#Mycroft's office

[johannadc]

Gregory, given how much time you spend here...

Am I bothering you too much? I'cn come round less often.

Oh, no, no, as I was going to say... given your time, and that you've even begun leaving your, hrm, sporting accoutrements here, I thought it was about time you have a key.

Oh! Well, thank you. That's quite a lot of trust, to give me unaccompanied access to your ... wait, why do you call this an office when you don't have a desk?

I was wondering how long it would take you to notice that.

(And the author steps in because I want you to notice that Mycroft now has a proper pocket watch.)

[markgatissappreciationsociety]

Filming Sherlock: The Live Game (source)

[ms-a-l]

[oxalisvulcanicola]

When this stapler showed up in the supplies room I immediately claimed it for my desk. I've figured out it's from the 1960's and it's top quality still.

The new ones die from normal use (shoddy make and incitamentet to buy more and slowly destroy the planet for frivolous reasons).

It makes me think of Mycroft too. It fits his aesthetic and is made in Britain.

I even found a box of original staples to make the experience complete.

I love how they chose such bombastic names for the different models.

[himegureisu]

Time

Summary: Your love language is quality time. However, your husband is the King of Mirkwood.

A/N: I was supposed to write a Mycroft Holmes/Female Reader. However, this idea popped up and went brr in my head and then my fingers. I needed to finish it before it went so here it goes my first for this pairing I hope you enjoy! (And good night for me because it’s 4AM also not proofread)

Pairing: Thranduil x Female Elf Reader

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“What was it, meleth nín?” Thranduil asked, “I apologize our time is to be cut short again,”

It was the nth time someone interrupted your strolls to whisk him away for a matter of utmost significance and to be honest, you were tired of it.

Trying so desperately to take time between the day to see him. To get a moment of his time.

He was a King.

A title that holds responsibilities he could not neglect. You know that. However, you didn’t expect to be pushed aside.

“It’s nothing,” you fake a smile, “You should go they need you,”

But I need you too.

You didn’t try after that.

Your handmaiden noticed your melancholy days after the incident. It was like he didn’t notice you were gone.

Yes, you did eat together most of the time. However, you didn’t pop by his office during your free time. You didn’t leave snacks anymore for him to munch on when he forgets to eat. You didn’t propose to walk so you could both stretch your legs. You didn’t wait for him to go to bed.

Contrary to your belief, your husband did notice your absence.

His days were often tedious and tiring. Your short visits were always something he looked forward to. The bright spot to his days so when palace staff gossip came through his ears…

“The Queen seems pale. Is she ill?” a soft feminine voice asked in concern,

“Oh, why would she be ill?” a different voice, an ellon this time, “Maybe she’s expecting a child!”

“She could be ill because of the child.” the elleth remarks, as another joins in the conversation,

“The Queen is not expecting I would know.”your handmaiden divulged as much, No, she seems dejected.”

“The King has been busy…”

Her words echoed in his mind because it was true. His thoughts wandered to those moments your times were constantly interrupted and the day you last visited.

Oh.

“Where is the Queen?” he asks your handmaiden, who exited the study, a book on hand for you.

“At the gardens, My Lord,” she simply answered.

“That’s for her?” he gestured to the book, she nods meekly, “I’ll take it to her. Go tend to your other duties,”

Your handmaiden scurries off in fear and intimidation to go prepare your clothes for the evening. On the other hand, your husband quickly makes his way to the gardens where he couldn’t see you.

“By Valar,” he mumbles frustratedly, walking through the foliage, “Where are you?”

Your soft sniffles give you away.

Between two trees, there was a hammock tied on to their sturdy barks. On the hammock, beneath a thick blanket, you hug his pillow as your tears fell down your cheeks.

From outside your cocoon, the grass crackle as slow footsteps approach your hideout.

Your book finally.

“Did you find that book I asked for?”

“I did,”

A different voice answered. One you haven’t heard from in what seemed like days. His voice.

“Meleth nín,” he breathed out, “Please do not hide from me,”

“I’m hardly presentable,” you sniffed, wiping your tears away, as the hammock tilts a bit on one side, “Aren’t you supposed to be in a meeting of sorts?”

“No,” he frowns, sitting on the edge of the fabric, the book left on by his side, “I don’t care if you’re presentable or not. I’m not the kingdom,”

Slowly, you emerge from your shell to be greeted by his silver eyes, dull in color much like your own has been these past couple of weeks.

“Oh, meleth,”

There were dark shadows beneath your eyes. Your cheeks were stained with dry tears and nose flush from mucus buildup. His heart twisted beneath his chest at the sight of you.

What has he done?

“Oh, meleth nín,” he said, taking you in his arms for a warm embrace you missed, “I’m sorry. I am a fool,”

He hated being the cause of your tears.

“You were,” your voice cracked, as you tuck yourself beneath his chin savoring his presence, “I missed you so much,”

“I missed you too,” he kisses your forehead, and pulls you closer, “I’m sorry that I didn’t reach out, didn’t make the time, made you cry, made you feel like this…”

Your tears fall once again down your cheeks to his robes. He noticed. He noticed your absence after all.

“You are my starlight, my reason to go on,” he softly declared, “I promise I’ll try to do better,”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you what I needed” you quietly admit, “I thought I’d be bother you already do so much,”

“You are never a bother,” he adamantly says, glancing down to see you also looking at him, “You are always welcome to whisk me away from the duties of court. I’d rather you than them.”

“Their needs are much more important than mine,” you say.

“But your needs are the most important to me,” his words caused your heart to flutter in the most endearing ways. “You are the most important to me. You do not need to vie for my time or attention. You will always have it. Though, I may not notice it at times you should not hesitate to tell me.”

“If so, can we just stay like this?” you breathed out tiredly against his chest, your ear to his heart beating soundly beneath, “I just… need you,”

“We can,” he gently kisses your forehead, as your eyelids droop down, “It would be a pleasure,”

“Thranduil,” you softly whisper, as he places his forgotten pillow beneath your heads, “Gi melin,”

“Gi melin, meleth nín,” his fingers tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear as you settled on his chest, “Sleep. I will be here when you wake,”

It wasn’t long until you did.

Your breaths soft and even as Thranduil gently places the book on the ground so neither of you gets stabbed by its’ edges. He pulls you the closest he could, you unconsciously grasp tight.

Just the way you both liked it.

He lays there quietly observing the heavens, where scattered white clouds and birds of the realm adorned the blue skies, wondering how he was so lucky to have fallen for a second time to you.

