#daddy!mycroft

[whoviancumberbunny]

Rebirth

Story By Melissa C. Scraper

Based On Characters From American Horror Story and Characters Created By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Authors Notes: Thomas Thorne is one of my favorite characters From BBC Ghosts

Inspired by this writing prompt  & This Prompt  by @immnemosine​

This Prompt ​  By @givethispromptatry​

This Prompt By @writing-challenges-and-prompts​

This Prompt​ By @nightly-writer​

This Prompt by @creativepromptsforwriting

Previous Chapters:

Loves Takes a Toll        Ace In The Hole

The Awakening of The Old……Memories

Rebirth

 Story By Melissa C. Scraper

 Based On Characters from American Horror Story and Characters Created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

 It was two weeks until the wedding and Mycroft was standing, in his house, looking at locked door.  He had tried so hard for the last three years to be honest with Anna.  And he really wanted to show her what was behind this door. He had known she existed her whole life but, Charles had insisted he stay away.

 He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face he had been looking for a lost key, sherlock had figured out what the secret of this room was.  He had been looking for this bloody key for hours. And he had stumbled across an old notebook and handwritten letter. “I had been afraid of my life changing that’s reason I never forced the issue.”  He mumbled to himself

 His stomach growled so he decided to take a break and when he walks into the kitchen and Sherlock is sitting smugly at his table “Lose something, brother?”  he says as he places a small box on the table.  “You asked me to watch this a few years ago. You said I wasn’t allowed to ask questions.” They sit down and have some cake

 “Yes, you were the first to figure out I have a daughter.”

 6 years prior “I worry I will Disappoint Mummy. If I tell her that I have daughter and that the young woman’s mother told me to stay away from her because being a Holmes would corrupt her.”  This was part of the reason Mycroft hardly ever let people in. He had dared to hope that he would be allowed ot have his daughter in his life.  

 He knew her name meant Rebirth. maybe she could be new beginning where people wouldn’t think of him and sherlock.  If it wasn’t apparent that room was likely now moldering and dusty but it was meant to be a bedroom, for her. The daughter he was never allowed to see. It wasn’t that he had never actually seen her he had observed her from distance a few times in her life when Charles and Daphne had taken family trips to Europe.

 He sat in is office writing in An old Notebook, he wouldn’t call it a journal, it was more way to organize his thoughts.  It wasn’t the only notebook this was in fact the third one he filled, he also had a letter. They were for his daughter though he never thought, until the day she arrived, that he would ever get a chance to give Anastasia these things.

 Present day…it was in fact Ironic that in spite of being kept away from him, Annie acted like Holmes, distant and slightly aloof, he took out his pocket watch “I am meeting, Clay and Ana, for dinner.”  He goes to freshen up and sticks the items he wanted to give her, in his briefcase.  “By the way Sherlock. Rewrite your speech for the wedding reception. I was proofreading it, when you and I were having tea, and parts are vaguely threatening.”  

 “Ana requested that play her favorite classical piece.  I will work on the speech while I am thinking through my case. And don’t forget the stag party is next week.”

 “I assure you I will be at the wedding.”  He wasn’t sure he would be at the Stag Party, but Mycroft had a feeling Sherlock would somehow cause trouble. It would not be all that good for Clay to be in jail on the wedding day.

 As he drives to the restaurant he thinks back to the speech he made, at the engagement dinner, “As I look around this room I realize I am a man of few words. And I can be very intimidating. At this very moment, I feel everything is as it was always meant to be.” He paused to collect his thoughts “The Day I met Ana I was not only physically out of breath,  but also emotionally out of breath running from my past.   Tired of looking back, I can’t bare to look back any longer.”  Sherlock elbows him “This is  happy occasion there I go being morose again.”

 “I would have said Emo.” Clay said, Ana Elbows him and Whispers

 “You are right. He has a habit of slipping back into the person, John and Sherlock say, he was before I came to London.” She replied

 Molly “I read the story you submitted to the paper for the writing contest. Why did you choose an obscure Georgian Poet to write about?” she said

 Ana “You know the Bed and breakfast that Clay and  I  stayed at a few months ago. I have been there before. It is extremely haunted but not with malevolent spirits. Just a bunch of lost souls. Thomas Thorne is one of them.   He had such a sad ending. His cousin tricked him into a duel that he died during and instead of his beloved staying with as he passed on his cousin lead her inside with everyone else and he died alone in the garden.”   She paused one of the ghosts that stays in the basement told me that Thomas’ cousin wanted his wife, formerly Thomas’ beloved, to burn all his manuscripts but she couldn’t bring herself to, and buried them in the basement. So one of the projects I have been doing with the helps of both of my families is having the works of Thomas Thorne published.”  She didn’t think her story would be finalist in the writing contest.   That is why I want to have the wedding and Button House because the ghosts love a party. Since they can’t eat food they love to smell the food.”

 Clay “you promised you would tell me what happened during the three hours of time that I can’t recall.” They had spent nearly a week at Button house and it was that small window of time that he blanked on that drove him crazy.

 “The last thing you recall is accidentally being shocked helping the owners rewire something. Thomas Happened to nearby when the shock threw you back and you were possessed for just under four hours. But since the ghosts can’t leave the property. Thomas did the noble thing and walked to the gate of the Button house to remove his soul from your body.”

 Present day…the night of hen party..

 Ana “I think I need to spend less time around uncle Sherlock. I had the weirdest dream. I walked into a bath and body works,”

 Cashier “Welcome to Bath and Body Works. Would you like a bath or a body?”

 Ana thinking *odd question*  Speaking “A Bath I suppose.”

 Cashier [to Second employee] “put the body back and fetch the bejeweled bathtub”

 2nd Employee [muttering] “No one ever wants the body we should just become a spa!”

 Ana “the dream Ended when a crystal encrusted bathtub came up out of the floor.”

 Mary “When John and I were dating he would tell me war stories and he got so flustered he was telling me about a tiger cub getting into his tent that he reversed the tiger cub and the gun. And said the gun got into the tent and he pointed a loaded tiger at it.”

 They hear Allison, the owner of Button House drop something “Allison, you need a break remember the wedding isn’t formal and my uncle is in charge of the music.” She stands up and makes Allison sit down. “Thank you for letting us having the wedding and reception here at Button House.  Thomas and the others are oddly Quiet.”

 Allison “he’s trying to compose a ghostly poem to thank you for the work you are doing to make him a known author.” She paused and took a sip of tea “They are surprised you invited them they usually avoid parties except for Kitty, she loves weddings.”

 Meanwhile at the Parliament

 Clay “wjat kind of stag party is this we are slightly drunk and breaking into building.”

 “Shhh.” Sherlock mumbled as he picked the lock he had forgotten where they were and the only reason that Mycroft wasn’t with them was because he had ended up working late.

 A voice comes from behind them “What are you doing here?”

 Sherlock “I got lost.”

 Voice “This is a secure government facility!”  they were shining a flashlight in their faces so Clay, John, and Sherlock had no idea that they had ended up outside Mycroft’s government office

 “Really lost.”  John responded as he blinked against the brightness

 A familiar voice “Stand down gentlemen.” As they part and hall way lights come on “Really sherlock. It would have done no good if you had gotten Anastasia’s fiancé arrested the night before the wedding.” Mycroft takes them into his office “Really brother, you are becoming an odd influence on this future member of our family.”

Sherlock squinted at him “You have been drawing again brother.” He pauses “Is this related to the locked room at your house?”

 “In a manner of speaking yes. You and Eurus were good at Music and I was good at drawing though I allow very few people to know that.”

 Clay “Locked room?”

 John “It is best not to question family things unless they include you, Clay.”

 “I have learned to just roll with things when it comes to being related to the Holmes Family. After all Mycroft bought us a house when we got engaged.” It had taken Ana months to realize the house wasn’t a way to watch them and make sure nothing went wrong he just wanted them to be comfortable.  Mister Holmes I just wanted you to know none of this was my idea.  They gave me directions and….”

 “I know none of this was your making, Young man. These two are like fraternity brother when they get drunk. They got arrested put In the drunk tank before John’s wedding,“   Mycroft replied “there is one thing you haven’t realized, yet Clay. Sherlock counts you amongst the few people he trusts I mean he barely trusts me and I am his brother.”

 They sat down “at first I thought it was odd that you just accepted Ana as your daughter, but then I realized you, you probably knew she existed before she showed up.”

 “You are finally starting to learn through observation, Daphne was afraid she would end up being Holmes if I was allowed to raise her. But she still ended up being more like Holmes than anything else.” He was embarrassed to admit he had people following them [Daphne. Charles and Ana] around whenever they were in England. The odd thing was she had been collecting newspapers with Sherlock on the Cover since she was about ten years old.

