there would be a snowflake’s chance in hell that something would happen between them.   His happiness did not even have a priority in his own life.

         Mycroft tried to let himself enjoy the night, allow himself to get caught up in the music and forget about his own life for several hours. Each time he had walked into Soho, he always realised how much that he needed a night like this.

 One night where his biggest concern was about the music that they were playing in the club and what he was going to drink. A night where he did not have to be the adult that he pretended to be.

 A night where he could be himself for several hours and pretend to be somewhat ordinary, unburdened by the work on his desk and attempting to help his little brother who did not want to be helped or care for himself. A night away from parents who disapproved of him and were happily ignorant about what their youngest son got up to.

 He needed a night away from that burden but he would snap back into reality the moment that his pager buzzed or if the phone rang.

 He tried to enjoy the music, he normally would not care for The Smiths in the real world, but right now, they were his favourite band. He never really understood the lyrics of ‘      Panic’     before in the real world, but tonight, they spoke to him.

 He looked over at the dance floor and he felt his heart twinge and his stomach flutter at the sight of Greg dancing away without a care in the world. Mycroft had never cared much about dancing before but he found himself more willing to dance if Greg asked him to.

 Greg stopped dancing for a moment and grinned when he saw him, pushing his hair away from his eyes. He beckoned him over the to the bar as he danced.

 Mycroft thought for a long moment, finished off his drink and ran his hand through his hair before he made his way to the bar.                  How could he have refused?

 He knew that there was only so many chances in life he could take and he did know when it would end or have the opportunity to have a good time.  Tonight almost felt limitless.

[sherlockwatson-holmesblog]

This is my first try at a fic,

And I’d love to know what you all think of it, any kind of constructive criticism is welcomed. This is kind of a 2 part fic, which I hope you enjoy.

Tagging some of my fav authors, I hope you guys enjoy it. @sherlockedcarmilla @johnlockunicorn @shelleysprometheus @7-percent @chriscalledmesweetie @221bvanshika @jbaillier @shiplocks-of-love @88thparallel @morganeuk @lakoda0518 @sherlockwatson-holmes @trustmesherlock

If want me to tag you in the next post, please do tell me.❤️

For the prompt- “Are you okay?”

“Are you okay?”, John’s steps faltered on the threshold of 221B. He slowly turned around to see Sherlock staring at him with his blue-green eyes, no doubt deducing him this very second. Sherlock looked at John with pleading, concern flickering under the veil of a disguise. A disguise kept up for the most part of his existence, to safely tuck away his heart and to feel protected. Protected, John inwardly scoffed at himself. Wasn’t that his job at one point? To protect Sherlock.

He killed a man on their first night together, just to protect him. He offered Moriarty his life, just to protect him. There was a time in his life when he would’ve done anything to protect this man, staring at him.

And now?

The only thing that he could concentrate on was the bloody eye, the gaunt face, the image of bruised ribs, split lip, cut on the eyebrow and the way he looked at John pleadingly. Monster, you’re a monster. The bullet should’ve killed you in the war. Oh god, why did you let me live?His thoughts circled back around self loathing as John bit his lip. Harder and harder, until it was white as a sheet. He wanted to turn away, forget the last few days, he wanted to forget. He wanted to forget everything, even Sherlock.He wanted nothing but to wrap himself around the black hole of despair and self loathing, He wanted to climb down to the bottom of a pit and never allow himself to leave.

“John.” Sherlock called out softly, but John couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move, just kept staring at Sherlock’s face as the images of the morgue and the rooftop floated in front of his eyes.

“John, are you okay?” John’s thoughts snapped back to reality as he prepared himself to speak, he cleared his throat and said,

“No, I am not okay. I’ll never be okay and we just have to accept that.”

“Why should we accept that?”

“Because it is what is, and what it is, is shit.”

Sherlock stared up at John, still filled with concern. Corners of his mouth downturned into a frown, and John wondered.

I have become the reason of this frown, I’m a monster. I am nothing but a monster.

John felt his eyes sting with tears, oh god why did you let me live?He sniffed, cleared his throat and looked away. He just couldn’t bare seeing the damage he’d done to the one man, he had ever loved.Is this your love, Watson? Bloody, full of rage and violence? You’re not the only one ever, who went through a mourning. You’re nothing special Watson. Wave after wave, it trembled John’s whole body. “She was wrong about me.” He blurted out.

“Mary? How so?”

“I cheated on her.” John confessed, the guilt ploughed on, over his heart. Felt his heart clench with guilt and his hands shake with the exhaustion.

How am I suppose to go on like this?

“No clever comeback?”

“I cheated on you Mary.” He turned towards Mary. Sherlock blinked, perhaps realising what was happening, but he stayed silent as he turned his head towards where John was looking.“There was this girl on the bus and I had been playing with Rosie, so I had this plastic daisy in my hair...” he paused, this definitely felt better. Sharing his story so that Sherlock could see the monster that he was, the monster he had become. “She just smiled at me, and we texted constantly.” He whispered, please Sherlock,Just throw me out of this house.

“You wanna know when? Every time you left the room, that’s when. When you were feeding our daughter; when you were stopping her from crying – that’s when.” John said to Mary,

“That’s all it was though, just texting.”

His eyes stung badly now, his vision blurred with tears, his throat closed up and he felt like there was ball lodged in it.

“But I wanted more.” He said, aware that Sherlock’s eyes were no longer staring at him.

“And d’you know something? I still do. I’m not the man you thought I was; I’m not that guy. I never could be. But that’s the point.”

At that Sherlock’s eyes snapped to John.

He couldn’t control it any longer, his vision blurred and he felt the tears trickle down as he choked tearfully, “That’s the whole point.”

“That’s the whole bloody point. Who you thought I was ...

... is the man who I want to be.”

He said, as Mary disappeared again, in front of his very own eyes.

I want to be, but am I capable of being?

John stared ahead of himself for a few moments, his thoughts circling as he gradually lowered his head into his left hand and began to cry. He just couldn’t do it anymore it was like his flood gates had opened, emotions flowed out of every pore there was on his body. He felt like he had been shot through the chest, he actively wanted to quite, die.

Sherlock saw it happen, saw the head as it gradually lowered and as John’s whole body began to shake. Tears prickled at Sherlock’s eyes, this wasn’t suppose to happen. I had no idea, how could I have not known that John was hallucinating Mary. I’m suppose to know everything.

What use are you?

Sherlock slowly stood up, ignoring his aching limb and ribs in the process. Of all the injuries that his body had sustained, John’s hurt the most. Maybe because love hurts you the most, or the one you love hurts you the most.He circled his one arm around John’s broad back and used the other to hold the nape of his neck. This is comfort, I’m trying to comfort you, John. Please let me, don’t reject me...

please.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.” John murmured, with his face buried in Sherlock’s chest.

“No, but it is what it is.”

He comforted John, but who was going to going to comfort him? He’d been beaten after all.

Stop it, what are you doing?

How many times would he have to loose everything just to keep John safe?

Stop.

Just to protect him from all the foleys in the world?

Stop it.

How much of his reputation, work, blood and tears did he have to loose?

Please stop..

How much did he have to loose on the altar of John Watson?

And then a long forgotten, but still persisting ghost whispered back.

Caring is not an advantage, brother mine.

Mycroft had been right.

[kissing2cousins]

Johniarty—for our fic on AO3 “Flawed Design” where a young John Watson meets the aspiring consulting criminal long before Afghanistan and Baker Street. Check it out here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13194765 #sherlock #sherlockbbc #sherlockholmes #johnwatson #johnwatsonbbc #martinfreeman #jimmoriarty #jamesmoriarty #andrewscott #johniarty #AO3 #ao3 #archiveofourown #sherlockfic #sherlockfanfiction #sherlockfanfic #johniartyfanart #johniartyfanfic

[simplysherlockfanfic]

The study of a haunted mind: two

Read Part One here

A TAB period Spin-off of Connection  

(Connection)Reader x Sherlock

Word Count: 4481

Upon our departure, the fog had filled the streets but there was still no sign of the storms I had been waiting for. The only rumble came from the train and then our carriage. The fog had thickened the further we headed away from London, the cold seeped inside me causing the ache to grow substantially more inconvenient.

I was bothered by the cold, the fog, and the feeling that something was coming. An itch that maybe it wasn’t a storm but something worse. I stared out the window at the passing countryside or the shadows of it along the long winding lane of clay and tried to force the pain from my mind.

Victoria tapped my hand and produced a small vial from a hidden pocket in her trousers. “Sherlock gave me this. I think he was right. Again.”

I glanced at the vial before meeting her gaze, “just what is that?” I recalled their whispered conversation before the men took their leave, Sherlock sharing some of his thoughts from what he had gained from the letter he received. The look of her patient but concealed annoyance with him always amused me.  

“One of his concoctions. He said it has the same quality of pain relief from Laudanum or Morphine but it wouldn’t have the side effects that would slow you down, only dull the pain. I suspect he diluted whatever it is enough that you will still be clear headed. You can drink it.”

I lifted the small vial from her fingers. “Must I drink it all?”

She shrugged craning her neck to look out the small window, “I suppose you could take however much you’d like. Maybe test a bit and see how you feel, but quickly. We’re drawing near. I can see a farmhouse.”