He didn’t know what time it was and frankly, he didn’t care when his eyes slowly surrendered to the thrall of slumber joining you in blissful rest for the afternoon.

He would do better. He was going to do better. For you.

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom. TW: suicide (Reichenbach feels...)

Mourning a Lost Soul

It was the last porcelain cup she had left. She’d always liked the blue and white flower pattern. Her mother and father had bought it on their honeymoon in Delft. Once there had been six plates, six saucers, six cups, and a small sugar bowl. After her parents died, she and her sister divided the items among them. Martha Hudson knew her sister still had every item intact. 

Something warm fell on her wrinkled hands. Tears. She could literally hear Sherlock’s voice in her head.

“Sentiment, Hudders! How commonplace of you.”

Martha gazed down at the fractured forms at her feet. They were almost unrecognisable. Only the handle was in one piece. It was lying a bit away from the other porcelain fragments. Alone.

Again, Sherlock’s voice infiltrated her mind.

“Alone protects me.”

Her cheeks and hands were wet with the spilling tears she no longer could keep at bay. It was her fault that the cup had broken. She washed it after her morning tea, and it had slipped out of her hands as the events of yesterday hit her full force.

John’s ashen face. His blank expression. The impassive voice when he told her about Sherlock’s suicide. He was still in shock. They sat in her kitchen without saying a word, until John patted her arm and climbed the stairs to 221B.

Martha was sobbing, her throat constricted by a painful lump, but she didn’t feel a thing when the shards from the broken porcelain cut her palms and fingers.

“My darling boy. How could you do this to him?” she whispered hoarsely.

She made a mental note to hide John’s gun later.

“Don’t you understand that this will destroy him? What does he have to live for when you are gone?”

Her voice was angry now, scolding the man she loved like a son. She’d never met Sherlock’s parents and he rarely spoke of them, but Martha guessed that they were even more devasted than she was. 

Her thoughts went back to yesterday again.

Greg Lestrade confirmed John’s statement. He didn’t look as ashen as John, but it was a near thing. The DI had after all saved Sherlock’s life once. The determination to save John’s life, was heavily implied.

When she finally got rid of the concerned police officer – she was no fragile flower petal, mind you – she made some calls, while her mind was still able to function properly.

Her former employer heard the news from Mycroft Holmes but had nothing more to add. With a deep sigh she called Sherlock’s brother. The man she had quite conflicted feelings about. With one word, spoken in the softest voice she’d ever heard him use, he broke her: “Martha.”

She hung up before he could realise the state she was in. After she’d turned off her mobile, she cried until her eyes were sore. 

At Sherlock’s funeral, she asked to have a moment alone by the grave. Before the coffin was covered with earth, she strewed the remains of the Delft cup into the dark hole.

“Farewell, my darling boy. I hope you are at peace. We’ll all take care of John for you.” 

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I'm sorry if I hurt you. Feel free to yell and pour your heart out. The urge to explore how Mrs. Hudson received the devastating news, was too overwhelming to ignore, I'm afraid.

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[multific]

Destiny

Mycroft Holmes x Reader

Summary: What happens when you fall in love with the IceMan himself? It can never end well, right?

Destiny.

A simple word yet it held so much power.

What does it mean to be destined for something or even, someone?

When you first heard about this word, your grandmother told you how she and your grandfather met.

A true love story.

A story so beautiful it was always in the back of your head as you grew older and older.

You hoped you would have a similar experience in your love life. Finding, the person and falling in love, it all sounded amazing.

You knew you wouldn't be able to force such a thing, you were aware of that. And yet, you were impatient. 

So impatient that in fact, you fall into many traps.

In many ways, you thrived in your life.

Expect your love life.

Your desire for a love like no other made you fall in love with men who were undeserving. 

Until you met Mycroft Holmes.

To say that he was the entire British Government would be an understatement.

You applied for a simple job, to be his assistant.

You spent so much time with him, that you thought you were going insane.

You blamed Stockholm syndrome for your feelings.

The moment you realized your feelings were real was during a very difficult week.

Almost every criminal in London had an agenda to mess with him. This caused you to do so much overtime, that you didn't even leave the office.

It was during the fourth day when Mycroft showed up with a bouquet. 

"I thought you would be home," he said, clearly he wasn't prepared to have you right there, at your desk. "Usually you arrive at 6:46 because you stop by at the nearby bakery for breakfast and coffee." 

So, he did pay attention to you. After he spent all that time to make sure you are aware that he simply doesn't care for people like you.

"I stayed to finish the file on this. I-"

"Did you eat?"

"No, Sir." he made a face at that and took his phone out of his pocket.

"Delivery will be here in 10 minutes. Eat, drink your coffee and then come speak with me. I'll be in my office."

He ordered exactly just what you wanted with the most perfect coffee you ever had.

He paid attention to you.

And you realized your feelings for him were real.

You knew hiding it from him would be impossible. Mycroft was incredibly smart. He would notice.

But little did you know, he felt the same.

He thought you would notice his feelings and confront him about it. 

He wasn't ready for a rejection.

Yet, your rejection never came.

Not when he asked you out to dinner. Not when he brought you another bouquet.

Not when he kissed you.

Instead, he let you guide him.

Love wasn't new to him. He loved his siblings, and his parents but this kind of love is very different. 

He didn't have experience with this kind of love, and it scared him a little.

But he also didn't reject it.

He embraced it.

And soon, a beautiful diamond ring found its rightful place on your finger.

It might have not been the way you wanted your one and true love.

But it was your destiny.

And you were okay with it.

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou @mandoloriancookie @il0vebeingdelulu @deliciousfestsalad @groovyqueer @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE OR REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[bizarrebazaar13]

FL-inspired book recs!

brought to you by hotel wi-fi

Locations

The Royal Bethlehem: “The Yellow Wallpaper” by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, and “The Room in the Tower” by E.F. Benson. these are short stories, not novels, but they are fairly quick reads and are about locations where reality becomes twisted. the yellow wallpaper deals with mental illness and medical neglect, while the room in the tower is more about the overlap between dreams and the real world.

Port Carnelian: Mycroft Holmes by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. ok, hear me out on this one. if you’ve ever thought port carnelian would be great if it actually dealt with British colonialism and racism in a meaningful way and also had a murder mystery, you might like this book. a much younger Mycroft Holmes goes with his friend Cyrus Douglas to Douglas’s home in Jamaica to investigate a series of mysterious deaths.