 Clay looked at him “Anastasia means Rebirth and it would seem she has been that to your family and myself, Mr. Holmes.”  The young man said “I felt lost until I was assigned to work on projects with her.” He didn’t want to call him dad or Mycroft neither one felt proper. He hoped Mycroft understood that.

 Mycroft looked at him with an awkward grin “Our family can be a bit much.”

“I’ve done some stupid shit, but that was before I met her. I think Ana has made us all better people even him.” He points back at Sherlock and John who are giggling In the corner

 “Why aren’t we back at the restaurant?” John asked “I know why because you thought it would be brilliant idea to try to break into Mycroft’s office. The Night before the wedding.”

 “I wonder what Ana and the Ladies are doing?”

 Meanwhile at Button House

 “I guarantee you, Sherlock will somehow manage to cause trouble for Clay. Clay tries too hard to get Sherlock to like him. When he already trusts him.” Ana said as they walked around Button house “You asked why Alison leaves a tv in an empty room on. The ghosts like to watch tv.”  She waves at the ghosts currently in the room “Hi Thomas, Kitty.” She looks at Mary and Molly “They say hello. And since In invited them to the wedding they said we can watch whatever I want.”

 She does a title Search For Cinderella “Which version to watch. I in fact like several of these options.”  Musicals were one of the few things she had allowed herself to escape from reality when she was in Maine. They would spend all night watching movies

 Molly “I may not believe in ghosts but there is clearly something different about the energy of this place.” She said

 To Be Continued…

Monday, February 27, 2023

Pretend there is no Txt on the gif of Thomas and kitty. i wanted one where they are sitting down

[highlyincorrect]

… why did no one tell me about twink Lestrade in that amazing gay 80s movie

[aveline-amelia]

Do all of the Holmes children secretly have red hair?

I know, random, but hear me out.

Benedict Cumberbatch has auburn hair.

Mark Gatiss is a ginger.

Sian Brooke is blonde for what I could find.

I know I saw fanart where Mycroft has brown hair or ginger hair as a child or young adult. Even in fanfiction where they are kids this is a fact that gets referenced. Sherlock for all I saw is kept as either dark haired or his hair is made to be completely black. Not much I could find on Eurus because everyone hates her (I know, I know, I should stop with my Eurus hate.) But while older Eurus has black hair, young Eurus has light brown hair. Both actual young Eurus and The Girl On The Plane.

My crack theory: all of the Holmes family are gingers. They lie about it because they don't want to perpetuate the belief that gingers have no souls. wait, is that why people call them sociopaths...

[otometrashqueen]

Nobody:

Me: Getting unreasonably turned on when Mycroft threatens people 😳

[lokijiro]

And when he goes to her for help, once he's aware that she likes him, he does it by asking if she would help him even if he weren't the man she thought he was.

I'm of the opinion that one could not possibly be as much of a show-off as Sherlock without self-esteem issues.

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."

“December” for @sherlockchallenge

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom

I Can’t Stand It

Rosie’s tantrum in the park, reminds Sherlock of his own childhood. It’s strange that so much of what the little girl says and does resonates with him.

“She’s not yours,” several voices inside his head tell him.

Still, he can’t shake off the feeling of being something more to her than just…what is he exactly to her? She calls him Lock; he calls her Watson. He desperately wants her to call him something else, which he only allows himself to think about when he’s alone.

“I can’t stand it, daddy!” Rosie exclaims and stomps her feet.

“But, sweetheart,” John tries to reason with his four-year-old daughter. “You were perfectly fine eating this last week.”

Rosie rolls her eyes and throws her arms in the air. Sherlock can see that John’s mouth twitches slightly as he’s supressing a smile. Sherlock hears his mother’s voice filled with delight in his mind.

“She’s so much like you sometimes, darling.”

“There are big pieces in it,” Rosie explains to John. “I want smooth ice cream.”

John looks over at Sherlock for help, but Sherlock has long ago decided to never lie to John again. He shrugs apologetically and mutters something under his breath.

“What was that, Sherlock?” John inquires, his tone exasperated now.

“It’s quite normal for children her age to change tastes and react to new textures. I was the same.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not…”

“I know, John!” Sherlock snaps. “You and everyone we know keeps telling me that.”

He turns on his heel and walks briskly out of the park. Behind him the two Watsons call after him, begging him to come back but he can’t. Sherlock can live with everyone else claiming that he’s not Rosie’s father, but it hurts when John joins the choir. Of course, Sherlock knows he has no biological connection to her, but he’s raising her together with John, isn’t he? She comes just as willingly to him as to John. 

“Protect your heart, brother mine,” Mycroft told him after John and Rosie moved to Baker Street, and not for the first time. His brother knew that Sherlock’s heart belonged to John and had for a very long time.

***

Where are you? I’m sorry, Sherlock. We need to talk. Are you coming home soon?

Sherlock’s heart races in his chest when he reads John’s text. He barely registers the apology. All his brain is capable of is trying to deduce what John wants to talk about.

Are they moving out? Does John want him to spend less time with Rosie? Won’t he be allowed to do children safe experiments with her anymore?

He pulls his hair in frustration. Why is it so hard to figure out what John wants? Sherlock’s able to read anyone but John. Why?

“Hi, Sherlock. I didn’t know you were here,” Molly says when she walks into the lab at Barts.

“I’m leaving,” Sherlock tells her and walks rapidly out of the room.

***

Sherlock stands and watches the Thames float by. The London Eye is coloured in pink in the far distance. It’s getting dark and he’s got no recollection of the last hours. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he suddenly remembers that he’s forgotten to answer John’s text.

“A bit not good, Sherlock,” John’s voice scolds him.

Can I call you? Rosie wants to say goodnight.

Sherlock feels his face soften. The Watsons are probably still at Baker Street then. He doesn’t hesitate but calls John’s number.

John’s voice sounds relieved when he picks up, but it’s tinted with worry.

“Hi. You alright?” he asks.

“Fine,” Sherlock says, and it comes out more clipped than he intended.

John sighs and apparently gives the phone to Rosie.

“Lock!” the little girl exclaims.

“Hello, Watson. Ready for bed?” Sherlock inquires softly.

“Yes. Tired,” she tells him and yawns.

Sherlock feels his throat thicken, and he must swallow hard and close his eyes to keep his tears at bay. Without thinking he uses the endearment only Rosie has heard.

“Goodnight, my heart.”

“Night, Lock. See you tomorrow,” Rosie slurs, clearly almost asleep.

Sherlock ends the call before John gets a chance to ask him humiliating questions. The sharp intake of breath from John when Sherlock bid Rosie goodnight didn’t go unnoticed.

“You’ve ruined it now, Holmes,” he tells himself.

***

Aldi is still open, and Sherlock buys two boxes of ice cream for Rosie without any pieces of fruit, berries, crunch, chocolate or other abominations.

He takes a deep breath before locking himself into Baker Street, and he ascends the stairs silently. John sits in his chair, reading one of his medical journals. Sherlock just nods and walks to the kitchen with his purchases. He places the boxes in the freezer before walking to the bathroom.

“Sherlock?” John calls after him.

“Shower,” Sherlock answers.

The shower does wonders, and Sherlock feels quite refreshed and relaxed when he puts on a t-shirt, pyjamas bottoms and his maroon dressing gown. John stands just outside Sherlock’s bedroom and Sherlock startles a bit.

“Everything alright?” he asks. “Watson?”

“She’s fine, Sherlock. Soundly asleep. I just want to apologise properly to you. I was way out of line earlier. No, Sherlock, listen. I need to say this. Please.”

John’s expression is pained, and Sherlock doesn’t know what’s to come next. Nothing could have prepared him for this.

“I know it’s no excuse that I was exhausted and sleep deprived, but that’s the defence I have, and it’s appalling to say the least. Rosie…she is…just as much yours as she is mine. You care for her just like any parent. She loves you, we both do, and…”

“John?” 

Sherlock’s voice is trembling, and he feels his balance is about to fail him. Warm and steady hands are placed on his upper arms and when John speaks again, his voice is warm with affection.

“Forgive me. Please?”

Sherlock just nods and lets himself melt in John’s embrace.

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @helloliriels @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @raina-at @peanitbear @topsyturvy-turtely @7-percent @ninasnakie

[holmesianlove]

Chapter 18 - Fluff

“What about this?” John said, holding up a perfectly ugly ornament.

Sherlock burst out laughing. “That’s ridiculous, John.”

“Wait, wait,” he said excitedly, grabbing another. “This one looks like your brother.” John gave a comical quirk of his brow, as he held up an ornament of a deformed looking dog with a particularly sour look on its face.