I looked out her window and studied the large ancient structure with a long new addition that stretched out to the right giving it an L shape. The carriage jostled us and Victoria braced me against the seat before the back wheels hit the hole. I yanked the stopper from the vial and splashed about half of its contents on my tongue swallowing quickly.

Victoria’s brow hiked up but she only smirked and looked back toward the window.

By the time we stopped in front of the manor, my ache was gone. I stepped from the carriage without a single wince but still kept my cane in hand. No need to be pushing the bounds when I couldn’t be sure how long the relief would last.

We climbed the few stone stairs and I noticed a divot in which my cane struck. It rested in the O of a name carved in the last step, Hurlstone. A sense of familiarity swept through me.

“Hullo!” We were greeted at the door by Robert Ferguson, the man of the house. His sunken frame filled the doorway, once a great athlete, John had told me, but he was far from his prime today. “Mrs. Doyle, Mrs. Watson,” He stepped back and directed us inside, “I am so glad to see your journey was safe. Dreadful evening out there. I can not believe Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson allowed it but he was very adamant that you could help me.”

Victoria responded and I walked into a very large central room filled with such an amalgamation of the owners that called it home; from the original farmer to the latest addition to the household, the Peruvian lady we’d been asked to assist. I was drawn to the South American items that adorned the wall feeling once again something I couldn’t quite reach. I had seen similar weapons before but they had no American origin whatsoever, a few were Arabic and some Indian. Sherlock had studied them for cases years ago and yet they had strangely stuck in my mind.

Something flickered off one of the hanging utensils and the odor of decay filled the space. A horrid clicking resounded in my head and all I could see were gray walls and ceiling. A building pressure against my ankles, hips, and wrists and then more clicking. The vision hit so suddenly, my lungs ached for oxygen they no longer had.

“Oh, Daddy!” A child’s voice broke me from the trance and I sucked in a gasp as quietly as I could manage.

I shook the image from my mind and turned, breathing deeply with each item my gaze fell upon. A pale, flaxen haired boy, older than I imagined from the cry, had his arms wrapped around Ferguson’s neck as he enthusiastically greeted his father. It reminded me of William and Rosie, the way they latch onto us in greeting but this boy could be no younger than fourteen.

Ferguson introduced us to his son Jack and the boy looked at each of us with something akin to suspicion. His blue eyes sparked something within me, a memory, another feeling of a static charge and distant rumble.

“The famous detective has a partner?” A crooked grin stole over his face for the barest of moments and a gleam in his eye shook me.

I turned away, something about the boy chilled me and I walked over to the fire analyzing the stone work and the iron grate in front. I wondered if maybe Sherlock hadn’t tested the dosage he had given me and the drug was indeed playing tricks on my mind. My eye caught on sixteen hundred and seven chiseled in the middle slab about halfway up the back wall of the fireplace. A date that seemed wrong, another fact that felt out of place.

“I will call for the nurse to bring the baby and check on my wife for any change,” Ferguson remarked.

“If you could inform her that we would like to speak with her,” Victoria responded, her mind still secure in our purpose. She moved to the Peruvian woman’s collection on the wall, studying the weapons and other items, her fingers running over something like a dart or small arrowhead.

The boy hobbled over to the fireplace drawing up close to me and I took a step to the side. He kept his face turned away but it still nagged at me. The look in his eye, the cruel crook of his mouth, it was like a taunt of a past I couldn't yet touch.

He reached out toward the fire and I almost pulled him back before he flicked his wrist, throwing a handful of dust into the flames. The fire sparked and a brief puff of smoke spiraled up. The word ash came to mind and I tried to recall what Sherlock had spoken of it over the years. He would certainly be able to recall information from the look, the smell, the flame’s reaction and be able to identify it from those few clues.

“Jack, do you like your sibling?” Victoria asked but her voice was so very far away.

My head spun with Sherlock’s voice in a state I had only heard once, for God’s sake, control the pain. For William, for me. Stay, y/n, I beg of you. Stay.

The laughter echoed around the high vaulted chamber and a prickling began at the base of my skull. The temperature rose and yet the chill in my blood remained.

I closed my eyes to shake the memory that fought for control. Cold hands and hard eyes, the dark underground cavern flashed and the constant dipping echoed around me. Icy fingers wrapped around my neck, James so loved your neck.

I emerged, shaking the memory briskly, and fixed my eyes on Jack or what used to be Jack. He stood with his back, no longer curved but ramrod straight, to the fire. His childish clothes were gone, replaced with a fine suit. Dark slicked back hair in place of the fair, short cut.

He turned and I gasped, “Jay!”

That smile I couldn't place before complete with smoldering brown eyes. “Did you enjoy the game I left for you?”

“Impossible.” I stepped back glancing toward the stairs hoping no one else would approach. Someone was supposed to come, we were supposed to talk to someone, the reason we were here.

He pulled a small pistol from his suit jacket and pointed it at my chest, “this is the end, though I loathe it this way. Not really my style but desperate times call for desperate measures.”

A scream pierced the air and I was shoved to the side crashing to the ground before the blast of the pistol echoed in the chamber. I slammed into a wall then rolled to my back patting myself down searching for the hole, the blood, but then I saw her, lying not that far from me. “Mary.”

Mary was staring at me, her hand reaching for me.

“No!” I scrambled across the floor, “just hold on.” I searched her dress and found the warm stain growing on the front of her bodice.

“You’ll take… care of them… for me.”

I shook my head desperately trying to clear my vision. “No. No, you… you will. These bullets aren’t that…”

“We both know he didn’t bring bullets from this time.”

“What do you… Mary, you’re in shock.”

“You need to go, before he wakes. It won't be long now. Take care of them. Make sure they’re loved.”

“Mary!”

“Oh, Mary!” His mocking scream bounced off stone walls.

I whipped around and he stood there dominating the room in his perfectly pressed suit with that smirk I couldn't bear. “You’re dead! You’d never survive that fall. That cliff is far too steep.”

“Oh, love. We both know things are never as they seeeem.” He snaked that last word out, his smile sickening but the poison affecting his sight.

Poison. I trusted the intuition. He was blinking rapidly and his eyes roamed far too much.

Mary must have had the dart she had been studying still in her hand… No, not Mary. I turned and covered my mouth. Victoria lay sprawled on the ground, her eyes staring blankly at the far wall. I knelt down beside her and pulled her eyelids down. I thought of William and Rosamund, of Sherlock and John. Oh god, John.

I swallowed the pain, the shock, the panic, and pushed to my feet, my eyes never leaving James Moriarty. He was swaying and I only had one chance of getting past him. I bolted toward him lowering my shoulder and slammed into him with every ounce of pressure I had gained from the speed.

We tumbled to the ground with a resounding crack. He grabbed his head and I scrambled up to my feet once again ignoring my hip that throbbed with atrocious pain. I continued on with gritted teeth. I needed a weapon, something that would stop him, but I didn’t have the slightest idea of where to find one.

The first room I came upon, I dashed inside and closed the door. I turned and found rows of tables filled with pots, plants, and dirt. I was in a greenhouse. In trying to rush, I had locked myself in without a hope of a weapon. Could the poison have come from a plant? What exactly were they growing in here?

I moved along the rows of green plants with pops of different colors from leaves to petals. I found a small pair of shears and grabbed them.

“What are you going to do with those?”

I spun and grabbed my chest, “curse you! You gave me such a fright!”

Mary smiled, “did you really think I’d come here without precautions?” She opened her blouse and pulled out some sort of blood soaked padding. “Sorry, I couldn’t let them know it was all fake. Bullet proof vest with blood packets. One of our latest bits of testing but it worked like a charm. Mycroft will be delighted.”

I cleared my throat and tried regulating my breathing again. “The constable should be here by now.”

We turned at the loud crash behind us. James Moriarty’s face was pressed against the large window in the door. I didn’t recall it being there before but I had maneuvered through the various rows of plants, I could be turned around and that was simply a different entry. His eyes were fixed on us, his pupils so constricted they were mere black slits in a sea of white.

“He's gone mad,” Mary cried.

“He was always mad.”

“Well, the poison is only helping him on his way then.”

“But what of the baby and the parents?” I held the shears in front of me but knew they would stand no chance against his pistol.

“He only wants us. Well, you. It was only ever you and Sherlock. You must go.”

“But where? He's blocking the only exit.”

Mary turned and moved further into the room that proved longer than I originally judged. “This will do nicely.” She gripped the edge of a table and looked up, her eyes fixed upon a tilted panel of glass above us. “If we pull that rope free, maybe lift another table onto that one, you could climb out.”

“Are you insane?”

“No, but he is and if he gets in here, he will not stop until you are no longer breathing.” Her eyes were pinned to mine and she vibrated with determination.

“Fine.” We walked to a neighboring table and each took an end then lifted it over to the one below the open panel of glass. It took a good bit of strength, something I was very quickly running out of, but we finally placed it on top. Mary boosted me up and followed behind me.

She pulled a small pistol from her trousers and shot the bracket holding the rope against the ceiling rafter. It swung down and she grabbed it then held it out to me. “You need to make it out that window. We don’t have another choice.” I took the rope and she knelt down then got on her hands as well, “step up then move as fast as you can.”