Ladybones Road: The Watchmaker of Filigree Street by Natasha Pulley. Nathaniel Steepleton finds a gold pocket watch in his bedroom one day, but he cannot open it or even hear it ticking. six months later, it opens on its own, and an alarm goes off at the precise time that a bomb explodes in Scotland Yard. he then goes in search of its maker, Keita Mori, who claims the watch was stolen from his shop. Mori has a gift for elaborate clockwork, and though he seems kind and relatively harmless, Nathaniel is sure he is hiding something.

Ambitions/Major Storylines

Early Light Fingers: The House of Silk by Anthony Horowitz. it’s a Sherlock Holmes pastiche, but it can still be understood and enjoyed even if you don’t share my Sherlock Holmes autism. I specified early light fingers, because the mystery of what exactly the house of silk is, and the theme of corruption in highest levels of society, reminds me a lot of exploring and learning about the orphanage. just a heads up, this book is centered around a murdered child, and deals with the systemic abuse and neglect of children in victorian london. its biggest content warning is also its biggest spoiler, so I won’t give it here, but feel free to ask me. I had it spoiled for me on accident and still liked the book a lot.

Late-game Nemesis: “The Moonlit Road” by Ambrose Pierce. another short story, it recounts in three parts the murder of Julia Hetman, as told by her son, her husband, and Julia herself. it specifically reminds me of the dreams of the dead section of nemesis.

Evolution: Into the Drowning Deep by Mira Grant. Tory Stewart becomes obsessed with mermaids after her sister Anne’s disappearance. Anne was filming a mockumentary about mermaids in the Mariana Trench, but the ship she was on disappeared, and was recovered weeks later with no trace of the crew. footage was found that appeared to show the crew being murdered by mermaids, but it’s largely believed to be for the movie, not real. seven years later, Theodore Blackwell recruits Tory as part of his mission to return to the Mariana Trench and capture a live mermaid. it hits sort of the same spot for undersea survival horror that the diving bell section of evolution did for me.

Exceptional Stories

The Bloody Wallpaper: Sign Here by Claudia Lux. hell is an office. literally. Peyote Trip sold his soul while he was alive, and now works in hell, convincing other people to do the same. he’s one deal away from a big promotion, and all he needs is the soul of one last member of the Harrison family. normal laws of space and time don’t apply, the real hellscape is capitalism, and secrets don’t stay hidden forever… sound familiar? in terms of violence and body horror, I don’t think it gets much worse than the text of the bloody wallpaper. one of the main characters does have a pretty brutal backstory involving christianity-related child abuse though.

Totentanz: Gods of Jade and Shadow by Silvia Moreno-Garcia. set in late 1920s Mexico, the story follows Casiopea Tun and the Mayan death god Hun-Kamé on a journey across Mexico and eventually into the underworld. Casiopea finds Hun-Kamé’s bones in a chest in her grandfather’s house, and when she cuts her finger on one of the bone shards, Hun-Kamé becomes bound to her. together, they must find the rest of his body, which has been scattered around Mexico by Hun-Kamé’s brother Vucub-Kamé, who took over control of Xibalba from him. Hun-Kamé intends to retake Xibalba, but he and Casiopea must face sorcerers, demons, and twisted family dynamics- and that’s before they even get to the underworld.

[raina-at]

Fall

Warning: If suicidal thoughts trigger you, please proceed with caution.

It’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the landing.

Five minutes. From the time he got out of the taxi until he saw Sherlock’s lifeless body lie on the pavement, five minutes passed. At most.

John has lived through these five minutes countless times. Endless times. If you strung up every time he sees these five minutes play before his closed eyes - in dreams, in memory, in penance - you could reach the next century. At least that’s what it feels like. 

How did he do it?

Why?

How did I not see?

These questions haunt him, derail him, consume him.

He walks by Barts at every hour of the day, he studies the police report, he looks at the crime scene photos. 

How could I be so stupid? 

He was devastated when Sherlock jumped. He was traumatised and grieving and barely functional for so long. He pulled himself out of a deep dark black hole by the skin of his teeth and the ridiculous thought that he had to live on to preserve Sherlock’s legacy. That he needed the world to see how brilliant he was, how loveable. How human.

How deeply, bitingly ironic, then, that Sherlock’s return from the not quite as dead as you thought after all has derailed him completely. Sent him into a tailspin he sees no way out of.

He barely eats, he kips on the sofa in his office. He only notices Mary’s thrown him out because one day, all his earthly belongings are dumped in a heap in front of his office door.

He doesn’t care. More time to devote to the one thought he cares about. How? Why?

He replays these five minutes in front of his mental eyes so often. He takes pictures, he tries to find witnesses. He does all the things he should have done after Sherlock jumped, if he hadn’t been so stupid. So paralysed with grief. 

It didn’t even occur to him. That it could be fake. Because Sherlock wouldn’t. He would never.

What a fucking idiot he was. Maybe that’s why Sherlock did it. To get rid of him. To be free of the bumbling fool blogger running after him like a puppy.

Alex, his boss, puts him on medical leave when she finds him at the surgery at three in the morning, pacing his office, muttering to himself. 

He doesn’t tell her he has nowhere to go. He just shows up at Murray’s house, who lets him sleep on the sofa in the basement and doesn’t bother him otherwise.

It’s a grey December day when he stands on a roof, diagonally across the street from Barts. Mycroft told him about the snipers, and he imagines what it must have looked like, from way up here. 

He imagines watching Sherlock jump from this angle. Imagines the crosshairs of the rifle mark the place where the bullet would have entered John’s skull. Spends a visceral moment feeling it, wanting it. Wanting this all to end.

It would be so ironic, he thinks. If he actually did it. If he jumped. Like Sherlock did(n’t). Maybe then he would know. Maybe then he would understand. 

It’s easy to sneak up on the roof at Barts. Easier than it should be, after a suicide. 

It’s freezing up here. The wind cuts through his clothes. He shivers with cold and fear and a ringing sort of despair. What do you do when the only person you truly loved fucked you over this badly? What do you do when you’re not even worth a good lie?

He should have seen it. A thing like this isn’t easy to do. There had to have been cables, or a body switch, or some sort of catching device. He should have seen it. He didn’t, because he’s stupid and worthless and Sherlock never loved him, never wanted him, never cared. 

The windchill freezes the tears on his face. He steps up to the ledge. 

“Please don’t.”

Sherlock’s voice is raw and tired and rough with cold. 

John isn’t surprised. Not really. He knows he’s being watched all the time. 