Sherlock tried for the longest time to hold it together but ended up bent over with laughter and then when he had finally settled down, he reached out and took the ornament from John. “Well it's settled, we’re getting this one for his tree. Even he will agree to the resemblance.” Sherlock winked at John. “I like this tradition of yours. It’s fun. I’m just sorry… that things with Harry are…”

“You don’t need to do that,” John said, cutting him off, keeping his eyes on the ornaments. “It is what it is.”

“But it’s times like this that these little traditions become more… painful.” He nodded to himself as he said it, thinking about how to smooth this over. He needed to share something. John coped better when he was part of a shared experience, not by being spotlighted.

“My brother used to do a… treasure hunt," he began, standing beside John at the wall, also looking at the decorations and pretending not to focus on his friend. "Every birthday, when I was young. Our parents were both always working and they paid a very lovely nanny to care for us, but they weren’t the most present of parents. One year Mummy and Daddy were away for my birthday, so Mycroft hid all the presents, and made up little riddles to make me work to find them - to solve puzzles.” Sherlock snorted “I suppose he helped hone my brain, which was undoubtedly the real purpose of the activity in his eyes. But as a young, arrogant, highly intelligent child it was a lifeline for my boredom. He did it for a few years… and then he moved out of home and he forgot about it, got busy with his own life. It meant a lot to me. I’d never tell him that, of course. He has enough of an ego as it is. But sometimes, on my birthday, I feel a little tinge of sadness. I miss it.” He looked over at John who had finally stopped avoiding eye contact and was watching Sherlock intently, listening.

“We can make this our new tradition…" Sherlock tried to suggest. "Until the time you and Harry—“

“That won’t happen,” John said flatly.

“Well, then it can be ours alone, from now on,” Sherlock replied firmly. “I like it. Christmas can be such an unnecessary time of year. Particularly when one isolates themselves from family. You know I’ve never been fond of it. I think having a sense of humour about it is… an excellent way to survive it. Together.” Sherlock nodded.

“Together...” John agreed with a little nod, weighing up the words. 

Sherlock looked down at the ornament in his hand and played with it, almost lovingly. Finally he looked back up at John. “Now, we need to find an ornament that reminds us of Mrs Hudson,”  he said with a cheeky smile.

John smiled back at him. “Thank you,” he said quietly. 

Sherlock put a hand on his arm in support, and then returned to looking at the wall of decorations and the moment passed. John continued looking too but he felt Sherlock’s eyes on him at all times, watching him closely. 

They decided after a time, to make their way to the Christmas markets. As they wandered through, the evening light faded and the twinkle of the Christmas lights became even more beautiful. John finally felt, for the first time all day, that he was relaxed. 

“Oh John, come here!” Sherlock called out, moving to a stall on one side. “Look at these hats! Sherlock grabbed a silly hat and placed it on his own head. A knitted hat with dangling plaits down the side, and pom-poms. He looked ridiculous, and yet completely adorable. “I used to have a hat like this,” he laughed. Then he grabbed another one and put it on John’s head before he could argue. “Frog,” he simply said. “Look at it! It’s a frog, John.” He smiled.

He looked so happy, so free. Clearly the chocolate had given him a special buzz, or Sherlock was tapping into his childhood joy because this was almost a different Sherlock entirely to the one John saw most of the time. Even during excitable case work there was a focus, a seriousness to it, an intensity. This was pure, unadulterated joy. He left John there in the frog hat, throwing his back on the pile before running on to another stall with beautifully wooden crafted items. “I think I will get this wine bottle holder for my brother! He’ll like that,” he said, but didn’t grab it. He had already moved on to the next stall.

John quickly put the frog hat down and smiled at the stall owner, chasing after his friend. “Sherlock…? Sherlock?… Sherlock?!” He called out, a few times before catch up and grabbing at Sherlock’s arm.

“What, John?” Sherlock asked, irritated at being thwarted in his adventures.

“Slow down,” John laughed. “You’re running at a thousand miles an hour. Slow down.”

Sherlock stopped and looked at John. The moment was frozen in time as the bustle of the markets around them continued on. John stood there looking at Sherlock, and Sherlock stood there looking at John, and they smiled at each other gently. John’s chest was filled with a warm, happy feeling. He really liked seeing Sherlock so content, but he most liked it when Sherlock stopped everything he was doing, and just looked at him like this. Like he was the only person in the world. He liked that it was just the two of them and Sherlock didn’t need anyone else. He trusted John. He needed John with him. It felt almost magical, their connection, and John couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it, really seen it before now. Just how strong his connection to Sherlock really was. 

Was this how relationships felt? For normal people who dated? Did they just want to stay in each other’s space and stare into each other’s faces like this? Was that what was happening here? Was John losing his mind? Was he having feelings for Sherlock? Or was he just enjoying having some quality time with his friend? Their friendship had always been intense. From the beginning. Was he just wanting to enjoy this for what it was right now? He didn’t really know. And he certainly wasn’t going to say anything. The last few days had been intense but on the other hand, it was lovely to open up a bit more about their lives, their hopes. Saying something now was a mistake. 

As time stood still, Sherlock reached across the distance between them and touched John’s hair. A featherlight touch with his finger and his thumb. John closed his eyes and felt a tingling run all through his body at the simple contact. Was Sherlock making a move? He flushed and his brow creased, suddenly confused by the movement. He opened his eyes again to look at Sherlock, assuming there would be an explanation.

“Fluff,” Sherlock said quietly. “You had some… ah... fluff in your hair… from the woollen hat,” he said with an awkward smile.

“Oh." That was the only sound John could squeeze out in the moment.

Sherlock smiled at him as he jiggled his fingers to remove the fluff from them and finally watched it float to the ground. When he looked back up his face creased in concern. “God, John, your lips are practically turning blue. You really should have worn some gloves and a scarf to warm up. I always tell you and you never....”

“I thought it would be fine,” he said, as his teeth chattered to punctuate the point. 

Sherlock smiled and shook his head. “Come on. How about we get something warm to drink? Warm you up from the insides?" He suggested.

John just nodded. His insides already felt considerably warm, he thought, after the gesture, after Sherlock had moved so close and touched his hair like that, but he didn’t have the ability to argue, or to tell him right now. So he followed, as usual, and let Sherlock lead the way.

@lisbeth-kk @helloliriels @totallysilvergirl @221beloved @safedistancefrombeingsmart 

@givemesherbet-blog-blog @naefelldaurk @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @peanitbear 

@starlitkeys @lumilama @yorkiepug @talkativeanxiousturtle @kettykika78 

@kittenmadnessandtea @whatnext2020 @egregiously-chuffed @chriscalledmesweetie @catlock-holmes

@battledress @kholkate @randomquadballpun @little-owls-things @daltongraham 

@sillygirlsmindpalace @oetkb12 @odditiesandeverything @johnlockficclub @rainstarboii @bheadhe

@hospitableasacactus @wssh13 @br-nz @solarmama-plantsareneat @givemesherbet-blog-blog

@dw91165 @pileofstardust2106 @moonkeller @surprisinglyokay @r4venlyn 

@therealalexisamess-blog @e-b1838 @rhasima @salmonsown @tropelovingpainter 

@westandforships @fuck-off-watson-rp @notjustamumj @melodious-me @otter-von-bismarck @silvergoldsea 

[lisbeth-kk]

Oh, Mycroft 💔

Take My Hand

As a toddler Mycroft Holmes’ parents understood he was not fond of touch. He especially did not like to have his hands held. He constantly tried to have something in at least one hand to have a reason not to touch or be touch beyond necessities.

A repair was needed to a fence in back acreage. Now a curious aged seven, Mycroft followed his father and the groundskeeper across their land. Accustomed to the young boy’s presence, neither thought anything of it as hopped random stones to cross the wide creek. Mycroft easily hopped the first few stones, but nearly slipped into the water with his last attempt. He realized his young legs were not a match for the length of the adult men. It was not deep water, but it was nearing winter and he did not want to fall.

“Da!” Mycroft, carefully balanced on a stone, called to his father.

Mr. Holmes turned in surprise at his very independent son until he understood the problem. He reached out, Take my hand.

Mycroft reluctantly put his hand out, the chagrin of having to do so evident, even on his young face.

---- 

Mummy heard when the front door slammed. Her husband was about to yell when she held up a hand as two sets of footsteps ran up the stairs.

“Sherlock. Leave. Me. The hell. ALONE!” was bellowed from upstairs.

The insulting tones of a younger brother, who knew a lot- but not yet enough, followed.

“Of course he’s mad, you’re stupid! You kissed him; I saw it! And with your tongue in his mouth? Nasty! That’s why he hit you!”

