#mycroft bones

[dailyspiral]

day 25 - i made this awhile ago but i realized i can finally post them because they arent 'leaks' anymore

[stories-me]

Potential Character for Mrs. Kelsey and Tumblr 6/20/2023: 

 Mycroft Bones, Marleybone’s Spymaster: 

 Appearance: (See above). 

What he’s from: Pirate101. 

Background: 

The older brother of the famous consulting detective, Sherlock Bones, Mycroft (aka “M”) is a mysterious yet important figure in Special Branch and the military, as well as Her Majesty’s Government in general… to the point that Sherlock once commented that, effectively, “Mycroft IS the government”! He sometimes worries about his brother, to the point that he keeps an eye on him (then again, he keeps an eye on EVERYONE… kind of his job, really). 

During the events of the Valencia-Marleybone War, Mycroft was kept busy working to stop the Armada’s works, and hired some folks (including a particular Pirate Captain) to stop the actions of the Armada. 

Now, as the war draws to a close, Mycroft has realized a rather sinister matter is coming up: The Evil Science Fair of Malaria (a Skyway in the spooky world of Darkmoor). Apparently, every year, Malaria uses “doomsday devices” of a sort to extort money from most of the Spiral to NOT unleash said devices upon the Spiral. These are the sort of devices that would “crush you, kill you, bring you back to life, then kill you again in a much WORSE way than the first killing”. 

The government is trying not to go bankrupt due to the war (especially a few clockwork die-hards who refuse to surrender), but Mycroft has a plan: Call Malaria’s bluff. If Her Majesty’s Government refuses to pay a single shilling and Malaria does nothing, not only would it break Malaria’s standing, but it would cause Malaria (and, possibly, the rest of Darkmoor) to become a laughingstock, as the whole thing is broadcast throughout the Spiral! 

This, however, requires that the doomsday devices be… incapacitated. Enter the Pirate Captrain’s crew, who have been sent for that purpose. 

How he is like me: 

We both sometimes worry about those we care about (like whether I’ll lash out when frustrated at others, or that I’ll never be able to improve/repair my relationship with Emily, etc.), are very intelligent, and want to help others. 

Kelsey Notes: 

The first statement in how he is like me is a good example of why Michael has become a good advocate for others with Autism.  You have come to the realization that, being recreationally annoying is only entertaining to you and that others, for the most part, tolerate it but don’t necessarily care for it.  

The moods of others is dependent on their ability to tolerate some days more than others. 

This also ties in with the level of frustration that causes you to lash out at others.   

It’s important to be able to recognize that you are different and this can be positive and negative.  Everyone (autism or not) has to be able to tame certain sides of themselves (or their personality) depending on the environment and the other people they are around 

A side of the sinister matter and the doomsday device reminds me of spam callers- they use scare tactics to persuade you to give them money, but they are lying and stealing your money basically 

The team needs to make a plan- planning and prioritization is an executive functioning skill that people with autism struggle with 

[katefaith18]

Trope: Always the smartest person in the room

Hannibal Lecter . Will Graham

Sherlock Holmes . Enola Holmes

Dr. Gregory House

Dr. Spencer Reid

Dr. Temperance "Bones" Brennan

Mycroft Holmes . Sherlock Holmes

Adrian Monk

Patrick Jane

The Doctor (every incarnation)

Detective Benoit Blanc

Should I make a part two?

[quetzadrawshere]

✨Welcome back to The Chronicles of Quetzalí and the ever struggle to draw Mark Gatiss interpreting Mycroft Holmes ✨

In today's episode we have doodles ft. Bones and another Sherlock characters yay

(Ignore my self insert thank you yay)

[aoitakumi8148]

"...Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man can invent.”

Imagination, auto-suggestion, certain forced beliefs are not Sherlock’s true madness. It lies in his method to push people away x accept them. He is susceptible to stigmatization, usually covered by his “shield of morality”. The fellow measures the entourage by his own, perceives the threat where there’s none. “A treasure hunt? Used to do lots of those in my childhood. For myself and...”

*Mycroft is not 𝒮𝒽𝑒𝓇𝓁𝑜𝒸𝓀'𝓈 𝒻𝒶𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇, but he is his only family. The family I cherish. And here, this genius/caring/unbiased creature’s merely a ‘𝓭𝓪𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓫𝓻𝓸𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻’ x ‘𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝔀𝓸𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓽’ of Cordona Sherlock is left with. ✑ The total absurdity of such unacceptable attitude brings a gigantic lump to my throat.

An indeed excellent detective with a subtle soul. The subtlety often “loses” to cruelty fostered by misunderstanding, obsession, obstinacy. An emotionally suffering person, both spills blood-sweat-tears & puts others under a lot of strain. Sherry doesn’t need a daughter to “settle down”. He needs to learn to appreciate what’s worth it x perish what’s not. He needs a bit of humility. “Forever.”/“Should you see me cracking... I must ask you to intervene.”

[shanastoryteller]

Merry bday! A continuation of Enola Holmes marrying the viscount of Basilweather would be really cool 😀

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

She wrinkles her nose when Tewksbury passes over her cup of tea with two sugars, unstirred, and she knows.

She puts down the cup too quickly, blood pounding in her ears, and Tewksbury frowns, reaching for her hand. "Enola?"

"Got to go," she says, pushing herself to standing, almost just leaves him sitting there, hand outstretched, but he's her husband and she loves him, so she darts over to smack a kiss on his lips before she's running for the door.