Another shot rang out along with shattering glass. I gripped the rope and stepped on her back then ascended. My head spun with each scream of my wrist and ankles but I had to get out the window knowing our time to escape was far too quickly closing.

Sweat burned in my eyes but I finally reached the edge of the glass, the rigid frame dug into my gloved hands. I ignored it and pulled up thinking of William and Sherlock.

Control the pain!

I stood carefully, keeping my weight on the metal frame that held the panes of glass in place and worried that Moriarty would simply shoot through the glass and kill us both. Mary made quick work of the rope and rolled out the open window. She moved so easily along the roof until she reached the side. “Go on, you first.”

I leaned over and eyed the drain pipe she tilted her head toward. My heart was beating in my throat, my arms and legs screaming, but I had to get down and hope we could get the upper hand before Moriarty came round.

When I made it to the grass Mary’s voice followed me, “tell them I still love them.”

I called up to her, “Mary! Come on, let's not dawdle.” I glanced around then looked up. “What are you doing?”

As I stared at the top of the drain pipe waiting for her leg to come over the side, the air seemed to shimmer. A pale face appeared above me, dark hair and red lips, she eclipsed my vision. Don't worry. We women must stick together. Her warm lips pressed against mine.

“It may not have killed me but it did hurt quite a lot.”

I whipped around at my friend’s voice, “Victoria?” My head was spinning, my lips tingling. Something wasn't right.

“Yes?” She looked at me as if I’d gone mad.

“You…” I glanced inside the greenhouse then back up to the drain pipe feeling numb. “You were shot.” I realized I was touching my lips and needed no further convincing that I indeed had gone mad.

“Well, yes, I thought that was clear. These vests may stop the bullet from penetrating the skin but there's not much to stop the force that propels them.”

“But how..?” I stumbled and she rushed over to catch me.

“Alright, now. You must've gotten nicked. Damn poison, who the hell keeps that in their home?”

“I think…” My vision wavered and my stomach churned.

“It's okay, the constable is here. They're speaking with Jack. It's a miracle you got out, the boy was practically foaming at the mouth.”

“No, it's… it's Moriarty. He was…”

“Shh… shh, darling. It's okay.” She turned and shouted, “we need a doctor!”

“Mary…” My head, my tongue, everything was too heavy and my body ached far more than before. The fog around the house seemed to have lifted, but not the one in my head. “Get Mary.”

I awoke with sunlight in my eyes. I rolled over, my hip shrieking at the movement, and had to lay on my back to get my breath back. I could smell his aftershave and knew before I scanned the room that I was in our bed at Baker Street. But I was alone.

I got up gingerly and pulled on the housecoat Sherlock had presented to me only a year ago. I still preferred his old one but it had to be cleaned at times.

I walked into the kitchen wondering if Sherlock and John were successful in their endeavors before asking the same of mine. How much of what happened was real and how much was tainted by either the vial Sherlock had made for me or whatever had been thrown into the fire?

My body suddenly relaxed and yet turned on, an electric current that always lit up my senses whenever he was present. I never bothered to figure out whether it was my brain or body that recognized him first because it didn't matter.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair plucking at the strings of his violin with a splendid fire crackling beside him. He smiled, his eyes assessing and watching my every step toward him. He placed the violin down with care on the table next to him and proffered his hand.

I took it and he pulled me toward him, guiding me to sit on his lap. His left hand rested gently on my hip, “how are you feeling?”

“Confused. What did you put in that concoction?”

“It's a mixture of cannabis and acetylsalicylic acid.”

I fidgeted with the tie for my housecoat and his right hand brushed my cheek before touching my jaw and turning my gaze back to his. “Would you like to discuss the case?”

“Mine or yours?”

“The one that is causing you such distress.”

I stared into his keen gaze seeping concern and curiosity. I took his hand and traced the lines on his palm wondering how much Victoria told him, how much I had actually said aloud. “Mary was there. And Moriarty.” I glanced up at him but there was no judgment, nor the humor I half expected at such an impossible utterance. “One moment he was a fifteen-year-old boy but then he threw some kind of ash in the fire and changed before my eyes.”

“Ash? There are a few ashes when burned that cause hallucinogenic effects and with you already using…” he stared off ahead of us, no doubt viewing his catalog then shook his head. “Even if it was a hallucinogen, it was only a dream, my love.”

“But, I remember… the constable, even Victoria said they didn’t understand how I climbed up without help. Mary was there, she helped me lift the table, get the rope, and I climbed on her back. Without her, I wouldn't have gotten out. James… Jack would have reached me.”

“You are the one who always regales me with the power of the mind. Adrenaline you spoke of that caused a mother to lift unimaginable weight to save her child. You were saving three actually, well maybe four. I find Watson quite childish at times.”

“Moriarty shot Victoria but I saw Mary.”

“You simply saw the same... what did you call it, psychosis?” I nodded, “you saw the familiar pattern and the poison altered him just as it did Victoria. There was no pistol but his darts.”

I looked down at our hands again. “Right.”

His fingers brushed over the scar on the left side of my neck, “it's still not as bad as what my blood did to you. Maybe I shouldn't let you go off on these cases. Maybe I should lock you in here and never chance losing you again.” His fingers caressed my cheek moving slowly over to my lips, “selfish and horrible. Some say I'm very cold hearted, maybe I could do it. Bar you in my castle and never release you.”

I kissed his fingers as they lingered on my lips, “you are a man of many things but cold hearted is certainly not one of them.”

He stared at my lips then finally met my gaze, “things are never as they seem.”

“What?” I blinked with an icy hand of fear skittering down my spine.

“Are you okay?” His face swam into focus and I could see his eyes but I couldn't draw a breath, like something was sitting on my chest.

“Y/n! Open your eyes! Look at me!”

The entire room flickered becoming fuzzy and unfocused. I tried shaking my head but it didn't work or help. Sherlock’s hair once slicked back was now curly and loose, his four piece suit replaced by a black coat. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to focus on breathing.

“William!” I croaked as I opened my eyes to an empty sitting room. I was standing in front of the fireplace no longer warm but empty and cold. The room was dark with only dull gray light seeping through the end of the curtains.

“I told you things are not as they seem.” Moriarty stepped into the unnatural light and I noticed the subtle changes in the room.

“No! You're dead! You shot yourself!”

He grinned, “and just where do your ghosts lie, my love?” His laughter chilled me, “does it thrill you to know I live where your parents do? Where sweet, skilled Mary does?” Suddenly, he was in my face, his eyes dilated and insane. “I'm right where I wanted to be. With you forever. Sherlock too, the cherry on top. I've saturated every inch of your life.”

“We’ve got a pulse.”

His eyes sparkled, “they're going to take you back to a place where the ghosts don't get to save you.”

“No, but it's a place that's rid of you, you sonofabitch!” I clenched my fists at my side. Sherlock’s voice echoed, it was only a dream, my love. “And since this is my dream,” I closed my eyes and thought of the room where I took Shelly, imagined the windows then pictured the roof of St. Bart’s just outside.

When I opened my eyes, he was stumbling backward. “What is this?”

“Y/n! Breathe!” Sherlock’s voice was blaring, shaking the room I conjured from memory.

I smiled, “if you want to live on in here then you'll stay right where I want you. Where we beat you.” I turned, opened the door, and ran out as he screamed my name.

Another jolt to my chest and I choked on pure oxygen, blinking rapidly and groaning from the burning brightness.

“Dear god,” John released a sigh of relief.

“Deep breaths, that's it.”

My mind was too fuzzy, “William?” I whispered.

There was a pause and beeping at my side was like a pike axe to my skull.

“Will is fine. He and Rosie are with my parents.”

I tried to push up on my elbows but strong hands held me down, “it's best not to move right now, Mrs..?” The unfamiliar voice trailed off.

“Please don't call me madam.”

“We’re going to transport you to the hospital.”

I jerked, squeezing my eyes closed. Nightmares and pain burst in my head. Sherlock grabbed my hand, his fingers painting soothing strokes down my forearm, “just to check you over. Where does it hurt?”

I thought of the ache in my hip but it wasn't there. I was just stiff, drained, and foggy.

“The building's clear. How is she?”

“Victoria?” I peered toward the voice and she frowned. Her red hair pulled back, her black raid gear meant to discourage and intimidate rather than flatter her figure. I thought she looked amazing.

“Are you okay?”

Pain lanced through my head when I tried nodding. “Just my head. I feel heavy. Did you see her? Did you see Mary?”

Sherlock and John shared a glance. Sherlock’s voice was so soft I could barely make out what he was saying to them. “The... drug she used on me.”

“Did you ever figure out what it was?” John was agitated. I wanted with everything in me to soothe him.

“Your vial, mixture of cannabis and acetylsalicylic acid,” I mumbled but they all just stared at me.

“My vial?” Sherlock asked.

I stopped myself from nodding, “like Laudanum but no horrid side effects.”

“What?” John looked fairly panicked and I reviewed my wording searching for what would cause him worry.

Sherlock tilted his head as he eyed me, “Laudanum was a popular drug of choice, a pain reliever in the early eighteen hundreds but found to be very dangerous. Acetylsalicylic acid is…”

“I know what Aspirin is,” John snapped but it lacked any real punch.