Mummy was on her way up when something heavy in Mycroft’s room hit the floor and shattered.

“Sherlock! Go downstairs and help your father.”

“But Mummy…”

“Now, Sherlock.”

She entered the bedroom, closed the door gently behind her and carefully stepped around the shattered CRT monitor on the floor. Mycroft laid with his back to the door. He curled further in on himself, but did not otherwise acknowledge her. Still, she knew he was aware of her presence. She silently sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

“I didn't know it could hurt so much…” a muffled voice sniffled.

“Unfortunately, the first one almost always does, son.”

“There will not be another,” a broken voice snarled.

She had known it was going to end badly with her son and the closeted boy, but some things cannot be avoided in life, and one’s very first heartbreak was at the top of the list. Her own heart broke as Mycroft sobbed into his pillow.

Knowing he would never ask, after a while she simply put an open palm beside him. Take my hand. 

She knew he would know it is there. Moments later an awkward hand silently reached out barely touching hers.

---- 

Hands on his umbrella, Mycroft said nothing as his -no longer a baby- brother’s Red rimmed verdigris eyes slowly fluttered open and tracked the hospital room until they met his.

“How…?” Sherlock’s normally baritone, a raspy shadow of its normally mellifluous self. He groaned as he tried to sit up.

“Why ask questions you know the answer to, Sherlock?”

Mycroft had flicked his eyes away, but knew Sherlock caught his wince. The beating had been brutal. Sherlock had deleted the details of how they got there from himself, but Mycroft dig not need Sherlock to tell him; he had already deduced it. 

“This OD was accidental, a miscalculation…”

“Miscalcu-!” Mycroft nearly thundered before he stopped himself. The sudden silence, was one thing, but nothing could have prepared Mycroft for the tears that slipped from his own eyes.  “Promise me, Sherlock.” Mycroft angrily wiped them away,  “Promise you won’t do this again…” Mycroft’s voice broke piteously.  “Please?”

Sherlock placed his hand on the guard rail near him.

Mycroft knew it was not a promise to stop, but silently asking: should he fall, again, would Mycroft be there.

Sherlock’s hand lingered there for a while silently begging, Take my hand.

Only when it seemed Sherlock was about to pull away, did Mycroft lay his hand over Sherlock’s.

“I’ll always be there for you.”

---- 

It was less than two hours since his parents left his office after a tongue lashing that Mycroft had not been privy to since A Levels. It helped to know Sherlock did not hate him for the keeping the secret of their little sister all that time. Still, his parents’ words had stung. With Sherlock taking their parents back home and Anthea still at Sherrinford straightening the mess left in Eurus’ wake; for the first time in a long time, Mycroft felt utterly and completely alone.

Even more so than when he woke up trapped in Eurus’ old cell.

He had sat on the floor because Eurus had destroyed the bed taking away the only comfort in that space. The floor was cold and he was not exactly young anymore. He was grateful when rescue arrived in the form of Greg Lestrade.

“Here.”  Greg offered to help when Mycroft’s cold stiffened bones protested rising.

“I’m fine.” Mycroft used the bedframe to pull himself up.

“You're not alone, just so you know.” Greg had sighed as they walked out.

At the time Mycroft thought Greg referred to the eyes and ears that were always in that room.

Mycroft told Anthea she could go home and he was on his way home himself.

Somehow, he wound up in the carpark of NSY instead.

He does not know who, if anyone, told Greg he was there. He was just grateful when the man acknowledged his driver, then quietly slid into the backseat next to him.

Greg said nothing as the car pulled into traffic; just his presence was enough to chase the demons away.

Only then did Mycroft understand what Greg had truly meant that night. 

“I’m not alone, Greg.” Mycroft laid his hand on the seat between them, his pinky grazed along Greg’s then stilled. “I know that now.”

Understandably unsure, Greg tentatively slid his hand closer so that their respective pinkies fully touched, but nothing more.

“And just so you know; neither are you.” Mycroft turned his palm up on the seat in offering, Take my hand.

“I know that now.” Greg smiled as he slowly slid his hand over Mycroft’s and grasped it.

@flashfictionfridayofficial

[sillygirlsmindpalace]

Day 11 : Ribbons 🎀

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

The Secret Ribbon Code

Finding oddities at 221B, Baker Street wasn't something new - Sherlock's bizarre scientific apparatus and horrifying specimens, John's scattered medical journals, Mrs Hudson's occasional baked delights left on the table, or even the toys Rosie sometimes left in the fridge.

"The dinosaurs will vanish again if they don't find a good home", Rosie had once protested when John insisted on keeping them back in her toy box.

Today, as the duo returned to the flat after a long and tiring case, Sherlock found something new.

A red ribbon tied neatly to the doorknob of his bedroom.

Pausing, Sherlock tilted his head, examining the knot. Simple yet clean, practical and perfect. Rosie's work, undoubtedly. He untied it carefully, carrying the ribbon into the living room.

Rosie was sitting cross legged on the floor with a box of ribbons in every colour imaginable. Upon sensing Sherlock coming, she turned to look, her face lighting up.

"You found the first one!"

"First one of what exactly?", Sherlock inquired, holding the ribbon high up in the air.

Rosie grinned, "Oh! That's my secret ribbon code! Red means that you have to come and talk to me."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"And what about the other colours?"

Rosie scratched her chin. "I haven't really decided but wait. Blue means you're very busy with your work and I shouldn't bother you. Yellow means it's snack time and green means it's time to play deductions!"

"Hmm, interesting", Sherlock mumbled, sitting down beside her. "But, do tell me, what happens if I forget them?"

"Sherlock, you better store this in your hard drive", John stated softly without taking his eyes off the telly.

Rosie giggled. The idea of him forgetting such a simple code seemed preposterous. "You're the smartest person in this world, Sherlock".

Sherlock allowed himself a smile, a rare one.

"Flattery will get you anywhere, my dear Watson".

From that day onwards, the ribbon code became their private language. Sherlock would find green ribbons tied to his violin or the Cluedo Board, yellow ribbons around his mugs, and even a blue ribbon tied neatly around his microscope when he was deeply absorbed in one of his experiments.

But his favourite moment came on one evening when Mrs. Hudson invited everyone to dinner.

Rosie, with her tiny legs sprinted across the room to tie pink ribbons on everyone's wrists.

"Uncle Greg, here's one for you! Aunt Molly, you should get one!", she squealed as she went on with her mission.

"Oh thanks sweetie!", Molly watched Rosie knit her eyebrows as she secured the knot into place.

"What does this mean?", John asked.

"Pink means that I love Uncle Greg and Aunt Molly. Mrs Hudson too, but she won't let me tie one now. She says the flour will make it dirty. I have one for Uncle Mycroft, but he isn't here today", she pouted.

Rosie ran to her box and fished out two gold ribbons. She tied one around John and hopped towards Sherlock's chair, who extended his wrist at once.

John couldn't help but smile at the sight infront of him. Rosie stuck out her tongue in utmost concentration while finishing off her knot neatly.

"That's something new", Sherlock asked softly.

Rosie beamed up at him. "Yes, gold also means that I love you, but it's different from the others. You and Daddy are my best friends. We're best friends forever, aren't we?"

For a moment, Sherlock was silent. John could feel himself tear up. Then, with a rare gentleness, he picked Rosie up and made her sit on his lap. Rosie wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Thank you, little lady. I'll make sure to remember that one", he smiled and planted a kiss on her cheek.

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

Writing a story after a long, long, long time.

@helloliriels @hesagoodone @a-victorian-girl @aziraphalianfangirl @holmesianlove @totallysilvergirl @ghostofnuggetspast please give me your feedback 🤗

Thanks to @notjustamumj for the prompts 🩷

[jrow]

May Prompts (6)

Part 5 here. Day 7 here.

Cold

He's cold.

He'd probably be fine if he had his coat, but he left that somewhere in the hospital. Under any other circumstances, he'd be livid about losing it. Today he's numb. It’s just a stupid coat anyways.

Perhaps a poet would say the cold is apropos. Perhaps John would say the same if he wrote about these events in a blog post. The thought makes Sherlock want to vomit (again).

Before she left for work, Molly had tried to convince Sherlock to wear one of John's jackets. Too small is better than nothing she'd said. But Sherlock couldn't bear to look in his friend's closets, let alone take something from him. Not today. He’s already taken far too much over the years.

So, here he is. Maneuvering the pushchair down the pavement, every inch of him growing colder by the second. Rosie is warm though, decked out in her full snowsuit and wrapped in a blanket. She looks adorable and he's noticed several other pedestrians smile down at her. She always smiles back. He does not deserve her. He does not deserve them.