"Enola!" he calls out again, but now he sounds less worried and more exasperated, which is better, which is good. There's nothing for him to worry about.

She wants her mother, who's banned from London and is causing political unrest in Southern France currently, or Edith, who's doing something clever and illegal in Scotland. She'd take Victoria, but Mycroft will be there, and he's the last person she wants to see right now. Sherlock, while beloved, is useless, but his boy is a doctor.

She drops in at 221B Baker Street, picking the lock like always, and is relieved that Sherlock is still asleep and decides not to have any opinions on the various bones scattered about the kitchen table. She assumes there's a reasonable explanation for them.

"Oh, Enola!" John grins and shoves some femurs to the side to make space at the table. "Here, join me, would you like some oatmeal? Are you looking for your brother? I can wake him-"

"I'm pregnant," she blurts out, then bites her bottom lip.

John blinks once, then twice, then says with a gentleness that had made her like him in the first place - because Sherlock wanted to be gentle, but was quite bad at it, so someone had to teach him - "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

Wanted seems like not the correct word, although of course it is, because she and Tewksbury had been, not trying, but not-not trying, which probably amounted to the same thing, considering how often they - well.

"I can fix it," he says, voice low and serious, "if it's something that needs to be fixed."

Enola lets out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "No. No, it doesn't need to be fixed."

She loves that he offered. She loves John, more her brother than Mycroft will ever be, sometimes even more her brother than Sherlock is. If nothing else, her brothers had picked their partners well. Victoria and John are a delight.

John is the functional one between them, explosions and skeletons notwithstanding. John is the one that coaxed her brother into a proper relationship and John is the one that knew they were like parents to all the Irregulars and John isn't normal but he grew up normal.

"Are you worried something's wrong?" he asks. "I can look you over."

"No," she says, although, "I mean, yes, that'd be nice because Tewksbury will go spare, but no, I'm not worried anything's wrong."

He leans back in his chair, looking her over, and after almost ten years of dealing with her and Sherlock and even occasionally Mycroft he can read them almost as well as they can read everyone else.

"It's alright to be scared," he says finally. "Lots of women are when they find out, even when it's wanted, even when the baby's healthy."

"I'm not scared," she says, but for the first time her words feel like a lie. "I shouldn't be scared. What do I have to be scared of?"

She wishes her mother was here.

Will her children miss her like this too?

Sometimes she misses her mother even when she's right in front of her, and if nothing else, she's her mother's daughter.

John gets to his feet, stand in front of her, and opens his arms. She looks away even as she steps forward, like if she doesn't look at him when she does it then it doesn't count as weakness.

His arms close around her. He smells like chai and antiseptic and it's only years of association that make the combination comforting. "I can't wait to be an uncle."

He'll be an uncle. Sherlock will be an uncle. Even Mycroft, and Victoria will be delighted to be an aunt, and to raise her children with Enola's. Of course there's her mother-in-law, and Tewksbury's uncle, who have been angling for her to have a child from the day they married.

There's Tewksbury, who loves her, who isn't going to die on her or leave her if either of them have anything to say about it, who isn't going to leave her to raise their children the way her mother raised her.

Alone.

She's been saying she wasn't going to do this alone from the beginning, but standing here in Sherlock's kitchen, with John holding her steady, she really believes it.

[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom. (TW: domestic violence)

Building Walls

Both had been scared as boys. John of the dark, Sherlock of the light. 

John’s vivid imagination made up monsters under the bed and kidnappers in the woods around the tent when the Watsons went camping. 

“Fear is a weakness,” John’s father growled when his son was shaking and sobbing, terrified of the horrors of the darkness around him.

The solution was to beat the fear out of John while using spite words like coward, squeamish, queer, faggot, weak.

It took some time before it worked. For every stroke from his father’s hand or belt, John’s protecting wall was reinforced with a new brick, until his father was satisfied, and John’s fear had dissipated. So it seemed anyway.

***

Sherlock was a night owl from an early age but was forced to live in the light where others could see his aberrant behaviour. His cousins, aunts and uncles all called him freak, queer, weak, abnormal.

He just wanted to be left alone with his experiments, which he preferred to conduct in the dark hours.

“Fearing the light is a sickness,” his mother told him, and caught him in an iron grip before he could abscond and ordered him to sit in the conservatory with her and his cousins for hours.

When he finally was released, his head throbbed, his eyes stung, and he felt bone tired. He cried when he woke in the morning, realising that he’d been too exhausted to escape sleep.

“You must not let them see your weakness, brother mine,” Mycroft advised him, so Sherlock built a wall around himself and called it his Mind Palace.

***

In the dark Afghan desert, John met many soldiers who were afraid of what they could not see, and with good reason. He knew he should be terrified, and deep down he was, but he had a responsibility as a captain. His wall was strong and didn’t crack until a bullet came out of the velvet night and found his shoulder.

Back in the radiant city that was London, John’s wall crumbled. His mind was a dark hole even if he was surrounded by light.

“Nothing ever happens to me,” became a mantra he lived by, until he met Mike Stamford, and later Sherlock Holmes.

The brief and totally ridiculous encounter in the lab at Barts, lifted a vail, and a glimpse of sunshine entered John’s mind.

***

For years Sherlock lived in the blissful darkness, but people still interfered and made his life miserable. His mother and brother in particular. So, he sought out company that at first was a relief, but later put him on the path towards addiction and destruction.