He hasn’t spoken to anyone in days. He has to clear his throat before he can answer. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not worth it,” Sherlock answers. He sounds as hollowed out as John feels. As tired. As desperate.

John turns around. Sherlock looks like shit. He’s pale and wan and so thin, and John can see the lines the last two years have cut into his face. His nose is red from the wind and there are tears in his eyes.

“How did you do it?” John asks. I should make you watch, he thinks. Like you made me watch. Maybe then you would understand. 

“Does it matter?” Sherlock asks, weary and sad.

“Maybe, just for this once, I can decide what fucking matters,” John yells, his throat raw, the words like barbed wires, ripping him up from inside. “Maybe just this one time, I matter!”

“You always matter!” Sherlock answers, “Please believe me. You always, always matter.”

“Two years,” John whispers, unbelieving. “Two fucking years.”

“I know,” Sherlock answers, his voice as raw as John’s, holding John’s eyes. “I know.”

“What does that even fucking mean?” John yells. He’s shivering with cold and anger as he takes a step towards Sherlock. 

“Two years,” Sherlock says quietly, reaching out to gently touch the tear tracks on John’s face with ice-cold fingertips, his voice shaking with unshed tears. “I’ve missed you so much.”

John tries to bite down on a sob, but he can’t hold on anymore, he’s been biting down on that bullet for over two years, and he can’t do it one more single fucking second.

Sherlock’s there, wrapping him up in warmth and safety and that Baker Street home smell as John sobs out two years of grief and anger and sorrow into Sherlock’s ridiculously expensive coat. John can feel Sherlock lose control as he cries into John’s shoulder, muttering “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” over and over again, but John doesn’t need to hear it anymore. 

He can feel it.

He finally, finally understands. 

“Let’s go home,” he whispers into Sherlock’s hair. He’s done with this place. “Let’s finally go home.”

------

I promise happy fluff tomorrow to make up for the pain.

Tags under the cut as usual.

@calaisreno @peanitbear @meetinginsamarra @totallysilvergirl @jolieblack @keirgreeneyes @helloliriels @catlock-holmes @jrow @salmonsown

[fairy-writes]

hello there i hope you have a great day today, can i request an albert x reader. the reader is holmes younger sister (could be an age gap but if you uncomfortable you can make the reader sherlock older sister). im kinda interested that the reader and albert is ike in a fake engagement but slowly they fall for each other. im sorry if its a lott or confusing 😖😖😖😖

FAKE… OR IS IT?

Reblogs and Comments are greatly appreciated!!

__________________________________________________________________________

Fandom(s): Moriarty the Patriot

Pairing(s): Albert James Moriarty x Reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Genre(s)/Tag(s): Female!Reader, Holmes!Reader, Fake Engagement, Reader is short

Notes: I wrote this with the reader being the Holmes’s middle child. So, in between Mycroft and Sherlock :)

Here are their ages!

Mycroft: 31 | Reader: 27 | Sherlock: 24

__________________________________________________________________________

“Sit up straight, Sister.” Mycroft chastises, and you roll your eyes, propping your heeled feet up on the coffee table, much to his chagrin. You can tell he’s less than pleased with the mud on the table by the tightness around his eyes. 

“Bugger off, Mikey.” You grumble and slouch even more in your seat. His frown deepens, but he knows better than to try and get you to obey. If anything, it would make you rebel even more. 

You had never been one for proper manners if you could help it. You had always been a rough-and-tumble type of woman, playing in the dirt with the neighborhood kids while Mycroft and Sherlock dealt with their studies. Sure, you also had studies of your own. But overall, you tended to ignore whatever your governess taught you in favor of learning how to handle weapons from your father. Mycroft sits back in his seat and sighs, 

“At least sit properly when the company gets here.” He mutters under his breath. 

That gets you to sit up straight.

“Company?! Since when?!” You choke and hurriedly set down your teacup before you can spill it down your front. Your elder brother had summoned you to his office that morning with a telegram. But he hadn’t explained why you were there, even with your pestering. Mycroft glares at you pointedly and is about to answer when there’s a firm knock on the door. 

“Come in.” He calls, his voice booming and loud in the quiet room. 

A tall young man, perhaps your age, enters the room. He’s attractive, almost devilishly so. With slicked-back brown hair and piercing green eyes, he’s dressed in the typical uniform of all soldiers. 

You recognize this man. 

Your younger brother wouldn’t shut up about his family. 

Lieutenant Colonel Albert James Moriarty. 

You glare at Mycroft, who ignores your look in favor of standing up and shaking Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty’s hand. Brushing off the front of your dress, you stand as Mycroft gestures to you. 

“This is my younger sister,” He says. Your name follows soon after. You plaster a bright smile on your face and extend your own hand. Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty bows slightly and introduces himself before you turn to look at your brother. 

“I assume this is where I take my leave?” You ask, and he raises an eyebrow, 

“On the contrary, dearest sister, you’ll be taking part in this meeting.” Your face betrays your shock before you can school it into a facade of perfect calm. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty notices but doesn’t comment. 

Mycroft gestures for you to take your seats before his desk, and you do so, perching on the edge of the seat like a bird ready to take flight. In contrast, Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty sits back, relaxed in his chair, setting his hat in his lap and steepling his hands together. 

“So, mind telling me what this ‘important mission’ is about?” He says politely, and you look at him from the corner of your eye.

Important mission? 

Just what was your elder brother planning? 

Mycroft leaned his hands on his desk and then leaned his weight on his hands. It seemed he wasn’t taking a seat quite yet. 

That meant things were serious. 

“There’s a mission I am entrusting to the both of you. It’s of the utmost importance and must be handled immediately.” 

Wait…

“You’re what?!” You blurt just as Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty opens his mouth to speak. You don’t give him the chance to talk. You stand and jab a finger at Mycroft, the other hand clenched in the fabric of your dress skirt. 

You weren’t about to be a pawn in your brother’s game. You weren’t even an MI6 agent or soldier of his! 

“Absolutely not! This can’t possibly be legal! I’m just a civilian!” You stand and jab a finger at Mycroft, the other hand clenched in the fabric of your dress skirt. Mycroft stares down at you. He had always been the tallest of the three Holmes siblings. You were saddled with the hefty burden of being the shortest. 

“You know this as well as anyone that MI6 operates outside the law,” Mycroft says simply, and you grind your teeth. He had a point. But still… 

“What about Miss Moneypenny?” You ask, and Mycroft shrugs, 

“She’s on another mission with Colonel Moran. You two are the only ones I trust with this.” He says, turning his intense stare onto you and Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty. 