“Nineteen hundred... and one,” I muttered but it felt wrong. I closed my eyes and Sherlock took my hand again.

“Things will clear up once the drugs are out of your system.”

The bed I was on began to move and my stomach clenched. I groaned, “I just want to go home.” Screw whoever was listening, I didn't care. “Husband, please take me home.”

There was whispering, some of it with harsh tones as I continued moving. Something thick and hot swelled in my throat, my heavy heartbeat kicked into an abnormal rhythm, and my nerves couldn’t seem to settle between the burn of fire and ice along my veins. That annoying beeping pierced my head and then his hand was on mine again, his fingers lacing us together.

“I’m here. I’m not letting you go.” The heat of his hand and the promise in his voice spread through me like a salve on a gaping wound. I supposed that’s what I was.

Mercifully, sleep pulled me under once again.

TBC

[hermourningelegance]

Pairing: John/Sherlock

Word count: 3268

Status: Complete

"When had he fallen in love with Sherlock? John couldn’t say, really. Somewhere between morning tea and late night takeaway. Somewhere between chasing criminals down dark alleys together and those impressive, ridiculous deductions. Somewhere between dark hair and long limbs and unearthly blue eyes."

There has only ever been one constant truth in John Watson’s life- that those he loved would always leave him. Why should Sherlock be any different?

[lizzy-dawson]

I made a short one-shot if you guys would want to read it (:

Summary:

What would have happened if Sherlock had not shut John's attempt down by saying that he was married to his work?

This is a different scenario of 'a study in pink' where I felt that if Sherlock had not turned John down (from what I saw as flirting), John would be much more vocal in his attempts at telling Sherlock that he likes him. Fluff ensues.

“You're unattached, just like me.” He shook his head as he snorted, straightening and leaning forward as he carded through his hair. “Right. Good.” John looked down, trying hard to compose himself as he slowly picked up another bite.

Tagging: @inevitably-johnlocked @addignisherlock @love-in-mind-palace @fangirllock @fania88

[sherlockrelatedimagines]

Nothing Better to Do- Part 2

Here’s the second part of that long thing I posted a couple of days ago. I have genuinely no idea what I’m gonna do for the rest of it, but I also feel the onset of writer’s block so we’ll see.  Anyways, please enjoy?  -Mrs. Holmes xx (Read part one here) Warnings: Some curse words, lots of self-pity, the norm for this story. 

You stared at him, breathing speeding up with the anxiety of the situation. You don't know why you were so nervous, maybe the fact that you were alone and you were gonna be forced to talk to him. You thought you had wanted to speak to him, rather intensely actually, but as you stood there, dumbfounded, you realized how much you definitely did not want to speak with him. “W-We’re closed,” You stumbled over your words, swallowing nervously as you saw him raise an eyebrow. “I can see that from the sign, but the unlocked door says otherwise.” He retorted, smooth, deep voice causing your heart rate to increase at an alarming rate. “I always forget to lock it,” You muttered, feeling like an idiot, but not really having anything else to say. “I can see that, your friend even left you a note,” The man said, gesturing to the area behind you.