Stumbling over Greg Lestrade’s crime scene, high as a kite, but still capable of observing and deducing what had happened, saved Sherlock’s life. For the first time in years, someone was interested in the knowledge he possessed; signs that a victim had been poisoned, different traces of mud or ash. 

“Get clean, and I’ll call you when we’re out of our depths,” Lestrade said.

Mycroft probably ensured Lestrade’s promotion after that, when Sherlock explained, and begged Mycroft to take him to rehab.

The incongruous scale Sherlock used to categorise the crimes Lestrade called him about, wasn’t all about how interesting a case was, but had more to do with the time of day. Only a serial killer could make Sherlock attend a crime scene in broad daylight. The darkness was his friend, and his dramatic persona thrived and added mystery to it all when he whirled around in his beloved Belstaff and polished Italian shoes.

John was like the sun and should frighten Sherlock with his warmth and incandescence. Instead, Sherlock felt an instant calmness fall over him when his fingers brushed John’s as he took the phone John offered him the day they met. 

***

John’s fear of the dark night vanished when he saw Sherlock together with Jeff Hope, and his hand was steady when he shot the awful cabbie.

Sherlock’s case scale suddenly changed, and he and John turned up at crime scenes at all hours, even when the sun shone bright and clear.

The only fear they had left, was losing each other.

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

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[fancyfeathers]

i think that William's anger is very silent and concentrated. Which makes it more dangerous. He is unreadable and it becomes near impossible to tell what he's planning. He wouldn't shout at his darling, unless he was at his wits end(which is very rare) instead he would choose specific words to make her crumble. He would act disappointed, asking her if this is what she wants, someone else after all he has done. He would play into her guilt, making her say that she will never leave until her tongue dries out. And probably fk her till she's near passing out like you said 💀

William’s anger is more terrifying than anyone else’s because he does not show it, like at least when Albert is mad at his darling he shows some sign of it (and then we all know how scary Louis can be when he is angry). But William’s anger is suppressed into something far more terrifying, just staying as calm and composed as he always is.

Other Yanderes when their darling tries to escape have a very clear reaction, Albert’s lack of a clear mind on his anger may result in him hitting her or accidentally breaking a bone and the Mycroft will just be waiting outside the bedroom while a doctor he hired cuts his darling’s achilles tendon. But then William would just sit across from his darling in the drawing room like nothing was wrong and just ask her what sort of punishment she thinks she deserves and normally it is a milder option and a more severe option and if she chooses the milder one he’ll ask why she thinks she deserves that one and not the other and probably manipulate her into choosing to harsher opinion. This could be isolation, no food for the day, loosing privileges, or honestly something like you said, though I don’t think William would make her say that but maybe write it, kind of how students do it as punishment.

[cinebration]

What Purpose? (Sherlock Holmes x Reader) [Request]

hellooo, if you taking requests, you could do sherlock holmes (of enola holmes) x reader fic inspired by theo sharpe and eloise bridgerton?? I’d Sherlock to be very in love with the reader, and tells her something like: when I read something new or interesting or provoking, it is you who crosses my mind. It is you I would like to speak with about those thoughts and so I am wondering if you might also have thoughts of me when you think.—Requested by @kelloggs-world​

I slightly modified the quote. I hope you don’t mind!

Warnings: Mycroft

Gif Source: henrycavilledits

“The society papers say you’re cavorting with Lady Thornton’s personal maid,” Mycroft noted dryly, one eyebrow arching in ill-disguised disdain. “A maid, Sherlock, really.”

“A companion.”

“A glorified maid, then.”

Sherlock snapped the newspaper shut and fixed his brother with a stare. “Do you know anything about her?”

“Yes, the heiress to the modest trapping fortune not dominated by Astor. Which makes it all the more disgraceful that she is an old lady’s maid.”

“If her official title were to change to lady’s companion, would that appease you?” Sherlock shook his head. “I forgot to whom I was speaking.”

Mycroft sniffed and plucked up his snifter of brandy. “Really, Sherlock, what purpose does this woman serve?”

Sherlock straightened in his seat, spine dangerously rigid.

Mycroft snorted. “Every person and every thing serves a purpose, Sherlock. So what good does this woman do? I can’t imagine it’s much.”

The words slipped out through clenched teeth, barbed. “She does more than you.”

A brusque laugh tumbled out of his brother. “I highly doubt that, Sherlock. Our own sister isn’t comparable to either of us, and at least she comes from the source.”

Shoving himself out of his seat, Sherlock straightened his suit jacket and shot a glare in Mycroft’s direction. “Enola is more than a match for you, Mycroft. That’s why you failed to bend her to your will.”

A livid flush crept up Mycroft’s neck and into his cheeks. “If I recall, you stepped in as her guardian.”

“Consider that, brother. She convinced me against you.” Sherlock flashed an insincere smile. “More than your match.”

“Here I thought Enola was the problem, scurrying around town like some low-bred urchin, yet I hear you are cavorting with nothing better than a maid.” A sneer curled Mycroft’s lips. “My God, the pair of you. I don’t know why I even bother!”

“No one asked you to bother, Mycroft.”

Sherlock strode for the door, refraining from snapping a goodbye.

“She can’t be worth much,” Mycroft called after him. “Even if she did throw you a bone by sending you on that murder investigation!”

Teeth grinding, Sherlock all but slammed the door shut. Anger radiated in unexpected waves through him, his frustration tantamount to whenever an investigation thwarted him unnecessarily. He couldn’t understand why Mycroft’s words stuck within him. Though his brother was insufferable, most if not all of his barbs passed through Sherlock without so much as an abrasive touch. That he should so infuriate him confused Sherlock as much as it riled up his ire.