You flinch at that. Mycroft never openly said he trusted you. It was sometimes implied, but he knew how fickle you could be! Was this mission really that important?

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty stands and accepts the papers Mycroft hands him. He then extends a hand for you to take. Begrudgingly, you take it and allow him to help you to your feet. 

At least your ‘mission partner’ was a gentleman. 

You accept Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty’s offer to take you back to the Holmes London estate and sit across from him in the carriage. He opens the papers Mycroft gave him and begins to read. 

“Oh dear…” He mumbles, and you look over from where you had been watching the scenery go by. He has a frown pulling at his lips and creasing his brows. 

“What’s the matter?” You ask, and he turns the papers around so you can read them. 

“It seems we’ll need to be engaged for this mission to work.”

Your engagement was announced within the next week. 

You had even commissioned an artist for an engagement photo of sorts. Granted, it was just for show, but still! You had to stand still for hours in a dress your mother picked out and that you loathed all for one portrait. 

You never understood how royalty could do it. 

Speaking of your parents… 

Part of the facade was to make sure everyone was in on it. Maybe ‘in on it’ wasn’t the right word. Because this was a top-secret mission, after all. So you couldn’t exactly tell your parents that this engagement was fake. But you did have to tell them you were getting engaged lest you incur the wrath of your mother. 

Wanda Holmes was a proper woman. She was everything you weren’t. Prim, proper, ladylike. The only thing you got from her was her height and her temper. She hated that you weren’t the little lady she dreamt of having. But there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. 

In contrast, Timothy Holmes was a bit of a rule breaker. He fostered your love for weaponry and often challenged you to a shoot-off to see if you let your skills rust over. You inherited his knack for getting under people’s skins, and it was a wonder that he was still married to your mother after thirty years. 

Telling them was an… interesting adventure, to say the least. As your carriage rumbled up to the country estate where they resided, they met you outside. Your mother had her hands clasped together, a newspaper crunched in her grasp. Her face was dark with disappointment. 

Like the light side of the moon, your father all but bounded up as you stepped out of the carriage. 

“Dearest daughter!” He bellowed, and you couldn’t help but grin. 

“Dearest father!” You tease right back and step forward into his embrace. He squeezes you tight and lifts you up into a spin. You shriek with laughter and cling to him to make sure you don’t fall when he sets you back down. 

“Darling, at least let her get into the house before you bother her.” Your mother says, and you roll your eyes but don’t say anything. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty steps out of the carriage, and your father’s demeanor changes. His smile is still there, but it no longer reaches his eyes. He extends a hand, and when Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty takes it, you can tell he’s holding back a wince from how hard your father squeezes it. 

“Timothy Holmes. It’s a pleasure.” Your father says curtly, and you can tell Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty can tell he’s being judged. But he offers a polite smile nonetheless,

“Albert James Moriarty. The pleasure is mine, Mr. Holmes.” He says, and it’s then that your mother approaches. Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty shakes her hand,

“You must be the infamous Wanda Holmes. It’s lovely to meet you.”

Your mother’s face smoothes over, and she looks at you,

“At least you’re marrying someone with manners.” This is her only comment, and you can see that the newspaper in her free hand is the one announcing your engagement. 

Perhaps you should’ve informed them by telegram instead of coming to visit for dinner… 

No… That would’ve made her even angrier than she already was. 

She soon ushers you into the little cottage that served as your parents' retirement home. The minimal staff on site has already prepared and served dinner, but you don’t eat just yet because your father catches your shoulder. He has a knowing gleam in his eye, and you can’t help but get a giddy smile on your face. 

Of course, he wouldn’t forget. 

Your mother notices, and her face sours. 

“Can’t this wait until after dinner?” She asks, and now your father scoffs,

“Of course not, my love! It’s tradition!” He crows, and you can see Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty start to ask, but you’re taken out back before anything can be asked. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty follows you out, and by then, your father is setting up targets with you, assembling the two pistols you always used for this little exercise. You brush off your hands on your dress and hand your father the revolver. You take your own and pocket it in the holster strapped to your waist. He does the same and looks to Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty. 

“Mind giving us a signal?” He asks, his tone much more friendly yet still a bit frosty at the same time. 

Your ‘fiancé’ seems to pick up on what’s happening quickly and nods. He allows both of you to take a stance before calling out a signal. 

The game takes less than twenty seconds. 

You whip out your gun and unleash all six bullets in the cylinder and barrel. Your father does the same, and before you know it, both of your guns are empty, and your ears are ringing. Holstering the weapon, you wait for your father to do the same before approaching the targets. 

Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty is called forward to inspect the targets as well. 

“I believe your daughter is the winner.” He tells your father, and you grin proudly. 

“Guess I haven’t lost my touch, Father Dearest.” You tease, and your father slaps his thigh in defeat,

“And I guess I’m losing mine!” He chirps, and your mother calls from the doorway.

“And it’s time for dinner!”

The carriage ride back is quiet. 

“Where did you learn to shoot like that? I’ve never seen someone so accurate in a quick draw.” Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty says, and you jolt lightly. The food you had eaten was sending you into a food coma, and you had been dozing until he spoke. 

“My father. He was known as “Dead-Eye” for a long time until he retired from the military.” You said, and he nodded in appreciation. 

“He taught you well.” 

You smiled and played with your fingers. 

“Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel Moriarty.” You say genuinely, and he arches an eyebrow, 

“You should call me Albert. We are engaged, after all, my dear fiancée.” His tone is borderline teasing. But you can tell he’s being genuine.

And for whatever reason, it makes your heart race. 

The mission is kicked into gear three months after announcing your ‘engagement.’ 

The gala you are attending is only for married or engaged couples. Everyone was investigated to ensure no one single was sneaking in. Why they wanted to keep single folks out was a mystery to you. But you relented and accepted the invitation as the ‘Future Mrs. Moriarty’ with as much grace as you could muster. 

You produced the invitation from your handbag and handed it to the man checking said invitation. Your free hand was looped through Albert’s arm, resting in the crook of his elbow. He chatted amicably with the doorman until you were announced as a couple and ushered inside. 

The air was already alive with the sounds of music and dancing couples. The two of you make some rounds around the sides of the dance hall, looking for your target. Hell, you even danced the waltz to a few songs! All those lessons you thought were useless were sure coming in handy now… Perhaps you should thank your mother for forcing you to listen to your governess as a child. 