Sherlock isn't sure how, but he had managed to keep it together as he explained to little Watson that her Daddy was hurt and had to stay in hospital. That the doctors and nurses were working very hard to help him get better.

His speech had been made a touch easier because, right before he gave his stilted explanation, he'd received a text from Mycroft alerting him that John was minimally conscious. For once he was glad Mycroft had eyes and ears everywhere.

Sherlock knows the stats and he reviewed countless articles last night. John regaining some form of consciousness so quickly meant he should survive. His cracked ribs and fractured sternum were never going to kill him and, at least so far, there didn’t appear to be any internal bleeding. It had been the head injury they’d all been most worried about.

The news had been a relief, obviously, but Sherlock hadn’t let himself absorb it. He had a job to do after all. So, that’s what he did. He answered all of Rosie's toddler-style questions, got her dressed and fed, and then bundled her up and placed her in the pushchair. Routine is good for children. Routine is good for him. He's taken her to nursery dozens of times before and it was strangely comforting to go through the motions. To clean up her cheerios when she threw them on the floor, to fight with her over needing to wear mittens (understanding he looked like quite the hypocrite … but he deserves cold, she doesn’t), to get her out the door with little to no time to spare.

He doesn't deserve her. He doesn't deserve them.

He is relieved John will live. Is relieved John will be able to hug his little girl again. But with that relief comes a new emotion. One he’s been trying to push aside like he always does, machine that he is. But like the cold, the emotion is spreading everywhere, right down to his bones. It is suffocating him.

Guilt.

Because it’s his fault. He is the reason John fell.

I have moved the tags to the comments since only some of them seemed to work each day.

[amloveabledeathmo]

(Some background for this idea, Sherlock is Demisexual and after spending enough time with John he realizes he loves John and wants a relationship but we all know he can't start it after telling John he was married to his work and not interested in people. John is bi but after the immediate rebuff at the beginning of their acquaintance he doesn't want to push himself on Sherlock. He also only dates women because the only man he wants is Sherlock, in fact the only person but it's easier to not compare women to Sherlock.)

Sherlock gets a case where people have not only had their personal information (and money) stolen but also their private relationships exposed. He comes to find out that they have all stayed at a fancy hotel. Said hotel is well known for it's discretion and is also a popular destination for fancy business events.

Instead of deciding to go as friends, work colleagues, siblings, cousins, hotel staff, or as people who don't even know each other, Sherlock decides that him and John absolutely have no other option but to go as a couple. John of course agrees, after all Sherlock is the genius and he would like to know what dating Sherlock would entail, even if they are going undercover as not themselves and the dating is totally fake.

They tell Mrs. Hudson since she is their emergency contact. No one else knows about the case.

Once they arrive they are given just a standard two queen room (I'm american and in every hotel I've stayed at that is the default room, no I've never been to a fancy hotel). Safely in the room they stand looking at the beds for awhile before Sherlock says they should probably share a bed as they are supposed to be a couple on their first vacation together and of course you wouldn't want anyone who saw their room to gossip. John readily agrees and they place their suitcases on the unused bed. When they go to sleep they are laying stiffly on opposite sides of the bed but by morning they are closer together and John's arm is over Sherlock's stomach and Sherlock's leg is over John's hip. Of course these brilliant and totally not in love guys just ignore it.

After breakfast they decide to explore the hotel and it's amenities. At the spa they book a couples massage for the next day and continue to the gardens and tennis court and indoor pool. Besides the spa the rest of the stuff is included in their stay. They talk to staff and other guests and before bed discuss their findings.

Afternoon of the next day they arrive to the spa to wait for their turn. Much to everyone's surprise, Mycroft and Greg emerge from the massage room. There are a few beats of shocked silence before Mycroft tells Sherlock he's happy that him and John have finally worked things out and poor mummy and daddy won't be getting any grandkids. John bursts out why not? We can always adopt or go with a surrogate, I think Sherlock would make a great father.

Sherlock turns to stare at John lovingly and Mycroft and Greg kinda cough uncomfortably before Greg says they aren't yet at the stage in their relationship to discuss kids. After some awkward congratulations going both ways about the relationships John and Sherlock go in for their appointment.

Of course they are both convinced that the other is such a good actor so as to have been able to dupe Mycroft into thinking they could actually be together. Both ignore all the obvious signs that they other likes them. In only two more days Sherlock discovers the front desk clerk who has been passing the personal information to reporters about the high level secret couples and the spa worker who has been stealing the credit card or bank numbers from clients.

After they get home, while John is typing up the case, Sherlock quietly asks if he really does think he'd make a good father. John points out all the reasons he thinks he would be and Sherlock goes quiet. John asks if that's something he wants and Sherlock explains that he never thought he'd find someone who he wanted kids with before he met John.

John whips his head around to look at Sherlock who looks shocked he said that out loud. John asks if he really meant that he wanted kids with John. Sherlock apologizes and says he knows John's straight and not interested in him. John cuts him off saying he's bi and has been interested since the moment they met.

Christmas is interesting that year at Sherlock's parents who are absolutely delighted that not one but both of their boys had a significant other to bring.

[imprvdente]

𝐌𝐘𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐓 & 𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐄 @governmentofficial

"I know," she replied, eyes still planted on the floor. While tears were no longer threatening to fall, she still couldn't meet her father's eyes just yet. He was right, and she knew perfectly well that he was very busy, and that he didn't have much time to spare. And as a demigod, she now had her own responsibilities to fulfill.

Oceanne did believe that the other children enjoyed their lives at home. For one, they told her so. But of course, camp was still the safest place for a demigod. And besides, she knew already that this was an argument she simply couldn't win. Whether she could live in both worlds or not was irrelevant. She wouldn't. Her life was at camp, being a demigod full-time.

"Yes, you're right Dad," she replied slowly. He was worried about her safety and her education, which did comfort her. "I know that I am safe at camp, and I learn a lot there."

Finally, she looked up, almost to show her father that she had stopped crying. She was eager for this conversation to end now, and regretted having even brought up the subject. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make a scene."

"Last year, I was, as always, working to prevent the collapse of society and, during the other period that I could spare some time, you were on a quest," Mycroft reminded his daughter.

Circumstance had a way of keeping the two of them apart - circumstance that, admittedly, he could probably rearrange to suit them better but decided not to. Why should he? Life was full of disappointments, and his daughter only had a limited amount of time to learn that very important lesson.

"Listen to me, Oceanné; I am doing what is best for you. Do you think that the other children enjoy their lives at home, constantly worried about attacks from creatures? Do you think their families don't get caught up in it too? They live in fear, their education sufferers, and they have less self-defence skills. You cannot live in both worlds, and being at Camp is better for you than being at my side."

Mycroft was confident in his words. Of course, he had failed to consider his daughter's emotional needs when he had been working out the best plan for her upbringing, but, for him, that was hardly a surprising turn of events.

"Now, don't cry about this. It's undignified. You can do better."

[astudyintheburningofhearts]

Yeah I don't really know what this is- it just happened. Enjoy?? Hopefully?

__

The realisation had crept up on Sherlock one uncharacteristically sunny autumn afternoon in Baker Street. It had been a slow day, Lestrade yet to come bursting through the doors with a new case for them. John, having finished posting all their latest adventures on his blog, had been sat reading the book he'd been meaning to finish for well over a month at that point. Sherlock, meanwhile, was lounging on the sofa as per usual, one of his favourite books on beekeeping in his hands.

It was when he'd gotten up to get a glass of water that he'd stopped in his tracks, eyes widening minutely before they turned to his hands. He'd gone to get a glass of water for himself, yet here he was, standing barefoot in their kitchen, with two glasses in his hands.

With a sharp intake of breath, Sherlock marched over to John's seat, soundlessly offered him the glass, gave a curt nod in response to John's absentminded "thank you", and returned to the sofa; only this time he was faced away from John.

It had just now occurred to Sherlock that John Watson was indeed his favourite person. Yes, he loved Mrs.Hudson and (reluctantly) Mycroft and Lestrade and his Mummy and Daddy, but if he had to pick his absolute favourite person, he'd simply have no choice but to pick John. The realisation was juvenile, and yet. It made Sherlock burn from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.

Ever since the day he'd had the realisation, Sherlock ensured he would make more of an effort to pay conscious attention to John's needs and desires, in order to make sure the good doctor would have no reason to consider leaving, for what would Sherlock do without his favourite person.

Which is why he felt like the stupidest man on the planet when he deduced John's niche interest in astronomy and cosmology. The signs had been right in front of him the whole time – the way John's lips would purse and a wistful longing would shadow his countenance every time someone brought up space; how when Sherlock had shown his utter disdain for learning the workings of the solar system, John had been more affronted than Sherlock had ever seen him; how when he'd moved in, he'd brought a decently sized collection of books on the subject – god, how could Sherlock have been so blind?