Sheets of rain poured down on the city, drowning all light in gray. Hansoms darted down the cobblestone streets, streaming water in their wake, impossible to flag down. The pavement was nearly empty, everyone huddled someplace out of the deluge.

In his haste, Sherlock had forgotten his umbrella. Turning his coat collar up and shoving his hands deep in his pockets, he cut across the street, dodging a hansom he heard before he saw, and stormed in the direction of his flat. The stinging cold of the rain beating into his face and running rivulets beneath his shirt did nothing to cool him of his anger.

“It wasn’t just the murder,” he hissed between his teeth, hands balling into fists in his pockets. Although the death of your last living relative had proven an intricate and thorny case, one that had taken twelve day to solve, it wasn’t as though you were a treasure trove of such cases. In the months since the investigation’s resolution, you had not required Sherlock’s services again.

Lady Thornton, however, had used them in a theft case shortly after Sherlock solved your case, causing you both to cross paths again. Sherlock had taken the time to interview you regarding the theft and any information you might know. As with your own case, you presented facts and evidence in a logical, rational manner, offering up details that surprised Sherlock and gave a glimpse into your perceptiveness, leaving an indelible impression on him.

The theft was resolved in less than two days. Yet Sherlock had returned again to Lady Thornton’s estate to see you. He had recognized a sharp mind desperate to be seen and engaged, and despite himself, he decided he was the man to do it.

The old woman acted as chaperone, but the shrewd and experienced Lady Thornton recognized what was unfolding before even the faintest hint of it brushed either Sherlock’s or your mind. Melding into the shadows as much as possible, a smirk playing on her lips, Lady Thornton contented herself with providing only the barest level of propriety for the sake of the papers, allowing you and Sherlock as much privacy as she could.

Sherlock had found you eager to discuss all manner of subjects. He brought books for you to devour in days so that there was new topics of discourse the next time you met. Your voracious appetite for knowledge and conversation—proper conversation, not the societal niceties that amounted to nothing but superficiality—secretly delighted Sherlock, such that he took great care to select the most interesting of texts to deliver to your door.

What purpose did you serve? The question tasted vile on Sherlock’s tongue, though he hadn’t been the one to ask it. Like a wound, he returned to it again and again, suffering the indignity of it. Did a person have to serve?

As he turned down one street, then the next, he found himself contemplating it. Loathe to admit it, he realized that Mycroft had something akin to a point. Neither Holmes brother wasted time on anyone without reason. For Mycroft, it was blackmail and state secrets, government and high-society connections; for Sherlock, anything to do with a case.

Therefore, why did he spend so much time with you?

The thought spun so quickly through his mind that he grew dizzy with it, pausing to lean against a lamppost. The answer was there, just beyond his reach, and any attempt to grasp it made him ill, the world tilting beneath his feet.

They carried him through the rain until they found a cab unloading an elderly couple. Sherlock flagged the driver and hopped into the hansom, the carriage dipping low beneath his formidable frame. He had to bribe the driver several extra quid to ensure the man drove him out to the estate.

When they arrived, he paid the man and refrained from asking him to stay. Lady Thornton would never allow him to return home in such weather, not without sending him off in her own carriage. Seeing as she wouldn’t subject her own driver to such inclement conditions, Sherlock would be stuck there until the weather cleared.

The staff recognizing him, they let him enter and stripped him of his soaking overcoat and jacket.

“I believe the former master of the house,” the butler informed him in crisp tones, “had trousers you could use.”

“I can dry before the fire,” Sherlock assured him.

He paced in front of the crackling flames for what seemed like an eternity while he waited for you to arrive. When the door opened softly, it took all his self-control to avoid spinning sharply to face you.

“You’ll catch your death, Sherlock, getting caught in the rain like that!”

Suppressing the faint upward twitch of his lips, Sherlock slowly turned to you. The anger at Mycroft’s words melted as he peered into your face.

“What is it?” you asked, reaching up to touch your cheek self-consciously.

“Nothing. I merely…” Sherlock frowned, casting about for words that suddenly eluded him. “Do you believe that every individual in one’s life must serve a purpose?”

Eyebrows arching, you chuffed a quiet laugh. “My, has the weather made you maudlin?”

“No, it isn’t…my brother made an insinuation, and I thought it worth asking you your opinion on the matter.”

Head cocking to the side, you scrutinized Sherlock’s features. “What sort of insinuation?”

“Well…” Sherlock laughed, shook his head. “Mycroft is uncannily skilled at insinuating more than one thing with few words. It would take hours to parse everything he means from what little he says.”

“You are stuck here until the weather improves, so we have the time to spare.”

Sherlock met your gaze, your eyes sincere and curious. Struck suddenly with the urge to fidget, he turned back toward the fireplace and leaned against the mantle, his soaked trousers and collar slowly drying.

“I think,” you answered carefully, “that whom we choose to spend our time with speaks to their importance in our lives.”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at you.

“For Lady Thornton, my purpose is to be a companion. She may compensate me for it, but I would be her companion for free, because I enjoy spending time with her. Her purpose for me, if it matters to know, is as mentor and friend. That is sufficient.”

The words sunk into Sherlock’s thoughts, quieting them. The flames popped behind him, crackling as the logs shifted.

“Mycroft asked me what purpose you served,” he heard himself say. “He doesn’t understand why I spend my time with you.”