You turned around swiftly, spotting a sticky note attached to a coffee maker that reminded you to actually lock the shop once you left, all in Jill’s curly handwriting. You brushed your short hair behind your ear, a habit of nervousness. Considering you were nervous as hell right now, it was a predictable move on your part. “Since this is a coffee shop, could I have a coffee? I was busy today and didn't get one.” He asked, sounding slightly annoyed. You furrowed your eyebrows, turning around again to see him already seated at a table near the counter. How could he be the one who was annoyed? He did just practically burst into your place of work and demand you to do something you weren't technically being paid to do at this hour. “I- I suppose,” You remarked, giving him a glance over. You tried not to stare at him for long, eyes trailing over his expression and body with ease. He looked quite fit, but you were trying not to notice that. Instead, your eyes fell upon the small cut on his cheekbone, barely there really, and the bruise that was forming underneath. “Would you stop staring at me?” It wasn't a teasing question, it was actually quite biting. You didn't think your eyebrows could furrow anymore, but alas. What an asshole. Clearly, you had created some sort of romanticized version of who this stranger might be and clearly, he wasn't it. The farthest from it actually. You were hoping for some sort of romantic epiphany or maybe even a friendship epiphany, but instead, all you got was a cold stare. “You're bleeding,” You said shortly, turning on your heel to make him his damned coffee. You weren't even sure why you were still making it, you should be kicking him out. But, as you said, you were lonely and there was hope yet, despite how minuscule it seemed. He hummed, sounding only slightly surprised. “Suppose I am,” He remarked, not seeming bothered. You wanted to ask him why he was bleeding, why he didn't care about it, and why he was in your shop, but you kept your lips firmly shut as a tense silence filled the room. “You know,” His voice, arrogant voice, filled the room again. You tried not to sigh. You really didn't need him to ruin this further for you, this whole fantasy you had worked up about him. “I thought you would have asked about the bleeding, maybe offer me a bandage or something.” He sounded irritated. Him. He sounded irritated. You could have screamed at him, he definitely didn't have the right to be irritated. Your entire view of him was being torn down, along with your dignity, if anyone should be irritated it should be you. “I thought you would've been nicer,” You muttered under your breath, quiet enough so you thought he wouldn't hear you. You quickly realized you hadn't responded, so you settled for, “The cut really isn't that big,” He let out a scoff, a quiet one. “Don't you want to know why I'm bleeding?” He continued. You had been placing the sugars into his mug, but you froze once you heard his words. Who the hell did he think he was? “Why would I want to know?” You asked, sounding a bit defensive. You had turned, mug in hand as you narrowed your eyes at him. The look he gave back to you was one of a challenge. “Why wouldn't you?” You tilted your head slightly, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from releasing a tirade of angry and offensive words not fit for a customer. Because that's all he was, a customer. “I'm afraid I'm busy. I actually have to get going soon. Would you mind if I gave you your drink to go?” You asked, coming up with a lie on the spot. Of course, you weren't actually busy, if you counted writing some story you'd never finish as busy. Oddly enough, his eyebrows furrowed as his eyes fell down to the mug in your hand. “You're lying,” He commented easily, eyes looking back up to yours. You blinked, his expression similar to stone as you tried not to panic. “I'm not, I have to meet my parents for dinner.” You told him, standing your ground. He let out something that resembled a chuckle and you felt your blood rising in temperature. “It's nearly 10, dinner’s been over for hours.” He countered. “They're waiting for me. We always have it late to fit my schedule, which is why I really must go.” You continued on, staring him down. You were not going to lose to this man, maybe you were trying to prove a point. Ok, definitely you were trying to prove a point. You were better than this man, better than the fantasy you had built up. Stronger. “Mm, no.” He said definitively. He smirked at you. He fucking smirked at you. You could have punched him. And then it dawned on you, he had been punched! Right on the cheekbone too, which explained the forming bruise and broken skin. It looked rather painful. You didn't feel that bad for him, though, judging by the small encounter you were having he probably deserved it. “Well, whether you believe me or not, I’d like to go.” You said finally, hoping he would just accept that you wanted out of here and he would never come back. You turned quickly, not allowing him to stare at you with a patronizing smirk any longer. Instead, you grabbed a to-go cup and poured his coffee into it. You found yourself wishing you had heated the liquid up a bit more, maybe burn his tongue as a sign of revenge. “It's not that I don't believe you,” He began, causing you to almost groan in annoyance as you turned around again. You faced him, styrofoam cup in hand and an eyebrow raised in a mix of annoyance and challenge. “It's that I know for a fact you're lying,” He finished, sounding like the most pompous asshole you think you'd ever encountered. You would have told him this, but you really never were one for direct confrontation. Instead, you let out a huff of annoyance and walked past the counter to make your way to his table. “That's really lovely for you, but I'm going to be leaving no matter what.” You said, smiling falsely as you placed the coffee on his table. He looked a bit surprised, people must not stand up to him frequently. His eyebrows furrowed like you had offended him and he narrowed his eyes accusatorily. “Don't you want to know how I know you're lying?” He asked, sounding genuinely confused that you hadn't asked that question. Actually, the question hadn't crossed your mind. You just wanted to get the hell out. You rolled your eyes, turning your back on him and walking to employee’s quarters to grab your things. “I've always been a bad liar,” You responded, shrugging. He did not seem to like this answer, considering he had gotten from his seat and was following you into the locker room for the workers. You would have been scared, you probably should have been scared, but the only emotion you could feel inside of you right now was annoyance. “That's not something that's easy to tell,” He defended, footsteps trailing behind yours as you went over to your locker. You opened it with ease, untying the apron from around your waist. As you did so, you gave the man a look of disbelief. “It really is,” You argued. He looked taken aback, dumbfounded really. “Well, I could tell by your necklace.” He continued, watching as you grabbed your bag from inside of your locker and shut it quickly afterward. There was a flash of surprise in your eyes, but you battled it with the same look of annoyance you'd been wearing ever since he opened his mouth. He smirked at this, clearly not missing it. He waited a couple of seconds, expectantly. Like he was hoping you'd ask how he had figured it out. But, it turned out you didn't have to ask how he did it because he was already rambling away an explanation. “You see, the necklace is real gold and in the shape of a heart. It's expensive, judging by the name of the seller that's etched on the back. Sure, a husband or fiancé could have given a gift that was of that monetary value, but your left-hand lacks a ring, all of your hands lack rings. A boyfriend wouldn't go through the trouble of saving up to purchase a gift such as that, so easy deduction: Parents.” Throughout his whole speech, you had been tuning him out, silently drifting away from the sound of his voice and focusing on the annoyed ramblings of your own mind. He had followed you as he spoke, watching you as you almost forgot about the sticky note on the coffee machine, and then watching as you took it off and then made your way over to the set of keys behind the counter. He even did as much to follow you to the door, which you had opened. You looked at him expectantly, hoping that your expression was portraying the right amount of “Get the hell out of my shop,” and “I hate your pompous guts,” “Are you good to go now?” You asked him after he hadn't made a move to go through the door which you were holding open. His eyes flooded with realization, “Did you listen to anything I said?” He asked, sounding accusing. “Was I supposed to?” You challenged, giving him a scowl. His eyes widened with shock and offense, “I just gave you a whole explanation!” He exclaimed. “I didn't ask for one,” You countered, throwing another false smile his way. He looked beyond agitated, almost as agitated as you felt. “Now, please, leave the shop.” You demanded lightly, gesturing to the open door with your free hand. He narrowed his eyes at you, looking scandalized as he finally followed your wishes. You nodded your head to him as thanks, exiting the shop as well and closing the door behind you before locking it with precision. You didn't bother turning around, under the belief that the man had walked away and you were finally free. You let out a deep breath, slipping the keys into your purse and walking down the street. “So, your name is Spencer?” You heard the same, deep, pretentious voice invade your mind once again. “Oh, for God’s-! Is that my wallet?” You had turned instantly upon hearing him, exclaiming as you had a right to do, and then spotting him not only following you but holding your leather wallet in his hands. “Yep,” He said, putting emphasis on the “p” which made you want to punch him more. “How the hell-? You know what, don't explain, just give my wallet.” You sighed, not wanting him to follow you for even longer just to give another long winded explanation. You put your hand out expectantly, staring at him icily as the two of you stood on the deserted sidewalk. “Spencer isn't really a girl name,” He commented, handing you over your wallet nonetheless as you glared at him. “Yeah? Well, what's your name then?” You asked, your arsenal of insults ready to attack whatever boring, asshole sounding name he was destined to have. “Sherlock,” Your eyes widened, “Well that isn't really a name for anyone,” You retorted, still surprised by the odd name. Your eyebrows furrowed when you saw his reaction, a small chuckle had passed his lips. He didn't say anything else on it, though, but annoyingly enough, continued on speaking. “You think you'd take a taxi to get to your dinner,” He muttered, hands in the pockets of his Belstaff as you narrowed your eyes at him. Who wears a coat during summer? “I thought we already established I was lying about that,” You said, not really asking, just stating the facts. The smallest of smirks remained on his lips, “So you admit you were lying?” He said it like he was winning something, some sort of game he believed you to be playing. “I admit that I was trying to get rid of you,” You responded, not getting reactions of offense out of him anymore by your harsh words. He just looked a bit amused, which was effectively pissing you off more. “What a good job you've done,” He commented, still looking smug. You rolled your eyes, turning your back to him and carrying on walking as if he wasn't there. This did nothing to deter him, actually, he seemed to follow you quicker. You probably should have been afraid, you definitely should have been afraid, but something about him seemed not at all threatening. Sure, he was following you and had shown up at your place of work, but you felt like you knew him. Even though he was getting on your last nerve, you didn't see any reason to kick him to the curb quite yet. Besides, you had a nice banter going on, why ruin it? Ok, so, you sounded pathetic, keeping someone around because you wanted someone to talk to even though you hated them. But, it was quite common to do that and what harm could be done? It was probably just the fantasy that you had created about him remaining inside of your subconscious, but your common sense had yet to fully take over and act on getting him away from you. “Are you going to follow me all the way home?” You asked him, realizing he had been following you the whole time you had been silently walking down the street. You didn't bother to stop walking or turn to see him. “I just want to see if my deductions are correct,” He told you like that was a completely normal sentence. You stopped in your tracks, turning to face him once more. “I'm sorry, deductions?” You questioned, giving him a concerned expression. “Things I've deduced from your appearance, clothes, actions-” He began what was sure to be another long-winded explanation, but you were quick to interrupt. “I know what they are,” You told him, putting an end to whatever tirade he was about to journey into. “I just want to know why you're making them, especially why you're making them about me.” You clarified, giving him a firm and curious expression. He looked at you, confused as to why you'd ask such a question. “I make them about everything and everyone, it's not something I can just turn off.” He scoffed, looking at you like you were an idiot. You rolled your eyes again, turning away from him and carrying down the street at a surprisingly leisurely pace. “When I first took notice of you, which was when you gave me the coffee,” He began, and you were sure there were other things that he said after that, but you couldn't help but feel a sting in your chest. He first noticed you then? You first noticed him, well, the first time you saw him. But it took him weeks to even notice you? It shouldn't have bothered you as much as it did, but you felt your cheeks heating up with embarrassment and anger. Slowly, your ears began to pick up on the other words he was saying and it did nothing to help your mood. “I could see you had a cat and lived alone, that was easy. Also after further observation I saw that your co-workers didn't like you very much, they would all stay away from you, except that one woman with the dyed hair.” You weren't sure if it was the rude way he was giving you this information, the fact that your co-workers didn't like you, or the dig he had taken at your close friend, but you were ready to explode. And explode you did. You stopped abruptly, which caused him to stop as well, looking a bit surprised. You swallowed back tears that you weren't aware were preparing to form until now, but you spoke with anger anyways, hiding all sadness, “Is this really necessary? Is this some sort of game to you?” You shouted, venom-laced words escaping your lips. “Oh, I've hit a soft spot. Was it the co-workers not liking you or the friend thing?” He asked, he didn't seem actually concerned, more like he was wanting to know for the benefit of other deductions he'd make in the future. You felt a shaky breath leave your body, a tear or two probably falling onto your cheeks. You were an angry crier and a sad crier and you were experiencing both emotions pretty strongly right now, so the tears were valid. “Are you having a mental breakdown? You know, I did sense some instability, I noticed the pill bottle in-” That was enough for you. Your breathing was heavy now, anger affecting your body. You didn't hesitate to bring back your hand and slap him directly across the cheek, directly hitting the other wound he had probably received from another pissed off person. “That seems to be a running theme today,” He muttered, hand going up to the cheek which had just been assaulted for the second time today. “Because you're an asshole,” You seethed, not even feeling a little bit guilty for the blood that had started to reappear from the wound. It seemed you had opened the first one with the intensity of your slap. “I'm just stating the obvious. If you didn't want this to be told you, maybe you should be nicer to your co-workers so they'd like you.” He retorted, his voice not even cold anymore. He just sounded matter of fact, which made you feel worse. You knew you probably looked crazy, with tears running down your cheeks and your fists clenched with anger, not to mention that the wind was doing God knows what with your hair. “Do you have nothing better to do? No one else to bother? What about the person who slapped you before I did? Surely you could torment them instead,” You asked, voice no longer shouting, but quiet and laced with hatred. It was then his face fell, smug smirk no longer residing on his lips. You let out a deep sigh, of course, he doesn't have anywhere better to go. And of course, that made you feel bad for him. “Yeah, me neither.” You said, quieter this time. Anything was quieter than your screaming, though, so it wasn't saying much. “Are you done screaming at me now?” He questioned, expression no longer looking like he was taking any pleasure in this. You swallowed, a shaking hand coming up to your cheeks to wipe away the tears that had fallen there. You let out a nervous chuckle, “Yeah, guess you were right about it.” He raised a bushy eyebrow, “I'm always right, but what are you referring to?” God, what an asshole. You were too emotionally drained to do anything about it and in a way, you deserved this. “The co-workers thing,” You whispered, not really wanting to repeat the whole situation. Sherlock let out an, “Oh,” “Do you usually lash out and cry like this? That may be why they don't like you.” He said, sounding completely serious. You looked up at him, not even realizing you had been staring at the ground. You let out a small huff of laughter, which seemed to confuse him. “Suppose we’re in the same boat, though, that helps a bit.” You remarked, running a hand through your hair which was being violently attacked by the wind. “What do you mean?” He asked, sounding somewhat curious. “Well, I doubt people like you either.” You said bluntly, really not caring since he had verbally attacked you mere minutes ago. He tilted his head, which made the wound on his left cheek even more visible under the street lights. “Oh, people hate me.” He told you, lengthening the word “hate,” “Dinner then? Since no one else can stand to be around us?” You asked, readjusting the purse strap that was on your shoulder. He stared at you, examining you once again. He seemed a bit surprised, which made sense. You were surprised you asked him as well, considering he was a complete dick. But, he was just as lonely as you, so why the hell not? “I have nothing better to do,” He repeated your earlier words, something resembling a twinkle of humor in his green eyes. You couldn't help the small smile that crossed your lips, you were really gonna do this. “Alright then, you're paying, though.” You told him, raising your eyebrows as you said it before you turned around and carried down the street and allowed him to follow you.