After having mentally berated himself, Sherlock set to work learning everything he possibly could about astronomy, just so that John could ramble on to Sherlock about the stars and the solar system and faraway galaxies and black holes; so John would stay.

And so, Sherlock set about learning astronomy and cosmology, first from John's own books, and then from various sources over the internet. Even when he'd had a particularly tough case to crack, he'd taken fifteen minutes each day to read up on astronomy, so as to not hinder his learning process.

By the end of the week, which gracefully had them solving only one case this time around, Sherlock had finished reading all of John's books and was currently working his way through some of NASA's many articles on various parts of the study that had fascinated him, and of course, what he'd picked up from John's books in the form of his little scribbles and highlights.

And really, he hadn't meant to reveal to John in any way what he was doing, at least not until the next time it was brought up in common conversation with someone they knew. In fact, Sherlock was planning on gifting John a short collection of scientific papers he'd found in the archives of Mycroft's vast library for Christmas if the topic wouldn't come up naturally.

His plans, however, came to a screeching halt when he'd left his laptop open on the coffee table while he went to the loo. When he returned, he found John scrolling through an article about black holes and the information paradox, resting his chin in his palm as he did so.

He paused, having been caught red-handed, clearly. John's eyes remained fixed on the screen as he slightly angled his head towards where Sherlock had entered the sitting room and asked, "Since when have you been interested in black holes and the such? Do we have a new case I don't know about?"

Sherlock paused, stood like a deer caught in headlights, unable to speak a word. John, having received no response, furrowed his brows and looked up at Sherlock, "Sherlock, is everything alright?"

Swallowing once and ducking his head, Sherlock embarrassedly went and sat on the seat adjacent to where John was sitting. He clasped his hands and held them between his knees as if he were a child waiting to be berated for something he'd done.

John's voice was softer now, "Sherlock you know you can tell me anything, but if you don't want to, I'm alright with that too."

Sherlock continued staring at his lap as he whispered, "I was reading for you."

"Pardon?"

Taking a breath, he looked John in the eye as he spoke again, "I was reading up on space for you. Not for a case."

John blinked in confusion – "For... me?"

Of course John thought it was odd Sherlock had done that, of course he did. This was clearly a mistake, Sherlock should never have considered doing this in the first place.

Becoming defensive, Sherlock snapped at him, "No, John, I clearly read all those books and articles because – oh."

He'd been cut off by something most unexpected. John had wrapped his arms around him and had half-nuzzled his face into his neck. "Thank you," John breathed.

Sherlock didn't reciprocate for the first minute or so, thinking John would let go, but when he gave no indication of doing so, Sherlock gingerly wrapped his arms around the smaller man as well, resting his head against John's as he did so, and something warm and pleasant settled in the pit of his belly at having his flatmate so close.

"Nobody's ever... nobody's ever really tried learning about something especially for me. They've never expressed interest in learning about the things I enjoyed learning about, so thank you."

John held on to Sherlock for a moment longer after he finished speaking and then he pulled away, leaving Sherlock feeling bereft.

John cleared his throat and returned to his previous seat, "So, what have you learnt so far? Anything that caught your fancy in particular?"

The smallest grin appeared on Sherlock's face, "You first Doctor Watson, what part of astronomy catches your particular interest?"

John smiled back and shut Sherlock's laptop as he settled in, "Well..."

And Sherlock found that though he doesn't particularly care for when people have to ramble, finding most of them to be dull and boring either way, he hardly minds when John rambles to him. In fact, he found he rather enjoys listening to John ramble.

And that was how the rest of the evening was spent, engaged in conversations about the cosmos and accompanied by an eventual Chinese takeout dinner.

AO3 Link – https://archiveofourown.org/works/59543044/chapters/151856185

[divinity-in-chaos]

Mycroft headcanons

I just need to get these out of my system. If anyone has anything to add, pls do!! I love to hear your thoughts 🥰 slight hints to mystrade!

Warning: this will include themes of depression, eating disorders and self-harm. I will put them at the end, so if you aren’t here for that, just skip past ❤️

He absolutely hates the summer. This guy is a winter baby. The cold weather is a bother but at least he doesn’t sweat through his suits in the snow.

Will never admit it, but his mother’s homemade pie is his favourite comfort food. He’s tried a thousand times to bake it, following the recipe exactly, but he can never get it just right.

The first time he held Sherlock, he cried.

(This is the one of the only times he’s cried in front of his parents.)

Mycroft can’t stand jazz music. He does not understand it at all.

If he had to have a pet, it would be a cat. Preferably one without any fur.

Is actually allergic to certain laundry detergents- I like to think Sherlock is too. They just have sensitive skin.

Watches Barbie movies to unwind when he gets overwhelmed and burnt out. Will not admit this even if it were to save his life.

Every autumn, he re-watches Over The Garden Wall with a glass of wine. The whole show in one sitting, I might add.

Is a daddy’s boy. Sherlock is mummy’s boy.

Would love to have a daughter, but the trauma of taking care of Eurus and Sherlock has convinced him he’s not suitable to be a father. His family genes also has a massive play in that- what if it was a case of Eurus again? Nope, Mycroft would rather be lonely.

Speaking of lonely- I like to think after TFP, Sherlock starts setting him up with people and at first Mycroft complains, but then eventually he just gives in and lets Sherlock do what he wants. Coincidentally, this is just around the time Sherlock starts setting him up with Lestrade. Isn’t that strange? 👀

Came out to his parents during lunch one day, it was very casual.

(Sherlock has never come out, he doesn’t feel like he has to follow that tradition)

His favourite colour is green.

Has a framed photo of himself, Eurus and Sherlock as kids which he keeps in his bedroom. Not on display, but in his bedside drawer (in the middle drawer)

Depressive themes now:

Has been struggling with depression and ED’s since he was quite young.

He has a particular routine of binge eating and then purging.

This is in partly Mrs Holmes fault when she started insisting he diet, a little too much. Not harshly, just unaware of the consequences.

Although it’s mainly depression causing it, along with a childhood of being bullied and mocked by peers.

Attempted suicide at 16. This was the second and last time Mr and Mrs Holmes saw him cry. It wasn’t out of sadness or embarrassment, it was frustration that he had failed.

Sherlock’s reaction to his attempt is the sole reason he hasn’t tried again.

Has SH scars on his stomach.

[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 4) Chapter Twenty-Six

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter Twenty-Six: Final Problem

Summary: (Y/N) faces Eurus's game.

            “(Y/N)!”

            (Y/N) heard Sherlock’s sobs as they opened their eyes. They groaned as the headache of the drug returned and the world spun.

            “I’m here,” they said, still feeling like their tongue was heavy. Slowly, they lifted an arm. It seemed to move in slow motion. “I’m here, Dad.”

            “(Y/N),” said Sherlock in pure relief.

            (Y/N) felt the IV and squeezed their eyes shut. They took a deep breath and pulled. Luckily, the drugs numbed the pain, so they felt a pressure and then nothing. Still, when they pulled their hand away from their arm, blood remained on their hand.

            (Y/N) didn’t bother to wipe it as they rolled over and tried to push themself to their feet. Their arms and legs shook, but they got up. Their whole body trembled, dirt and dust had swept over them, and blood ran down their arm. They looked how they felt—horrible.

            “How’s John?” said (Y/N) as they blinked and looked around. It took time for their eyes to focus every time they moved, and they needed someone’s voice to keep their mind focused.

            “He’s stuck in a well,” said Sherlock. “It’s flooding. It’s like Redbeard, and if I can’t find him, she won’t give me the clue to you—”

            “I’ll get out,” said (Y/N). “We need to find John.” They groaned and fell against the wall to support themself.

            “(Y/N)?” said Sherlock sharply.

            “I’m here,” said (Y/N). “What’s the clue?”

            “The song,” said Sherlock. He looked around himself and shouted for Eurus to hear. “But I went through line by line years ago, and I found nothing!”

            (Y/N) stumbled forward, eyes barely seeing, keeping their fingers sliding against the wall to guide them. They could feel a slight breeze. They had to be somewhere. Obviously, the drugs had been meant to keep them down. Undoubtedly, if (Y/N) didn’t have the mind they had they had, they would have just laid there listlessly until they died.

            But they had their family. They were focused. And they were the clever one.

            So (Y/N) was pulling themself foot by foot out of whatever hellhole Eurus had stuck them in. They were going to beat her game and figure everything out.