Your throat moved as you swallowed reflexively, your gaze dropping away from his. “Frankly, I’m inclined to agree with him. I don’t understand why you spend your time with me.”

Sherlock frowned, his chest tight. Were there words to explain why? He considered it for several moments, his heart an uneven metronome in his ribs.

“When I read something new or interesting or provoking,” he began, the words passing softly over his lips, “it is you who crosses my mind. It is you I would like to speak with about those thoughts. So I come here and I share them, and I enjoy hearing your replies.”

You glanced up at him, your gaze sharp and hesitant simultaneously.

“And I find myself wondering…” He swallowed thickly, the words on his tongue as if they had waited his whole life to be there, his thoughts roiling in confusion but the conviction that this was right, inevitable, felt firmly in his deepest self. “I am wondering if you might also have thoughts of me when you think.”

Your lips trembled, caught between a smile and panic, triumph and anxiety. Pressing your fingers against them, you inhaled sharply and attempted again, this time managing to speak. “I think of you often, Sherlock. How could I not?”

Something sharp buried itself in his chest, but the feeling was not altogether unpleasant. Sucking in a breath, he gripped the mantle with both hands, knuckles white with the pressure. He didn’t know how to proceed, the confession having worn out any social manner he had been forced to learn.

Gently clearing your throat, you offered, “So when next you see your brother, tell him the purpose I serve is…as your other self, as you are my other self.”

Your hand touched him lightly on the elbow. Shifting, Sherlock watched your hand slide down the length of his forearm, fingers gently entwining with his. The touch sent shivers through his arm and down his spine, startling him with their strength.

“He will never understand that,” he managed to say, his voice thick.

“Then we should pity him.”

Meeting your gaze, Sherlock laughed, unable to let the sharp ha! stay buried. You smiled, flashing teeth in a beautiful face. He hadn’t realized you were so beautiful…or perhaps you had been beautiful all along, and it had taken all this time for him to see it.

[raina-at]

Apology/Imperfection

How do you apologise for something unforgivable? 

How do you look the person you love most in the world in the eyes and apologise for two years of lying and deceit, for turning them into a perpetual victim of the game you played because you were bored?

The thing is, even at his best, Sherlock doesn’t do apologies. 

If he regrets a course of action, which has happened in the past, he makes amends otherwise. He and Mycroft communicate regret through gifts of expensive alcohol. Lestrade gets a text with hints about his current case, however mundane it might be. Molly gets coffee, Mrs Hudson gets the sherry truffles she likes a bit too much.

John… back in the day, he’d apologise to John by buying milk. Doing laundry. Making tea. 

He suspects that won’t quite cut it this time. 

He tries to write an apology, on the way to the Landmark. But everything he jots down on a British Airways napkin he still had in his pocket seems… trite. Empty. Imperfect.

John deserves a perfect apology. Sherlock is incapable of delivering one that’s even marginally acceptable.

So he skips it altogether.

It turns out that might not have been the best course of action.

At the end of the night, he crumples up the napkin and throws it out of his bedroom window, watching as it floats down onto Mr Chatterjee’s bins. 

It's a fitting end for a thoroughly shit evening.

*-*

During the following months, Sherlock tries to compensate for his lack of appropriate words by doing everything he can to help John. He plans the wedding, he broods over seating charts, he teaches John how to walz—pure torture, that one, and not only because John is a lousy dancer—, picks out his suit, arranges a stag night. He studiously ignores all the parts of him that want to curl up into a corner and die, ignores the pain in his heart and the regrets welling up in his throat like bile every time he opens his mouth and lies by omission. He never says what he’s thinking anymore, because what he thinks is always a litany of all the things he did wrong, all the moments he wasted, all the regrets he will take to his early grave at this rate. 

John said he forgives Sherlock. But he still feels like there’s something missing. Something absolutely essential has been extracted out of the very marrow of their relationship, leaving them hollowed out, brittle and fragile, easy to shatter.

And yet he still feels the magnetic pull between them, still feels the sizzle and pop, the connection between them, more addictive than any drug and possibly more destructive now that the guardrails of mutual trust and understanding are gone.

John is wary of him. Sherlock can’t blame him.

Maybe, just maybe, an imperfect apology would have been better than none at all.

*-*

It’s stuffy in the vestry. The sun shines in through a small window, and Sherlock watches the dust motes. John fidgets with his cufflinks. 

Sherlock feels like he’s been standing on ever-shifting sand during the last few months, as the time he had left with John slowly ran out. Now he’s on the last kernels, and he can already feel the glass beneath his feet, slippery and dragging him down the rabbit hole of self-destruction.

He reaches into his pocket to check the time on his phone when his fingers find something else entirely.

He takes it out. It’s the napkin he scrawled all of his imperfect, stuttering words onto, words he couldn’t say, words that still stick in his throat like a bone he was never able to swallow.

It shouldn’t be here. He remembers throwing it out.  How did it get into the inner pocket of his wedding suit? 

“What’s that?” John asks. He’s leaning against the vicar’s desk, not at all the picture of the happy bridegroom, uncomfortable in his suit, nervous, ill at ease in this church he didn’t pick.

Sherlock looks down at the napkin. He swallows. “Nothing,” he says, quietly, addressing his hands. Too little, too late. No use opening up old wounds now.

John gives him a long look that clearly states he doesn’t believe a word out of Sherlock’s mouth. Then he shrugs, looks away, obviously disappointed. “Fine. Fine,” he mutters, apparently more to himself than to Sherlock. He checks his watch, a nervous, impatient gesture. “Ten minutes to showtime. Better check on the guests.”