[ad-iuficium]

Hello! I wanted to share with you that I have uploaded a fic about 'The Call' scene. It's called 'The Coffin Plate' and you can find it on Fanfiction.net . I hope you like it. #sherlock #sherlockseason4 #thefinalproblem #thecall #thecallscene #sherlolly #mollyhooper #sherlockholmes #coffin #coffinplate #iloveyou #fanfiction #adristasiagreydarcy #fanfictionnet #fanfictionwritter #sherlockfic #newfic

[thepersianslipper]

So excited about this next chapter. I've been singing "For The First Time in Forever" with my modified lyrics and I'm very happy with the results.

To the very nice people who have been reading my fic, have you tried to sing "Do You Want to Solve a Murder?" yet? I try to make sure the metrics are ok but I'd like your feedback.

I would also like to apologise to my neighbours 😅.

#theiceman #sherlockfic #sherlockau

[tenerifefics]

My latest Sherlock fic. I haven’t received any comments yet and I’m worried it’s really not good. Please let me know what you think! 

[lapuslazulli]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Sherlock - Fandom Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, John Watson Additional Tags: Vampire Sherlock Summary:

A Break in at a clinic occurs, and shortly after two of their regular abroad working doctors are murdered in a dark way that leaves Sherlock guessing. As the case develops, darker elements start to arise.

[sherlockwatson-holmesblog]

Part-3

Hello everyone, I’m so overwhelmed by the response that I’ve had on both my chapters even though they’re really my first and I’m very grateful and in awe of anyone who’s ever liked, commented or reblogged my fic. Following the genuinely great advice @jbaillier gave me, after I’ve posted all chapters here, I will compile them, edit them and post it on ao3. Thank you everyone your love is appreciated here❤️

Tagging some very kind people here, if you want me to tag or untag you, do tell me.

@johnlockunicorn @trustmesherlock @sherlockedcarmilla @sherlockwatson-holmes @purplegori @lakoda0518 @221bvanshika @morganeuk @chriscalledmesweetie @shelleysprometheus @7-percent @shiplocks-of-love @88thparallel @butwemadeemcoco @bilbon-socket

For the prompt- “You’re safe now.”

“You’re holding back.”

Sherlock realised that his eyes were out of focus, he was decidedly not looking at John because he just couldn’t, he had punched him square on his nose.

I’d punched him.

This is what your love is like Sherlock, it’s destructive.

Cruelty is the opposite of love Sherlock, not some inarticulate expression of it.

I know.

This was not the first time that he’d become physical with John, there were many other times, many other nights when they’d pretended to hit each other for show, that was an act, childish play, cheap camouflaging technique he used to divert the subject’s attention from his face and make them focus on his injuries. Those were the misty reminders of a happy life and a content Sherlock. This relationship had become a ticking time bomb, whose timer had been set off the day Sherlock had jumped off the roof.

“What?” He murmured, eyes downcast. Looking anywhere except John, John -his bloody nose and his eyes without even a hint of surprise at the fact that Sherlock had punched. He hadn’t even flinched , he’d flinched more when Sherlock had shouted at him.

“You’re holding your punches back.” John said in a low but determined voice, as if he was on a mission. What are you doing John? Sherlock huffed but didn’t answer back, he was guilty, sure but right now anger was the only emotion that he was capable of processing.

“I would hold back my punches when hitting a friend, of course.” Sherlock had spat the word like it was venom, if John wanted a fight then Sherlock Holmes was ready for a match of vitriol. Anger was the only thing pulsing through him at the moment, he was done letting other emotions cloud over his reasoning. Before he’d met John, it had been his driving force, his anchor. He’d built his whole world on anger and spite, and that feeling had never disappointed him or his work, ever.

John looked hard at Sherlock, face unreadable but his eyes. Sherlock had long mastered the ability to read John like a book but these past couple of weeks , he couldn’t put a pin on any of John’s emotions. Yes, he’d been able to predict what and when John would do certain things. But his emotions, they had never been as closed off as this, nevertheless his eyes always said everything even when John himself couldn’t, and right now, it felt like they were almost pleading.

Stop it Sherlock, you’re loosing your grip.

John staggered to his feet, still pinching his nose even though the blood had stopped flowing. While he had stood up, John had not taken his eyes off Sherlock even once and Sherlock was now breathing rapidly under the heavy gaze of his eyes.

But John only smiled, a very sad and depreciating smile made it’s way across his face and there was nothing Sherlock hated more than that smile.

“No, I suppose not. But I’m not really your friend anymore, am I?” John said, a bit louder, squaring his shoulders and pulling himself to his full height. “I’m not your friend Sherlock, obviously I’m not.” John said, as Sherlock turned his back to John to hide the grimace that was threatening to show up at his face, uninvited. He schooled his features, made his back ramrod straight and didn’t say anything. He had to remember that John was supposedly trying to pick a fight with him and Sherlock was not going to give him the pleasure to do so.

You have to remember..

Maybe he’s just saying the truth and you’re over analysing his words.

Focus, Sherlock.

“Haven’t been for a long time, so you don’t have to pull your punches with me.” John continued in the same determined tone as before and Sherlock felt himself loose every ounce of his patience. His emotions were threatening to spill and he just couldn’t let that happen, indignation and confrontation was better than vulnerability and sympathy, Sherlock knew this. He had known this, his whole life.

Sherlock ploughed on, “Unlike you John, I don’t think it’s decent for me to hit someone.” This was the last straw, they were definitely about to fight, shout, yell obscenities, slam doors, hurl glasses. Sherlock knew what was about to happen, but still blurted out, “Maybe, it’s your toxic influence on me, John. After all, I was always better off without you.” He immediately regretted saying that, almost back pedalled but didn’t. Was he doing this for another reaction? Or he seriously wanted John out of his life?

He had no idea but the only answer that sustained was to get back even a scrap of dignity and integrity he’d lost for this man. Even though this meant that his efforts would possibly drive him away, drive the love of his life away.

John laughed mirthlessly, Sherlock felt as John’s head fell back and he laughed, his eyes watering as he said unsteadily, “It’s true Sherlock...

It’s always been true. I’ve never doubted my ability to negatively impact someone else’s life - I mean, look at you. Look - at Mary.

I married her and..” John whispered,

She is dead.”

Sherlock closed his eyes as they stung again, he tried to breathe deeply and looked up at the ceiling to control the tears as they welled up in his eye again and again. He didn’t want this, he could face everything but he just didn’t have the strength to counter survivor’s guilt. He felt it himself too.

“I am supremely toxic.” John murmured quietly with some surprise, as if the realisation had dawned on him just now and Sherlock, well Sherlock continued his deep breathing as he felt a treacherous tear slip from his eyes at John’s words. He wanted to turn around right now and hug John, kiss John, make love to John. But he just couldn’t, instead he stayed where he was, still standing straight with his back turned to his whole world, John.

Very good Sherlock, you’re doing so great. Mummy and daddy would be so proud of you.

Shut up.

“But don’t worry, you’re safe now.” Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he sucked in an inaudible breath at the tone of John’s voice.

What?

He’s right Sherlock.

You’re safe now.

Shut up,Let me concentrate.

He’d anticipated a shouting match full of vitriol but not this, it was like John had just given up. And if there was one thing John Watson never did, it was give up on something.

“There’s a lot of things you’ll come to doubt, Sherlock. But never doubt that in my right mind, I’ll always first and foremost keep you safe.” John declared loud and clear for everyone to hear. Sherlock desperately wanted to turn around at this point but the ground had locked itself around his feet. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He’d realised he hadn’t even sucked a full breath and waited as he heard John shuffle towards the door with a heavy gait.

Hunching his shoulders, walking slowly, exhausted? Too much pressure on one leg, leg acting up again?

And then a very soft, hardly audible.

“Even from myself.”

John.

[simplysherlockfanfic]

The study of a haunted mind

A Spin-off of Connection - inspired by a few requests for a one shot or spin off continuing the Connection Universe and the TAB period sparked by @jiuweihututku

(Connection)Reader x Sherlock

Word Count: 4327

The lofty round chamber was illuminated by well placed lamps around the table situated in the center to create a cavernous setting. The men seated around the rather ornate table unobservable in such dramatic lighting preferred the secluded atmosphere for the discussion of topics that would not pass through the heavy doors. The artificial cavern was perfect for the equally artificial men who occupied the chamber.

Mycroft Holmes brought the meeting to an end and I needed no instruction to stay seated and keep my eyes low. I preferred my place tucked in between the door and heavy drapery that blocked any natural light. Being the only female in the room was not lost on me nor the men who spanned a multitude of positions in various government entities. The group of seven men held different beliefs of where a woman of any standing had a right to be, never the less one whose native country was not the same as their own.

I had no illusions to the temperaments of the men in my company as some would refuse to acknowledge me as company. Mr. Holmes was the only reason I held such a station. He was a man who answered to none and none would speak against his appointments. Even after all my years in his employ, I did not know precisely his position, only that he was of such grave import none would oppose his view save for the very highest and I've only witnessed it once. I was sworn to secrecy and not due to the nature of the discussion but, I believe, because of who came out on top.

The men filed out of the room in silence. I closed my book and placed my items in the crook of my arm as I rose taking hold of my cane.

Mycroft strolled toward me, “what of your findings?”