            “There was nothing!” said Sherlock to Eurus. “There…There was a beech tree in the grounds, and I dug, I dug and dug and dug. Sixteen feet by six, sixteen yards, sixteen meters, and I found nothing! No one!”

            “Sherlock, (Y/N)?” said John.

            “Oh, it was a clever little puzzle,” said Eurus. “Wasn’t it? So why couldn’t you work it out, Sherlock?” She paused. “There’s something you need to know. Emotional context. And here it comes.”

            “Sherlock, the bones I found…” John trailed off.

            “Yes, they’re dog bones, that’s Redbeard,” said Sherlock.

            “Mycroft’s been lying to you, to all of us,” said John. “They’re not dog bones.”

            “Remember Daddy’s allergy? What was he allergic to?” remarked Eurus. “What would he never let you have all those times you begged?” Sherlock froze. “Well, he’d never let you have a dog.”

            Sherlock groaned as he was thrown into memories.

            “Your funny little memory, Sherlock,” said Eurus. “You were upset, so you told yourself a better story. But we never had a dog.”

            “Victor,” breathed Sherlock. Redbeard had been a boy. His friend.

            “Now it’s coming,” said Sherlock.

            “Victor Trevor,” said Sherlock. “We played pirates. I was Yellowbeard, and he was…He was Redbeard.” The pain was evident in his voice as he spoke.

            “You were inseparable,” said Eurus. “But I wanted to play, too.”

            The words bounced around (Y/N)’s head, and they found their sight focusing ever-so-slightly better as they paused and furrowed their brow. Small bits of words, of observations, of clues, began to flit around and spin together.

            “Oh, god,” said Sherlock. He sobbed. “What…What did you do?”

            “I that am lost. Oh, who will find me?” sang Eurus blankly. “Deep down below the old beech tree.” She paused. “Deep water, Sherlock, all your life, in all your dreams. Deep waters.”

            “You killed him,” breathed Sherlock. “You killed my best friend.”

            “I never had a best friend,” said Eurus.

            Another phrase added to the jumble in (Y/N)’s mind, and things started to come together as they pushed forward. Their feet hit stairs, and they dragged a foot up.

            “I had no one,” said Eurus. “No one.”

            All the pieces fit together, and (Y/N) froze.

            “You wanted me to play with you,” said Sherlock softly. “And I didn’t.”

            “Dad,” said (Y/N).

            Sherlock gasped thankfully at hearing their voice again to break up Eurus’s words.

            “She wanted to play with you,” said (Y/N). “Where did you play?”

            Sherlock paused, and his eyes widened. Eurus furrowed her brow on the screen.

            “Oh, you brilliant thing, you,” breathed Sherlock. “Will you—”

            “I’ll be fine,” said (Y/N). “Go play.” They grinned and pushed themself up the stairs. The problem unraveled with each step.

            Sherlock’s focused gaze went to the screen. “You want to play? Okay. Let’s play.” He took the lantern and ran outside. He ran outside to the strange graves he used to play in.

            “The wrong dates,” he muttered. “She used the wrong dates from the gravestones as the key to the cipher, and the cipher was the song.”

            “Is this strictly relevant?” shouted John as he kept himself from falling beneath the rising water levels.

            “Yes, it is. I’ll be with you in a minute,” promised Sherlock. The numbers jumped out, and as the words circled in his mind, the clues came apart.

            “The lights are getting closer!” said the little girl in his ear fearfully. “The plane is going towards them!”

            “Hush now, working,” said Sherlock. He had it. He was getting it.

l

            (Y/N) pushed the door at the top of the stairs open. They heaved a breath as the cool night air washed over them. They stood in a corridor with broken windows on each side and no ceiling. They were in Musgrave Hall. They’d been trapped in what would have been servant quarters a hundred years ago, with a staircase just for them so they wouldn’t be seen. Sherlock would have gone off into the surrounding land to find John and be drawn away from (Y/N) being right there.

            But (Y/N) had gotten out. They had found the strength to push through.

            And they had found the cleverness to solve the final problem.

            (Y/N) looked down the hall at a single room. They had heard Sherlock muttering, and as he solved the cipher, it only made their conclusion all the more certain.

            Help me, brother. I am lost without your love. Save my soul. Seek my room.

            (Y/N) walked down the hall, keeping their focus on one foot in front of the other. They reached the doorway and summoned their bravery. They pushed the door open.

            “Hello, Eurus,” they said softly.

            Eurus was curled up, holding herself close. “You’re playing the game.” Her eyes were closed, and the voice of the little girl came from her.

            The little girl. Alone. No one to help her. No one to guide her. No one to care for her. Alone above everyone else, feeling like she was going to crash.

            Lost.

            “I know,” said (Y/N), kneeling in front of Eurus. “The song was to find you.”

            “I’m in the plane. I’m going to crash,” said Eurus. “And my family’s going to save me.”

            “High above us. Alone in the sky,” murmured (Y/N), looking at Eurus. “Scared because you can understand everything except for landing and connecting.” They moved a little closer as Eurus held her knees to her chest.

            (Y/N) remembered the pity they’d felt as soon as Mycroft explained Eurus’s inability to understand emotion. They remembered how all of her experiments revolved around feelings. They remembered how she wanted to see her family interacting with the people they cared about.

            Eurus couldn’t understand the heart. She had all the intelligence in the world, but she couldn’t understand a single emotion. Not even her own loneliness. She knew was missing something and hated the feeling, but she couldn’t understand it. She couldn’t ask for help because she had no idea what the problem was.

            Intelligence couldn’t feel the hole that loneliness left.

            “I understand,” said (Y/N) gently. They vaguely heard footsteps running down the hall below, but all their focus as the drugs pulsed through their veins remained with Eurus. “I felt apart. I was alone when I was young. But someone found me. Someone can find you.”

            “It’s too late now,” said the small, fragile voice.

            Footsteps ran up the stairs.

            “It’s not too late,” said (Y/N).

            “No, no.” The voice became Eurus’s, but it still shook with pain and emotion. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m on the plane. I’m lost. Lost in the sky. And…no one can hear me.”

            “I hear you,” said (Y/N). “Sherlock hears you. He’s coming.” They blinked as the world spun. They needed to hold on a little longer. The footsteps ended in the doorway behind them. “Open your eyes, Eurus. We’re here.”

            Sherlock knelt beside (Y/N) and Eurus. Eurus’s eyes opened. Tears had collected in her eyes.

            “You’re not lost any more,” said Sherlock softly. “We can bring you home.”

            Eurus sobbed. Sherlock pulled her into a hug. (Y/N) swallowed and watched with a heavy heart.

            “Now, you just…” Sherlock swallowed. “You just went the wrong way last time, that’s all. This time, get it right. Tell us how to save our friend.”

            “Eurus,” said (Y/N), and her eyes went to them. “Help us save John Watson.”

l

            John shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around himself. (Y/N) lay in Sherlock’s arms as he carried them. The high was still subsiding, but the worst of it as over. (Y/N) shook as they burrowed into his coat, and Sherlock held them tightly.

            All of them watched Eurus let herself be led to a transport vehicle to take her back to…somewhere. Sherrinford, if everyone could be replaced. A new facility, if it was too compromised.

            “We just spoke to your brother,” said Lestrade, coming towards the group.

            He and the other police men, rescue workers, and EMTs had arrived on the scene the minute Sherlock had access to a phone and Eurus’s instructions on how to find and save John. They had all arrived at the right moment.

            “How is he?” said Sherlock.

            “He’s a bit shaken up, that’s all,” said Lestrade. “She didn’t hurt him. She just locked him in her old cell.”

            “What goes around, comes around.” John was recovering well. He had his sarcasm back.

            “Give me a moment, boys. (Y/N), can I get you anything?” said Lestrade. “A trip to the hospital, maybe?”

            “Later,” said (Y/N), just wanting to lay with their family for a while more.

            “Alright,” said Lestrade, walking towards his men.

            “Um, Mycroft,” said Sherlock. “Make sure he’s looked after. He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.”

            “Yeah, I’ll take care of it,” said Lestrade.

            “Thanks, Greg,” said Sherlock.

            John and Lestrade looked at him in astonishment even as Lestrade walked away.

            “Is the helicopter ready, man?” said Lestrade.

            “Yes,” said the policeman.

            “Then let’s move her,” said Lestrade.

            “Is that them, sir? Sherlock and (Y/N) Holmes?” said the policeman.

            “A fan, are you?” said Lestrade.

            Sherlock turned his back, and John joined him. (Y/N) just lay their head on Sherlock’s shoulder.

            “Well, they’re great people, sir,” said the policeman.

            “No, they’re better than that,” said Lestrade. “They’re good people.”

            (Y/N) smiled.