He walks to the door, and Sherlock catches a glimpse of the expression on his face in the mirror over the desk. Disappointment, pain. Regret.

And he suddenly realises that reopening old wounds assumes that they’ve healed. And that there is no such thing as too little when the alternative is nothing, and that he’s actually, really, truly, on the cusp of too late.

“John.”

John turns, looks at him, eyebrows raised in silent question.

“There’s something I should say,” Sherlock begins, hating the way his voice sounds, unsure, unsteady, like he’s chewing on broken glass.

John makes a ‘go on then’ gesture with his hand, leaning against the wall next to the door. Visibly bracing himself.

“I- it occurs to me,” Sherlock says, hesitant, feeling a bit like he’s fighting against his better judgement with every word out of his mouth, “that I never- I never apologised. For. You know.”

“Making me watch you die and lying to me for two years?” John fills in the blanks. He gives Sherlock a small, humourless smile, and there’s a world of bitterness in his voice, a poison they never lanced out of that wound. “No. You didn’t, did you? You said please forgive me, but that’s not actually an apology, is it.”

“No.”

Silence falls, and Sherlock can’t. He can’t. He feels like flaying himself open and trusting John not to destroy him by telling him whatever Sherlock has to offer isn’t good enough, isn’t, quite simply, enough, is as beyond him as it was that night at the Landmark.

John huffs a laugh that’s more annoyance than humour. “Well. Glad we had that conversation,” he mutters, pressing his lips together, clearly trying to hold some powerful emotion in.

You’re hurting him again, Sherlock thinks. If you stop now, you bloody fucking coward, how will you ever look at yourself in the mirror again? 

He looks down at the napkin, at the words he never said. The words that needed saying. Well, as they say, there’s no time like now.  “I- I should start by saying that I did what I thought was necessary when I jumped. And that you weren’t supposed to be there. I planned for this contingency, and I should have told you, but at the time, I thought it was necessary for your survival to deceive you. But you being there was neither part of the plan nor what I would have wanted to happen.” He looks up, meets John’s eyes, who’s watching him with an unreadable expression on his face. “So. Number one. I’m sorry I made you watch.”

John is silent, but his eyes are fixed on Sherlock’s face, and he’s clearly paying close attention to every word that comes out of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and continues,“I went after Moriarty’s network because I felt it was my responsibility to clean up my own mess, and nobody else’s. It seemed selfish of me to risk your life for my hubris. I nearly reached out to you so many times, and I didn’t because if you had known I was alive, you would have wanted to join me, and I wouldn’t have had the strength of character to turn you down. If you’d died, it would have killed me. So. Two. I’m sorry I wasn’t willing to endure what I put you through.”

There’s a knock on the door.

“Go away!” John yells, without turning. 

“But-”

John makes a frustrated noise, takes the two steps to the door and turns the key in the lock. “I said,” he growls at the vicar at the other side of the door,  “Go. The fuck. Away!” 

Then John turns around and makes an inviting gesture in Sherlock’s direction. “Continue.”

Sherlock gestures to the door. “Are you sure you-”

John huffs a frustrated sigh. “Yes, thank you for pointing out that I’m getting married in five minutes, you utter prat, and congrats for choosing the worst possible time for this, but fucking hell, Sherlock, don’t you think we’ve waited for this long enough?”

Sherlock acknowledges the point with a tilt of his head. “Best get on with it, then.” He takes a deep breath, because this is the difficult one. He holds up the napkin. “I wrote this when I came back. On my way to the Landmark. You deserved to hear it then. But I was too much of a coward to face the consequences of my actious. So. Number three. I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”

“Why now?” John asks, softly, his face still unreadable, his eyes riveted to Sherlock’s face. “Why tell me this now?”

“Because there’s a number four,” Sherlock says, quietly, holding John’s eyes. He gets up, slowly, approaches John, giving him plenty of time to back away, to stop him, to leave.

But John stays. John holds his eyes, holds his ground. Waits.

Sherlock moves closer, invades his space, traces his fingers along the lapels of John’s beautiful suit. 

“Number four,” Sherlock murmurs, inching closer to John with every word, “I’m sorry I made you feel like I don’t care about you. I’m sorry I pushed you away. I’m sorry I never said thank you, for your trust, for your companionship, for the very best of times. I’m sorry it took me this long to say I love you, and I’m sorry I never asked you to come back. And I’m sorry for this,” he says, as he leans in and presses his lips to John’s.

John’s breath hitches as he pulls Sherlock closer and kisses back, fierce and courageous and like he’s been waiting for this just as long as Sherlock has. 

There’s loud voices and pounding on the door, and both their phones are vibrating with missed calls and texts, and neither of them notices as they kiss, and kiss, and kiss. John’s arms have snaked around Sherlock and he’s holding on like he never intends to let go, and Sherlock feels the knot in his stomach and the dread in his heart dissolve under the onslaught of John’s passion, and his kisses, and his love.

They finally break apart, and Sherlock knows he’ll remember the exact curve of John’s smile and the exact shade of his eyes in that moment for the rest of his life. “I forgive you,” John whispers, and it sounds like a vow. “I forgive you.”

And this time, Sherlock believes him. 

---

If anyone wants to venture a heacanon how a certain item found its way into a certain pocket, I won't stop you. I personally have my suspicions ;-)

If there are any embarrassing mistakes in there, please forgive me. It's Friday evening, and it's been a WEEK.