“Two found your second point a hard pill to swallow.”

He nodded, “mark them in your notations.”

“As always.” I often wondered if he saw the same ticks I observed that betrayed the men who thought so highly of their ability to show the world only what they desired to let them see and he merely used me for confirmation of his own theories. I wouldn’t mind in the least because I often relied on him to confirm my own skills at times.

I wasn't ashamed to admit I had to battle back from a harsh mental climate after an unfortunate incident that forced me to hold a cane at all times outside of my own home. My body wasn't the only thing battered and bruised and I relied on my family and friends to fight back to where I am today.

Mycroft walked by my side to the door, he preferred the slow pace that my injury presented me but also felt it rude to walk ahead of someone he considered his equal. I did not share his opinion of myself for he had accomplished far greater things but I acquiesced to his compliment when he shared it. 

“Have I presented my gratitude recently?”

I shook my head, “this position is gratitude enough.”

He smiled as he stopped at the door, “ah, yes when one can stomach the ignorant.”

“We learned that long ago.”

“The best of us had to.”

Mycroft Holmes, man of refined inclinations and unmatched mind, had in recent years softened around the edges in a different way. From the very day my son William came into this world, he began to decrease in size. He was still a tall, large man but different choices had made him, in the words of my good friend Dr. Watson, no longer a man challenging death.

I stepped into the hall and another tall figure moved toward us. Just over six feet, not as excessively lean these days yet still his presence filled the space. His sharp eyes met mine and his purposeful steps slowed to a stop in front of me. I stared up into warm, intelligent eyes that spoke more than I ever thought possible.

Mycroft closed the door, “why, Sherlock, how unexpected.” His smile revealed otherwise.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock inclined his head, “I had some business in the building and heard you were concluding a meeting.” His piercing gaze turned back to me and he tipped his hat belying nothing save for the glitter of his eyes, “Miss Doyle.”

“Holmes.” I nodded with a hint of a grin.

Mycroft folded his hands over his stomach, “yes, well. That will be all for today, y/n. I'd like the meeting’s pages on my desk by nine.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. Don’t forget Mr. Melas will be meeting you at the club at seven.”

He eyed me, no doubt perturbed by my persistent formal use of his name, but decided against commenting upon it. “Thank you.”

“May I accompany you out, Miss Doyle?” Sherlock proffered his arm and the elder Holmes’s eyeroll was hardly hidden.

“I’d be delighted.” I took his arm giving the elder Holmes a final nod before turning with Sherlock.

“Good-bye, Mycroft.” Sherlock tossed over his shoulder in a way that only those brothers could, with challenge and love.

“As to you.”

We walked in silence through the building exchanging minute touches around corners and in empty halls. His elbow cheating back to brush his fingers against my wrist, palm, and in between my fingers. Muscle mastery that could entice a rousing masterpiece on his violin and a soothing or inspiring composition in me. I could always tell how his day was going by the way his fingers alighted my skin. He was mixing his piece, half soothing and half enticing. Today was a good day but he wanted to ease the ache in my hip.

His fingers swept over the plain silver band on my ring finger just before he pulled his arm forward and we stepped out the front door where a cab awaited me. He opened the door, plucked up my cane, and held my hand to help me inside. I sat and he placed the cane neatly at my side. “Where may I ask should I send you?”

“I have a meeting with the Society before I venture home.”

He nodded and gave the address to the driver before closing the door. I leaned forward, “a good afternoon to you, sir.”

He smiled with just a hint of delight in his eyes, “a good afternoon indeed.” He stepped back and the cab bounded off.

I closed my eyes and let his composition accompany me through the muddy streets of London.

~~

Baker Street was still bustling even though the air had turned brisk. I had long since grown accustomed to London’s gray sky but I had no doubt more clouds would roll in within hours. Sherlock would scoff at my prediction but the quirk at the corner of his mouth gave him away every time.

I strolled down the sidewalk with one gloved hand tucked in my pocket trying not to lean too heavily upon my cane. Despite the weather, the people hustling and strolling about were in good spirits. They may complain year round but they loved their city, gray skies and all. I smiled, tucked my head against the wind, and returned to mulling over our most recent research into the human mind.

My study pursuing a way to ease, if not erase, dark memories that haunt or, in other cases not so lucky as mine, debilitate those who survive such terrors had been slowly gaining traction. While my research into a mind that felt compelled to inflict such pain had been flourishing and my fellows were already contemplating offering their opinion on suitable titles. Due to the rise in sensationalist stories of Jack the Ripper, I was disinclined to give any more public notoriety to despicable behavior.

I turned my mind from the distant past and recalled the thoughts that had been trying to lure me from my analysis throughout the afternoon. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel the way his nimble fingers caressed my palm amidst the quiet halls. I will forever be amazed by his ability to take my breath with a single touch.

“Mama!” The shout drew me back to Baker Street. William’s dark curls bounced over his bright face as he rushed toward me filling me with a completely different warmth.

I knelt down and opened my arms just before he carefully latched onto me, “hello, my love.” I wrapped him in a tight embrace. “How was your day?” I glanced up and smiled at the little sandy haired girl rushing toward me.

“Auntie y/n!” Rosamund pressed into my side wrapping us in a hug all her own.

“Hello my little dove!” I chuckled and looked up at Mary walking over with a smile lighting her face. My heart jolted and I shut my eyes.

“They’re very excitable today,” Victoria’s voice was bright and when I again looked up, her red hair replaced the blonde I thought I saw. Her face, now whispering concern, was nothing like the ghost of the woman in my mind.

I smiled with a slight shake of my head, “the chill.” I stood as the children released me chattering over each other about their trip to the park. “What great timing. I was going to send a telegraph.”

We turned and guided the children back toward the flat. “Come along William, Rosamund.” I leaned into her side while the children skipped ahead of us. “So, you heard?”

With a curt nod, she glanced my way, “Molly sent a telegraph about an incident in Sussex.”

“Sussex? Mycroft spoke of a different matter.”

Victoria’s eyes lit in excitement, “how delightful.”

The door to two hundred and twenty one B opened and Mrs. Hudson appeared shaking her head but all signs of discontent were dispelled by the children who immediately swarmed her. Victoria and I stepped inside and removed our coats and gloves.

“You read the new story then?” Victoria said with chagrin.

“Who needs silly stories when I am in the presence of the lovely ladies and gentleman of the house?”

“My dear Martha, this will always be your house. You are not a servant.” She smiled. I had to admit I over indulged in our innocent teasing on most days.

Her gaze was pulled by the sprites at her legs vying for her attention and Victoria elbowed me. We parted as a black cloaked woman complete with black veil rushed down the stairs, in between us, and out the front door without a word. Victoria and I glanced at one another before making our way upstairs.

The patter of the children’s feet followed along with Mrs. Hudson who no doubt would herd them into the kitchen.

I stepped into the sitting room where Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson were seated in their chairs by the fireplace in which a small fire crackled. I leaned my cane against the wall by the door not usually needing it for short distances, due in no small part to Mycroft’s swift thinking and action after the incident more than three years ago.

Sherlock’s gaze trailed over me, his ever watchful eye not missing a thing. I saw on his alert face what answers he had gained in his quick yet efficient observation and knew some piece I would miss gave him some knowledge of half my thoughts today. I winked before turning to the other presence.

Lestrade gave a tip of his head in greeting before his gaze was drawn to William rushing over to Sherlock. “Papa!”

Sherlock lifted our son onto his lap and leaned in, “my dear boy, what adventures did you find?”

“I hear John’s sister is doing quite well in the Queen’s service,” Lestrade said.

I grew confused at his words for all present were in good standing of our situation. But then it alerted me to an outside source from which I was still unaware. “I do what I can.”

Victoria chortled, “yes, who dared to think…”

“Victoria that would be quite enough.” John’s curt remark bordered on offensive.

I turned toward him with a look of disapproval, “now, dear brother.”

“Husband.” Victoria’s admonishment was so that one had to know her thoroughly to hear the dangerous undertone.

Sherlock grinned, “I believe Watson was simply trying to steer back to the matter at hand with our guest.”

William had crossed his leg over the other just like his father trying his best to match the posture down to the crook of his arm holding an invisible pipe to his mouth. Sherlock pulled a small pipe from his pocket and held it out for him. He grabbed it, fumbling it slightly in his excitement and shoved the mouthpiece into his mouth and blew. A few bubbles shot out and William turned such a look of contempt on his father but the sheer delight visible in Sherlock counteracted even the most stubborn of our son’s attributes.

I chuckled softly at my boys as I stepped further into the sitting room and Lestrade moved aside. A man, quite unkempt with messy straw-like hair and dirty overcoat, was seated in a chair on the right side of the room placed directly in front of the couch. “My dear sir, how terribly unkind of me and in my own home. Have you not treated the man to a drink?” I saw the signs of anxiety on his taut face, in his stiff shoulders, and uneven breathing that Sherlock had no doubt already deduced.

Sherlock Holmes may not be an expert in Psychology but he trained himself to catch even the slightest twitch of the eye from a lying man. He knew enough about the emotive ticks to judge the state of the man in front of us.

“That would be grand…” His wild eyes darted from Sherlock and William to me, “did you say your home?”

I walked over and offered my hand, “why yes, y/n Doyle. Pleasure to meet you.”