Albert leans down to whisper in your ear as he brings you in from a gentle spin. 

“He’s at the top of the stairs.” He murmured, looking for all the world like he was whispering sweet nothings to his fiancée. But instead, he was walking you through the next phase of the plan. Seeing as your job was to kill your target, he was instructing you on how to get to his office, where he would meet you and find the documents he was looking for. 

Albert was to find the incriminating evidence. You were to kill the target if he tried to resist. 

The office was warmed by a crackling fire. There’s a large mahogany desk in front of the fireplace with documents and papers scattered across the surface. You clutch your purse closer to your chest, feeling the sturdy weight of the revolver inside. It was comforting. 

You had one job, so you would do it, and you would do it well. 

The doorknob turned, and you jumped, sneaking a hand inside your handbag to draw the revolver. The door opens, and the target spots you in front of the dying light of the fireplace. 

“Who are you?!” He bellows, but you know no one would be able to hear him over the sounds of music and talking. 

He doesn’t hear the door shut behind him until Albert slides the lock into place. He whirls and tries to push past your fiancé, but it’s like trying to move a stone wall. 

“What are you going to do to me?!” The target demands, and Albert smiles a terrifying smile. It was nothing like the kind and even tender smiles he had been giving you as of late. This smile darkened his eyes. 

It was almost… Cruel…

“Nothing if you cooperate.” He says darkly and pushes the man to sit in the chair before his desk. You walk behind him and press the muzzle of your revolver to the back of his balding head. He freezes, a drop of sweat traveling down his temple. 

Albert rifles through the desk, and no one says a word for what seems like forever. 

At least… Until the target tries to run. 

The chair has a low back. It’s almost more of a stool, so he throws his head back and cracks it into your nose. You stumble back and fall, tripping over the hem of your dress. The only thing keeping you from firing your gun is the fact that your father had engrained it into you to not keep your finger on the trigger until you were ready to fire.

Albert freezes and reaches into his suit jacket coat, but you’re faster. 

Before the target can even make it two paces, you fire your revolver, and the bullet sinks into his skull. Brain matter and blood spatter across the carpet. The pain sets in as Albert helps you to your feet and hands you a handkerchief for your bleeding nose. 

There’s no way you could go back out into public like this…

And as always, it seems Albert reads your mind. 

“We’ll escape out the window.” He says and pockets a few documents. 

“Did you get what you need?” You ask, and he nods, his smile tender and warm again.

It makes your heart flutter. 

The two of you escape out the window like Albert had said. Luckily, the carriage was already waiting outside, so you were able to retreat without being seen. 

Mission accomplished. 

You scowl at Mycroft as he reads through your very first report from MI6. 

“It’s a bit lackluster, but everything went according to plan?” He asked, and you huffed. 

“Except for the part where I broke my nose.” You say, your voice slightly garbled from the bandages on your nose. Mycroft simply nods, 

“These things are expected to happen. Be glad it wasn’t anything more serious.” He says, tangles his fingers together, and leans his chin on them. “If you’d like, we can feed the newspapers a story about your and Lieutenant Colonel’s parting of ways. You don’t have to be engaged to him anymore.” He continues, and you freeze. 

Not be engaged anymore? 

“What about Mother and Father? They’ll be furious.” You say absentmindedly, and he cocks his head to the side. 

“Since when have you ever cared what they think?” He says, confusion coloring his tone. You avert your gaze. 

“I’m just saying… I don’t mind taking more missions from you from now on…” You mumble and stare at the carpet. But you can hear the smile in his tone when he speaks next. 

“If that’s what you desire, sister dearest. I’ll let Lieutenant Colonel know of your decision.”

[johannadc]

Mycroft Has a Proper Office

M: Greetings, my dear.

G: Oooh, you've got a proper desk now.

M: Quite so.

M: I'm not happy with the refinishing, as they couldn't match the mahogany...

G: Nah, it's a fine sturdy piece. Lots of drawers. Where were you keeping all this? Doing all this work?

M: The British government has a lot of storage space, and one may do a lot with modern technology, if needs must.

M: Now, let's toast to the redecorating being done. Drink?

G: You have quite the drinks cart here!

M: I wasn't sure ...

G: You? Not sure?

M: You have asked me not to "mind read" you. So there's wine, martini, sidecar, g&t, and your standby, coffee. I am having champagne.

G: Great idea! Let's celebrate!

[calaisreno]

An Arrangement

1200 words / Prompt: Hobby

Summary: Mycroft finds an ally

Mycroft Holmes regards the police officer who is sitting on the other side of the desk. Dark eyes, prematurely greying hair. Good at his job, recent promotion. A sense of humour (laugh lines), and an uncompromising commitment to honour. Maybe that’s not quite what it is. Honourable, yes, but it’s an inner sense of rightness, a gut feeling about people. Not impressed by power.

He wonders what DI Lestrade is thinking about the man he’s come to see without an appointment. 

“You’re here about my brother,” he says, sparing him the explanation. 

Lestrade nods. “I’ve seen him around, talked with him a few times. Last night—”

“Thank you.” Mycroft isn’t good at thanking people, not when thanks seem so inadequate. “I am truly grateful that you found him before… well, before more serious harm was done.”

Lestrade looks at him directly, openly, and Mycroft imagines this is the face he uses when interrogating a suspect. “You don’t know what to do with him.”

Surprised at the deduction, he responds. “I have taken some measures. It seems what I’ve attempted has not been successful, but I have the means to try other things.”

“What about your parents?”

“Our parents are not able to fully grasp the problem. Sherlock has always been… difficult. They have never understood him, and blame themselves for his problems. The matter elicits a great deal of emotion, and I have elected to be my brother’s keeper, so to speak, in order to spare them that ordeal.”

“Mr Holmes, I can’t claim to know Sherlock as well as you do, but I know a thing or two about addiction. The measures you’ve taken… well, nothing’s going to work until he’s ready to work on himself.”

Mycroft smiles grimly. “Mr Lestrade, I’m sure you’ve met many junkies in your line of work, but I’m equally sure you’ve never met anyone like Sherlock.”

“True enough. First time I met him he was high, stumbled on a crime scene I was investigating. It was like he had x-ray vision or something. Described exactly what had happened, pointed out where the murder weapon was, even suggested that the murderer was left-handed and had a limp. I didn’t dismiss him as a nut job because I could see it all— he was right.”