Also, if you want to read a similar scenario a bit less seriously, might I recommend my fic Speak Now, where Sherlock gives new meaning to the phrase 'last minute'.

Tags under the cut as always, please let me know if you want to be tagged or untagged.

Thank you all for a wonderful fandom time, all the writers and all the commenters and re-bloggers, and especially @calaisreno for keeping us going. Love you all.

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @jrow @peanitbear @jolieblack @meetinginsamarra @helloliriels @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @friday411 @givemesherbet-blog-blog @weeesi @thalialunacy @thegildedbee @dapetty @salmonsown

[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.

[incorrect-moriarty-sherliam]

Buttler: May I get you anything to drink Mr. Holmes?

Mycroft: The tears of our enemies wrenched from their bodies as their bones crushed.

Buttler: I have jasmine tea

Mycroft: Oh, Jasmine. Yes, please.

[specialagentlokitty]

Who I write for/Rules;

This is a list of fandoms and characters I write for (some may be missing) and some rules, if you’re curious about a fandom or character please message and I’ll let you know if it’s someone I’ll write for or not! If you’re looking for prompts please search the tag Lokittys prompt list

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[asgards-princess-of-mischief]

Last Updated: 2023-11-11

Hi everyone, my name is Evelyn. Welcome to my blog! It's wonderful to have you here. I am just another university student finding solace and stress-relief in fandom and fan-fiction.

I like to think of myself as a fandom librarian and this blog as my library. I want to sharing all my favourite fanfics so that people in these fandoms have an easy way to find to a plethora of talented writers, both new and old and their many wonderful stories. Think of it as your one-stop-shop for fantastic fanfics.

Moreover, if you have a fanfic you'd like to recommend please D.M. me or send and ask!

A.O.S Star Trek

James T. Kirk || Khan Noonien Singh || Leonard 'Bones' McCoy

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James 'Jim' Moriarty || Mycroft Holmes || Sherlock Holmes

Criminal Minds

Spencer Reid

Enola Holmes

Sherlock Holmes

Game of Thrones

Robb Stark

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Lucifer Morningstar

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James 'Bucky' Barnes || Loki Odinson || Stephen Strange

Tom Hiddleston + Characters

James Conrad || Jonathan Pine || Magnus Martinsson || Prince Hal/Henry V || Robert Laing || Sir Thomas Sharpe || Tom Hiddleston

[anonymousewrites]

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 3) Chapter One

Father Figure! Sherlock x Teen! Reader

Chapter One: Surprise Return

Summary: Sherlock returns to London and sees John once more.

In Serbia…

            A man, long-haired and straggled, ran through the forest. A helicopter searched for him from above, and it shone its giant beam of light down onto the trees in search of the man. Infrared cameras caught his position, and gunshots rang out. The man was forced to stop and panted in exhaustion as the ache in his bones caught up to him at the same time as the men. Unable to go on any longer, he slumped to the ground.

l

            The man’s body swayed from chains embedded in the ceiling. His wrists were twisted above his head at an uncomfortable angle. His shirt was gone, and his skin was bruised by repeated blows from his captors.

            One of the men struck the captive again, and he gritted his teeth. The other man in the room remained at a desk with his feet up, simply watching the proceedings closely.

            “You broke in here for a reason. Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?” sneered the torturer, pulling his captive’s hair back. He drew his hand back to strike with his metal pipe again, but he paused as the prisoner spoke quietly. “What?” he said in confusion, leaning in. The man whispered again.

            “Well? What did he say?” asked the other soldier.

            “He said that I used to work in the navy where I had an unhappy love affair,” said the torturer in bewilderment. The man continued to whisper.

            “What?” said the other soldier.

            “…The electricity isn’t working in my bathroom, and my wife is sleeping with our next-door neighbor,” exclaimed the torturer, but the captive was still going.

            “And?” asked the other.

            “The coffee maker! And? And? If I go home now, I’ll catch them at it! I knew there was something going on!” shouted the torturer angrily, abandoning his charge to storm out of the room as his rage took over his rational thought.

            The prisoner was left hanging from the chains.

            The other soldier stood. “So, my friend. Now it’s just you and me.” He tutted. “You have no idea the trouble it took to find you.” He pulled the captive’s head up and whispered to him in English. “Now listen to me: there’s an underground terrorist network active in London and attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear.” Mycroft let the man’s head fall back. “Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.”

l

In London, in Mycroft’s office…

            Sherlock leaned back in the barber’s chair as his hair was cut and his scraggy beard was shaved. He held the paper open before him, but he wasn’t paying attention to it. It had taken a glance to get any information he needed, anyways.

            “You have been busy, haven’t you?” remarked Mycroft. “Quite the busy little bee.”

            “Moriarty’s network—took me two years to dismantle it,” said Sherlock. “You know I couldn’t leave anything still going.” Not when (Y/N) could be threatened by any remnant of Moriarty and his influence.

            “And you’re confident you have?” said Mycroft.

            “The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle,” said Sherlock. He glanced back at Mycroft. “And you know I wouldn’t leave this to chance. I made sure I took care of everything.”

            “Yes, yes, for (Y/N)’s sake,” said Mycroft, but despite his disdain for sentimentality, they were part of the Holmes family, so he understood what Sherlock meant. “And by doing so, you got yourself in deep there with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme.”

            “Colossal. But worth it,” said Sherlock simply.

            “Anyway, you’re safe now.” Mycroft folded his hands together. “A small ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss.”

            “What for?” said Sherlock casually.