His gaze flicked to Sherlock and then to John. If I hadn't known better I might think he was about to take flight. “I thought your sister’s name was Harriet?”

Well,” John shook his head, a delay as the struggle continued in his mind, the only thing that came to me was trust in the man before us, “Mrs. Doyle is… adopted… and well, she…”

“She is a woman out of her time.” Sherlock spoke matter of factly and caused a blush to stain my cheeks, his gaze on me with pride and so much more.

I watched John, his conclusion finally eased his features. I laid my hand on our guest's shoulder hoping to assuage some of his nerves. “A relationship like the one John and I share is much like family but without blood relation in this society is, shall we say, frowned upon. It is much easier to tell those less minded that we are in fact blood related. It avoids scandal.”

“Anymore scandal,” Sherlock quipped pointing the mouthpiece of his pipe at me.

“By Jove, Holmes! How anyone could see you choosing a bride of such ordinary tendencies is just beyond…” John chuckled with another shake of his head.

“Or choosing a bride at all from those stories in The Strand,” Lestrade said with a grin at John.

“You're married and a child? But she doesn't bear your name!” The man cried, leaning forward as his stress increased.

I patted his shoulder, “a matter of security I can assure you.” I walked over to the decanter and poured him a drink.

John laughed, “poppycock. You'd no less take that name than…”

Victoria glared at him, “husband.”

I walked over to our guest, “the Holmes name has a notoriety that I would prefer to avoid. Sherlock is a man that takes no offense to my position. He delights in it.” I handed him the glass but his gaze was riveted on John and his hand so shaky, the liquid sloshed about.

“But your stories, you say it’s cocaine or ambition.”

“I believe the line you're thinking is the man alternates between his drug of choice and ambition. She would be that drug,” Victoria quipped with an amused smile. “And sometimes ambition.”

“Is it still only a seven percent solution?” John tossed at Sherlock.

Sherlock grinned, they were enjoying this far too much for decency. “Ah, I do believe I’ve far exceeded that dosage for quite some time now. Some days, at least, but then I tend to be quite fanciful these days.” He met my gaze and I smiled before turning away.

“Gentlemen, I do believe we may only be furthering his distress. That cold drink would do your mind and a good amount of deep breathing would help clear some of that anxiety.” I squatted in front of him, “now, if you would permit it, I would like to help you with that anxiety.” He nodded, still watching me warily. “With me, deep breath in.”

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade continued discussing whatever this man had brought them as I directed him into a calmer state. After a few minutes, he opened his clear, soft gray eyes and gazed into mine.

“May I ask what your speciality is?” His voice was smoother and deeper without the stress tightening his vocal cords.

“Psychology. It's the study of the mind.”

His laugh was like a crack of a whip in the room and everyone turned toward him, “but that's simply a fake…”

I smiled as I stood, “I am a member of the Society of Psychical Research and I'll have you know this area of study is exploding especially in America. I just calmed you with techniques I have perfected through my own research, sir. Feel your heart and listen to your breathing, your brain is no longer running in circles. You are now comfortable for the first time since the incident. Are you not?”

His eyes widened and he looked at Sherlock, “is this some kind of sorcery?”

“My wife is of high intellect and sorcery is of no use in this household. You’ll find no parlor tricks here.”

“She is published, both medical journals and novel!” John said tightly, eying the man he had only moments ago allowed a clearance like no other outside our circle.

“Dr. Watson trusts you highly for certain things to be spoken so easily in your presence. I hope you measure up to the worth of that trust.”

He stared at me but the thunder coming from the stairs drew our attention to the door just before it flung open. A large man in an unleashed rage heaved at the doorway, his wild gaze jumping around the room and growing all the more incensed. “Which of you is Holmes?”

I walked toward him and held up my hands. “Good sir, won’t you take a breath and know that no harm will come to you here.”

His bloodshot eyes burned in my direction, “a woman who doesn't know her place!”

I was sure by now my husband would know more about this man than I ever cared to but I could only see the tension in every muscle that spoke of panic and wild rage, a dangerous animal. “And you will lower your voice in my home.” I inwardly flinched at such a careless mistake but dared not show the slightest bit of weakness.

A flash of confusion shadowed his rage but only for a moment before it flared back, “your home!” His gaze darted toward the fire place where John and Sherlock were still seated. “The busy body has a woman with no control!”

His huge hand reached out for me and I snatched his wrist from the air, twisted it swiftly down and around his back as I shoved the mountain of a man off balance and into the door frame. “And you would do well to keep your hands where they belong. Men who foolishly think they can overpower women simply because they are bigger only prove how very uneducated they are.” Malice seeped through my every word and my pulse was pounding in my ears. I had focus on my breathing simply to hold back from injuring him any further.

“The conversation is most entertaining but I believe my wife has just shown you to the door, sir.”

The controlled lilt that hinted of danger in Sherlock’s voice tempered my heated blood. I released the man and backed away. A slight fright at the amount of rage that still pulsed through me. My gaze darted around the room and I was thankful that William was no longer present.

“When I have my say…” He rubbed his wrist and turned but stepped backward into the doorway. He glanced at me with a vicious look before returning his gaze to Sherlock.

Sherlock stood from his chair, his face tight and his nostrils flared but it was Victoria who stepped toward the man, “I believe you have done enough for one day. What would Scotland Yard have to say?”

Lestrade turned toward the man and he huffed, muscles rippling in aggravation as he ignored Lestrade and stabbed a finger toward Sherlock, “do not meddle in the affairs of Dr. Grimesby Roylott!” Then he spun awkwardly and lumbered down the stairs.

I turned to Sherlock and raised my brow in question when John’s old friend seated behind me exclaimed, “good Lord! You…” I turned and met his astonished look with confusion, “you… madam are extraordinary.” There was a lingering fear in his stiffened muscles and I could only conclude that John’s trust wouldn’t be the only thing holding this man to our loyalty.

“A woman can surprise you if only you let them.” Sherlock gave a sharp tug on the bottom of his vest, “if you would excuse me for a moment. I need to speak with my wife.” Sherlock walked toward the kitchen and paused with his hand held out toward me.

Victoria slipped something into my hand as I passed her. I stepped into Sherlock’s side and he took hold of my arm, the soft caress of his fingers on my palm soothing as we walked into the kitchen then around the children and Mrs. Hudson.

I quickly read the telegraph Victoria had handed me as Sherlock guided me into the hall for a touch of privacy, but the words handwritten there didn't make sense, meet me at his boathole in cemetery. I.A.

I squeezed my eyes closed and shook my head at the sudden burst of pain. When I again looked at the paper, it was a simple telegram from Molly. He stopped us and turned to face me as I inquired, “do you know the meaning of the bull at our door?”

“His step daughter made her leave before your entrance.”

“The woman… dressed in black?” A tingle of fear itched the back of my neck. What I had just done could very well be reflected back on her.

He nodded, his fingers brushed over my cheek then he kissed me with a quiet reverence. “You taught him a lesson that I should...”

I pressed my finger to his lips, “it's not that bad. Just the weather. Promise me that woman won’t be alone with that man. If my actions...”

His hand brushed my hip where the ache always flared up in cold weather. “Watson and I must catch the next train to take his step daughter’s case. I believe he’s going to have her killed much like her sister.”

I nodded, “Victoria received a telegram asking for our assistance in a matter in Sussex.”

“Lamberley?”

“Yes.”

“This lady in need of assistance is Peruvian?” He asked with a smile.

I looked upon him in amusement and he kissed me again. “I received a letter of the same matter. I shall send word that an associate of highest caliber will be arriving.”

I turned toward the kitchen, “Mrs. Hudson, could I ask you to watch the children for us until tomorrow?”

“Of course! Oh, how lovely, are you finally going on holiday?”

“Oh no, we have two…” my gaze froze upon the scrap of paper tacked to the wall just behind Mrs. Hudson, “different cases.”

She shook her head with a chortle, “of course.”

The odd stick figures in different positions called to me, something whispering that I should know. “The dancing men,” the words spilled from me but still brought no understanding except for the flash of a woman’s face, dark hair, red lipstick, and clever eyes. You understand.

Sherlock caressed my neck, “still waiting on more data for that. One case at a time.”

I turned back to him, his lopsided grin and a pinch in his brow. “Right.”

“Associates.” His palm pressed against my cheek, “then I shall see you again tomorrow.”

I held his hand on my face with the most peculiar feeling of living this moment before yet the emotions were different, more afraid. “Does your case have an increased element of danger?”

“None higher than others.” He searched my face, my eyes.

I nodded, “until tomorrow then.” He lifted a brow, “just simple instinct, I suppose the bull may have increased my own anxiety for the girl. A cornered animal is a dangerous one.”

He pressed his lips to mine, a slow and sensual kiss that only heightened my sense of being here, saying such a stressed, intense goodbye before. “I will see you no later than tomorrow night. I guarantee this will be wrapped up by morning light.”

John’s story of the events of Reichenbach swarmed my mind and I held onto him tighter. I hugged him tucking my head into his chest, breathing him in. Losing this man was not a possibility.

He bent down just enough to press his lips to my ear, “I’m invincible, you know that.”

I squeezed tighter. “Tomorrow then.” 

PART TWO