Mycroft’s smile is more genuine now. “My brother is several levels above any junkie you’ve met, Mr Lestrade. His problem is one he could solve, if he turned his mind to it. He resents my interference, however, and resists the measures I’ve taken. I will not give up on him, however long it takes. You need not feel responsible for Sherlock.” 

Lestrade stares down at his hands, which he holds clenched in his lap. When he speaks, his voice has lost something of the policeman. 

“Forgive me for speaking so freely. I know what it’s like to talk to someone on the phone, to say see you later, knowing that it might be the last thing you say to them. Guarding your words so you won’t sound bitter, won’t drive him away, when all you want to do is shake some sense into him, scream at him, lock him up until you can make him right.”

“Ah.” Mycroft leans back. “Your own brother.”

Lestrade smiles. “Five years younger than me, baby of the family. Our parents worked hard, and we did all right. All of us but Andy. I don’t know why. He was bright enough to do anything, be anything. We loved him, but something made him feel unloveable. It was never enough.”

“I’m sorry.” There really isn’t anything else to say when someone admits something so personal. This conversation is far more personal than he wants it to be. 

“I always take an interest in the addicts because of Andy. Maybe I can figure it out, save someone when I couldn’t do anything for him. Last time Sherlock and I spoke, I made him an offer, said I’d be willing to talk to him about homicide cases I’m working on, if he stays clean. He seemed to like that idea, said he might be a ‘consulting detective,’ the one I come to when I’m in over my head.”

Mycroft shakes his head slightly. “Sherlock is meant for something greater than police work, Mr Lestrade. I’m afraid you’ll find he quickly loses interest.”

“I don’t know, Mr Holmes. What police do matters. I’m not suggesting that Sherlock would make a good policeman. I saw a spark in him, though, one I hadn’t seen the other times we talked. Even if solving a crime is just an intellectual exercise to him, it might be the thing that keeps him from needing his next dose. That’s how you solve addiction, I think, one dose at a time.”

“That’s very simplistic.” Mycroft frowns now. “Believe me, I understand what rehab entails. And I know the success rates of most programmes.”

“True, there are a lot of failures. I don’t mean to suggest that I can cure him. You can’t cure an addict. But you can give them something else, something that absorbs them, even for a while. And maybe over time they’ll learn that there is something they want more than drugs.”

“You’re asking my permission,” Mycroft says. “I give it to you with conditions. First, you must not let him in simply to let him down. If you invite him to solve things, you will need to keep giving him things to solve. I’m not sure that’s feasible, but it is my condition. Do not treat him like a hobby.”

“I wouldn’t.” Lestrade looks at him solemnly. “I’m doing this because I think I can help him, and it would go against everything in me not to try.”

“I have another condition. You must check in with me and let me know if you see him slipping. Sherlock doesn’t see me often, doesn’t answer my calls. As I’ve said, he resents my efforts to help. You will recognise the signs. If he’s doing poorly, I want to know. I don’t care about confidences and trust between you and my brother. I must know if he is in danger.”

“I’m willing to do that.”

“Even if it involves lying to him?”

This gives the detective pause. “I want him to trust me, and lying to him would break that. I don’t want him to think I’m working for you. At the same time, I won’t pass along anything you say to me; our conversations will remain confidential.”

“In addition.” He sighs. “I am appalled that I must say this, but I would be remiss not to mention it. Do not use my brother. People have used him before, taken advantage of him. I’m not suggesting that you are the type of person who would do that. I don’t know you, Detective Inspector Lestrade. But if I ever learn that you have done such a thing—” He breaks off, giving him the humourless smile that explains more than words. “It would be very unfortunate.”

“Of course.” Lestrade looks sad. “I would never.”

“Very well, then.” 

He extends his hand. Lestrade takes it, gives it one shake, and nods. “You’ll be hearing from me.”

---

Shoutouts to everyone who is writing these! I'm so impressed 💕 Please keep writing your mini-epics, fluffy/angsty one-shots, hilarious AUs, limericks, and whatever else your brain comes up with. Please do tag people, and if you're posting on AO3 as well, consider adding to my MayPrompts2024 Collection. Much love to you all 💕

[illamda-spaminations]

I find it so interesting that during the Twisted Hearts OP, when the song goes "I feel you sins all the time", they showed Mycroft and Albert respectively. While Mycroft does not understand/know everything that's going on with the LOC and Moriarty & co., I do believe he understands how Albert feels, especially about taking the punishment on himself.

For example: This scene in MTP, post-Final problem

He understands because he knows Albert and, more importantly, he has been there, it's just the circumstances and the consequences of the decision is very different. The reason he dedicated his life to working for the government was because of his father's involvement in the French Revolution. He wanted to repent on behalf of him, so he decided to take on that punishment, protecting Sherlock in the process. Albert does something very similar, he takes on the atonement so Louis doesn't have to. He believes Louis deserves so much more than punishment; he deserves a fulfilling life, a happy one, or at least as happy as it can get, and above all, the one who should reap the crops William sown [I should REALLY make a separate post on Louis ye gods-].

Mycroft could've let the Moriarty brothers do what they saw fit, as long as he was spared from the brutality, but instead he threatens them. If they don't put the country's future and prosperity first, Mycroft will personally "annihilate" him [his words not mine].

This scene really goes to show that Mycroft is genuinely dedicated to the Empire, he is very intent to serve for the country's future, but it's not blind loyalty, it's him being bound to it, it's the least he could do to make up for his father's sins [sins of the father am I right?] and it's the same for Albert. He and Mycroft love their younger brothers, to the point of sacrificing themselves in order to protect them, to make sure they live as they please, free of guilt. The difference is that Mycroft changed over time, he started to loosen up. The first time we see him outside of his office for non-work related matters was with meeting everyone in the dinner party. And for Albert? Time stopped turning entirely. The moment he entered the tower was the moment he couldn't go back. It was him, his thoughts and the messages from Mycroft to distract him. The only person who could convince him to come out of his prison and start living was William; because William's actions, sins, guilt and will to die was the very reason why Albert chose his punishment.

In comparison, Mycroft's self enforced punishment was lighter to Albert's. While Mycroft has to deal with constant stress [this is not really canon, but considering that he's referred to as the government, yeaaaaa I think he's gonna be stressed af] and grief, Albert had to deal with a spiral towards insanity, grief, religious guilt for the Moriarty plan and his compulsive thoughts. And he's sure as hell isn't going to stand on his own for a while after that.