            “You okay?” said John quietly.

            “I said I’d bring her home,” said Sherlock. “I can’t, can I?”

            “Well, you gave her what she was looking for,” said John. “You and (Y/N). Context.”

            “Is that good?” wondered (Y/N) quietly.

            “It’s not good, it’s not bad, it’s…it is what it is,” said John.

            (Y/N) hummed and leaned their head against Sherlock again. They all stood silently for several long minutes until (Y/N)’s eyes started to blink slowly, and they furrowed their brow as a headache came on. They began to feel the burn of their bleeding arm, too.

            “I think it’s time for the hospital,” said Sherlock softly, squeezing them gently. He noticed every sign of discomfort.

            “If you insist,” said (Y/N), sighing. They closed their eyes. “Remind me to tell Mycroft something when I’m up and about again.”

            “Oh?” said John.

            (Y/N) grinned as their consciousness slipped away. “I’m the clever one.”

l

            “Alive? For all these years?!” cried Mrs. Holmes. She glared furiously at Mycroft cross his desk. Mr. Holmes stood beside her, equally as angry. (Y/N) and Sherlock hung back near the door. “How is that even possible?”

            “What Uncle Rudi began…I though it best to continue,” said Mycroft.

            “I’m not asking how you did it, you idiot boy!” exclaimed Mrs. Holmes. “I’m asking how could you?”

            “I was trying to be kind,” said Mycroft softly.

            “Kind?” Mrs. Holmes scoffed. “Kind? You’ve told us our daughter was dead.”

            “Better that than tell you what she had become,” said Mycroft. “I’m sorry.”

            “Whatever she became,” said Mr. Holmes. “Whatever she is now, Mycroft, she remains our daughter.”

            “And my sister,” said Mycroft.

            “Then you should have done better,” said Mrs. Holmes.

            “He did his best,” said Sherlock.

            “Then he’s very limited,” said Mrs. Holmes.

            “Where is she?” said Mr. Holmes.

            “Back in Sherrinford. Secure, this time,” said Mycroft. “People have died. Without doubt, she will kill again if she has the opportunity. There’s no possibility she’ll ever be able to leave.”

            “When can we see her?” said Mr. Holmes.

            “There’s no point,” said Mycroft.

            “How dare you say that!” snapped Mrs. Holmes.

            “She won’t talk,” said Mycroft. “She won’t communicate with anyone in any way. She has passed beyond our view. There are no words that can reach her now.”

            “Sherlock?” said Mrs. Holmes, looking at her younger son. “Well? You were always the grown-up. What do we do now?”

            Sherlock looked at (Y/N). They looked back at him. He nodded, and they looked at Mr. Holmes, Mrs. Holmes, and Mycroft.

            “I…have an idea,” said (Y/N).

            “Tell us,” said Mrs. Holmes. “Please.”

l

            Sherlock and (Y/N) stood outside Eurus’s cell. She sat on a stool, facing away from them. She didn’t move or even flinch as they opened their bags and took out their violins. They stood, positioned themselves,

            and played.

            Their music wove together into a tune that communicated just how much they felt in that moment. They played and let the sound reach Eurus, even as she just sat there.

            Abruptly, she stood. She moved robotically to face them. Sherlock and (Y/N) paused. She looked at them, face and eyes blank. (Y/N) and Sherlock resumed.

            Eurus picked up her violin and positioned it. She drew the bow across the strings. Her music joined theirs.

            Words were beyond her, but, just as (Y/N) had seen before, her associated of feelings with songs, rhythm, music, meant there was something that could reach her. Eurus didn’t have to be alone anymore. The Holmes family could still find one another, even when seemingly lost. They would play as long as it took for Eurus to be able to look at her family and really see them.

            The Final Problem was solved.

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The "Rebellious" one - BBC Sherlock sibling fanfic

!NOTE!: Male-reader/insert, inspiration from SHERLOCK TV Show

~~~

The rebellious one

Sherlock absolutely loved you; you were by far his favourite sibling by a long shot. You were the eldest of all your siblings, 1 year older than stuck up Mycroft and 8 elder than dear little Sherlock Holmes.

You were the troublemaker, mischievous without a doubt. You saw little reasoning behind Mummy dearest’s desires for you to become something great, like a doctor or lawyer. You hated the private piano lessons, the pointless tutoring sessions and eventually school altogether. It was easy to guess what you did, but dropping out of school was by far one of the best decisions of your life, and one of the easiest as well.

You were rebellious by nature.

Mummy and Daddy weren’t quite sure where the behaviour stemmed from as it was definitely not inherited from either of them. It was obvious to you however, the stress of being the first born, the expectation to be the most successful and therefore grand of your siblings. To be able to support yourself with ease and help your siblings if the need arises.

While you respected the ideal. You ultimately rejected the pathways your parents provided, paving a new one and building everything from nothing. It was satisfying seeing your parents reaction when you visited one Christmas dinner, they were horrified at the ink adorning your right arm. Sherlock however quite liked it, in fact he wasted no time gifting his present early, he wanted you to get his pirate sketch tattooed. And who were you to deny him?

That cute little face was irresistible normally, but with added intent and desire behind them? God, you were putty in his hands.

Together you went to a tattoo parlour, Sherlock was rambling furiously to the tattoo artist whilst the ink was being stained onto your skin, it was adorable, the passion in his story as he explained the intricacy of his design and the meaning behind it. ‘The adventures of Yellowbeard’. Sherlock called it, or something similar at least.

It didn’t quite match the other tattoo’s you’d gotten, as those were all grey-scale realistic designs, but Sherlock was adamant that colour was non-negotiable. The young Holmes was a hyper little bean as he jumped around in joy at the completion of his masterpiece. You couldn’t stop chuckling at his antics; the innocence was overloading your system.

Of course, Mum and Dad were horrified once the two of you returned, though they seemed less upset at the tattoo and more with the aspect of Sherlock in a ‘biker’s tattoo shop’ of which it was absolutely not. You weren’t an idiot, you’d made sure Sherlock was as safe as could be.

Mycroft thought you a moron the majority of your life. Growing up he strived to pass you at everything he possibly could, interestingly enough, it took much longer than expected. He thought you were just another goldfish, swimming around dumbly just like all the others. But of course, you were more than that he later realised.

You were a sponge. While you hated your mother’s insistent lessons and tutoring, you had an eidetic memory and couldn’t help but memorise absolutely everything ever taught to you. You would have been a prodigy, everything your parents ever dreamed you to be. But unfortunately for them, you had slightly different plans.

Mycroft thought he’d finally done it when he joined the British Government, there was no way you could outshine him now. Yet, despite not having achieved a high standing career, it was obvious that whenever the two of you met, who was smarter ultimately. You were the opposite of what you parents dreamed you to be, yet you were the happiest having done so. Mycroft admired that.

He’d admit that of course, you would win in physicality. Always. You loved going outside, working out, playing sports, and eating healthy. It was one of your passions, something that ultimately benefitted you quite greatly as your appearance remained younger for much longer than if you had of neglected fitness and health. Sherlock teased Mycroft relentlessly about it as well, how young and fit their elder brother looked in comparison. Of course it was playful teasing, but it was definitely something to respect.

It was only more recently that all three brothers started getting along quite nicely. Sherlock of course never thought ill of you, he just assumed you were an average idiot like John. You played the part quite well, snickering behind Sherlock back while explaining things to John, whom believed you to be his favourite of the Holmes children. You were fun to be around, the most human and emotional of all. It was refreshing to be around.

When you finally decided to reveal your hidden superpower, he was dumbfounded but also instantly relieved.

Mycroft however was a very different story. It started slowly, you invited him randomly to a gig, of which he was pleasantly surprised when he arrived to a wedding, you adorned in an unfamiliar suit standing at the stage and singing a sweet lullaby to the lucky couple. It wasn’t your usual style, sure, but you wanted to ease Mycroft into your life, and what better way to do it?

Over the years, Sherlock had subtly provided you with more tattoo designs he’d wish for you to get, all his own of course. You were still a sucker for those eyes; it seemed their affect never dimmed as the detective aged.

Eventually one day Mycroft approached you on the matter, rather shyly you’d point out as well, you were open and encouraging as he mumbled the reluctant request to add to your collection of ink with one of his own. Stating through hidden messages within his speech that he’d been feeling a little left out. Of course you were ecstatic, more than happy to agree.

It was then that Mycroft realised no matter what he’d accomplish, you always have the upper hand in the end. Not because of intelligence nor deducing skills, but because of your raw compassion and commitment to your beliefs and dreams, it was awe inspiring. Beautiful even.

Perhaps those brothers of yours might do a little rebelling of their own.