Another thing [this time it's actually related to my point :0] is exactly when the two show up. Mycroft shows up around the lyrics "I feel your sins" while albert shows up around "all the time", which further proves my point. Since Sherlock and William showing up around the point of "I can't feel your love but I can give you love" basically describes Sherlock's goal of saving William and their relationship in a nutshell.

"I don't know if you see me as a friend but I'll see you like that anyway, and save you, just like what I would do to another friend."

What's not to say the same can be true to Mycroft and Albert?

"I can never truly understand what you are going through, but I will always understand how you feel."

[petite-madame]

Professional Courtesy - (2023)

“What do you mean exactly by ‘Larry has a better salary than you’?”

“Larry works at Downing Street, Gregory. His position as ‘Chief Mouser to the Cabinet Office’ makes him, consequently and undeniably, your superior. Hence his high salary…and his Tier 5 Security Clearance as well.”

“Tier 5?! Are you kidding me?! Mine is only Tier 3! How?”

“Because you are a DI and he works for the Prime Minister, it is as simple as that.”

“He doesn’t ‘work’, Mycroft. It's a cat, and a pretty fat one at that! He doesn't do anything except for sleeping all day and stretching his paws in front of the press. And he's spending more time on our sofa snoring in front of Peppa Pig than catching mice at Number 10.”

“I would be grateful if you could go easy on the body shaming. You know that Larry is extremely sensitive about his body. So, that kind of language won't be tolerated. *sigh* And, as you well may know, things are getting pretty complicated at Downing Street at the moment. Welcoming Larry is just professional courtesy between civil servants.”

“Yes, my love, professional courtesy. I’m sure it has nothing to do with you being an absolute cat dad, but keep telling yourself that.*cronch*

A big thank you to @vegetadaily for the beta 💗

[oxalisvulcanicola]

I just saw the red King Charles portrait and my thoughts go out to Mycroft who will be compelled to put it in a central location in his office.

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom. (Uni!lock)

An Old Joke

Like with so many things, it was Mycroft who learned Sherlock to build houses with playing cards. When Sherlock was bored almost to death, the simple task made his brain focus and find new solutions to construct the perfect house of cards.

At the age of seven, he was a master, even surpassing his older brother. His parents thoroughly believed he wanted to be an architect at that point, which both brothers dismissed as utter nonsense.

John was in awe over Sherlock’s skills when he showed off at the second week of uni, but when Sherlock waved it away as nothing, John surprised him.

“Challenge yourself then if you think of this card palace as a minor thing,” he said with a mischievous grin.

“Elaborate,” Sherlock retorted, sceptical that anything could make the building more interesting.

“From what I can see, you only operate with unused or fairly new cards. I think you’ll find it quite difficult to build a two stories high house with these,” John said innocently and presented a stack of cards.

The cards were old. Worn and soft, lacking the sharp edges of Sherlock’s cards. Some missed a bit of a corner, others were bent. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stated that it would be impossible to get John’s cards to do anything but collapse.

“I’m sure you can figure something out, posh boy,” John said and winked at him before he went downstairs for dinner.

***

Sherlock got absorbed in the difficult assignment John had presented him with. When John had rugby practise, slept, or had biology classes, Sherlock practised with his old cards. As predicted, it was futile, until he went to get his mail in the secretary’s office. 

“Am I allowed to use that?” Sherlock asked, and pointed at a machine on the opposite wall, trying to be as polite as possible to ensure to get permission.

“What for?” the secretary asked suspiciously.

Sherlock had a rather questionable reputation already, but he managed to charm the middle-aged woman, and gained access to what he presumed would be the solution to his predicament.

***

When John emerged from the showers a week later, Sherlock had built five small houses with the old cards. John’s eyes widened in surprise and astonishment, before his brows furrowed. He walked slowly against Sherlock’s desk, and once he realised how Sherlock had solved the puzzle he started to giggle. It was Sherlock’s favourite sound in the whole world.

“You are amazing,” John said when he’d gathered himself. “I told you, though.”

“Mm, so you did,” Sherlock murmured and crowded in on John.

“What are you doing?” John asked gingerly.

“Claiming my prize,” Sherlock purred.

“What prize?” John whispered; his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s lips.

“I’m sure you can figure that out, captain,” Sherlock answered and bent down to connect his lips with John’s.

***

A decade later, Greg Lestrade walked into the living room of 221B and stopped abruptly. Sherlock sat by the desk, which for once was cleared of the normal clutter, and before him was a house built of old playing cards. It was high and remarkably sturdy. When Greg moved closer to the table, he paused for a second, not sure if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

“Are those cards laminated?” he asked incredulously.

Sherlock hummed in agreement but didn’t take his eyes off the construction.

“Hi, Greg,” John greeted when he entered the room from the kitchen, bringing two mugs of tea.

“John,” Greg said and gestured with his head in Sherlock’s direction.

John placed Sherlock’s mug carefully on the desk, far enough away to not disturb the building, and near enough for Sherlock to reach when he wanted a sip.

“What’s with the lamination?” Greg asked silently.

“Oh, just an old joke,” John said and shrugged.

“Must be by the look of them,” Greg deadpanned.

“Oi! Don’t be disrespectful of my cards,” John protested half-heartedly.

“Your cards?” Greg asked, evidently none the wiser.

“Just tell him, John, or we’ll never hear the end of it,” Sherlock huffed and took a sip of tea.

“You’re quite the genius yourself,” Greg said when John finished the story behind the cards.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Cheeky bastard is what people normally said about my behaviour and appearance back in uni,” John retorted.

“We both were,” Sherlock stated and made room for himself in John’s lap, giving him a soft kiss.

John giggled into the kiss, Sherlock snuggled into John’s neck and sighed contentedly before he rose and turned to face Greg.

“You have a case. Where?” he wanted to know.

Greg cleared his throat awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Piccadilly. Um…Grosvenor Casino,” he retorted.

“You have got to be joking!” John exclaimed.

“´Fraid not, John,” Greg sighed.

Sherlock’s deep rumble was soon joined by John’s higher pitched laughter, and for once Greg descended the stairs with a hopeful feeling that Sherlock would behave on the crime scene where the croupier lay dead surrounded by playing cards that consisted only of hearts of spades.

---------------------------

This is also my entry to this month's Sherlock Challenge and the prompt Joke.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @sherlockchallenge @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno

@jolieblack @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @raina-at @helloliriels

@topsyturvy-turtely @peanitbear @phoenix27884 @221beloved @ninasnakie

@bs2sjh @a-victorian-girl @meetinginsamarra @meandhisjohn @brandiwein1982

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