            “For wading in,” said Mycroft. He wouldn’t ask for thanks for looking out for (Y/N) over the last two years. That was family. But going into Serbia personally? Mycroft would hold that over Sherlock until he figured out this terrorist business (and a bit after). “In case you’d forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu.”

            The barber, having finished, left the room. Sherlock stood and faced Mycroft angrily.

            “Wading in?” he said sharply. “You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp!”

            “I got you out,” said Mycroft indignantly.

            “No, I got me out,” said Sherlock. “Why didn’t you intervene sooner?”

            “Well, I couldn’t risk giving myself away, could I? It would have ruined everything,” said Mycroft as if it was obvious.

            Sherlock glowered. “You were enjoying it.”

            “Nonsense,” said Mycroft.

            “Definitely enjoying it,” muttered Sherlock.

            “Listen, do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going undercover and smuggling my way into their ranks like that?” Mycroft tsked. “The noise, the people…” He had a clear disgust for it all.

            Sherlock just crossed his arms and decided to let that part slide since Mycroft wasn’t going to apologize (Sherlock would be shocked if his brother did). “I didn’t know you spoke Serbian.”

            “I didn’t, but the language has a Slavic root with frequent Turkish and German loan words. Took me a couple hours,” said Mycroft.

            “You’re slipping,” said Sherlock, happy to have something to poke Mycroft with.

            “Middle age, brother mine. It comes to us all,” said Mycroft, turning around so Sherlock could change into fresh clothes. “Now, I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?”

            Sherlock turned around and let Mycroft look at him. Pointedly, all he said was: “What do you think of this shirt?”

            “Sherlock,” said Mycroft in exasperation, and Anthea walked in beside him.

            “I will find your terrorist cell,” said Sherlock. “Just put me back in London.” Let me go back to (Y/N). “I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in, feel every quiver of its beating heart.”

            “One of our men died getting this information,” said Anthea, pulling out a folder. “All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there’s going to be a terror strike on London—a big one.”

            “And what about John and (Y/N)?” said Sherlock, finally asking the question on his mind.

            “I’ve kept an eye on them, of course,” said Mycroft, gesturing to Anthea. She procured two more folders and handed them to Sherlock.

            Too nervous to open (Y/N)’s, Sherlock opted to look at John’s first. He found that John had gone greyer and grown a mustache. Sherlock disapproved. “Well, we’ll have to get rid of that.”

            “We?” said Mycroft.

            “He looks ancient. I can’t be seen wandering around with an old man,” said Sherlock, tossing John’s file to the side. He held (Y/N)’s and gazed at the name printed on it. (Y/N) (L/N). Not (Y/N) Moriarty. Good. Sherlock summoned his courage and flipped open the file.

            He looked at a picture of (Y/N)’s face dated the previous week. They were older. They’d been fifteen when he’d left, and now he was looking at a seventeen-year-old. (Y/N) was almost an adult. But there was something wrong about the picture. Sherlock recognized it immediately—their expression.

            It was the same as his when he relapsed and lost himself to drugs before he pulled himself out of addiction and properly took care of himself and his boredom. (Y/N) had an empty look in their eyes.

            Sherlock’s gaze snapped up to Mycroft’s. “I thought you were going to take care of them.”

            Mycroft didn’t respond and just looked at Anthea. She took her cue and left to leave the brothers to discuss family matters.

            “(Y/N) did not take your…absence well,” said Mycroft.

            “I saw them at the grave after my funeral,” said Sherlock. “I know.”

            “They have not moved on at all,” said Mycroft. He sighed, and though his sighs were usually those of exasperation, this was one of worry and tiredness. “Sherlock, after your ‘death,’ they wouldn’t eat. They barely slept. It took Dr. Watson and I quite some time to get them to do so. And even then, they often forget.”

            Sherlock’s heart clenched. (Y/N) wasn’t alright. They were suffering, and it was his fault. Even if he’d left to deal with Moriarty’s network—to protect them—it had still hurt them. “It’s been two years.”

            “They’ve improved somewhat, but they relapse into dangerous bouts of depression frequently,” admitted Mycroft. He laced his fingers. “I even ensure they had cases—safe, of course—to work on, but it didn’t seem to help.” He looked at Sherlock. “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He wouldn’t apologize for anything he did to Sherlock, but (Y/N) was younger family, and just as he was protective of Sherlock from behind the curtain, he was the same way with (Y/N). He was sorry he couldn’t help them. “The doctor and I did the best we could.”

            “Then it’s good that I’m coming back,” said Sherlock, trying to keep his usual pragmatism, but he was worried now.

            (Y/N)’s mental health had always been fragile—the curse of being a genius in a world of idiots. They had been wary of people in the orphanage, pushed aside by adults who wanted to ignore their mind looking through them. Then, of course, the cases they and Sherlock had ended up on were…traumatizing, to put it lightly. But (Y/N) had always had Sherlock. He had watched for any serious signs of danger and taken care of them. But he hadn’t been there this time. It had been his absence that caused them this pain.

            “Have you done anything to prepare (Y/N) or John for your return?” said Mycroft.

            He sincerely hoped that (Y/N) found some stability again now that Sherlock was coming back, but he also knew that Sherlock coming back after so long being dead could also cause problems (and Mycroft didn’t want (Y/N)’s mental health to be any worse than it was).

            “Where’s John going to be tonight?” said Sherlock, ignoring Mycroft. His brother knew Sherlock had kept silent on his status being alive and not dead. It had been for John and (Y/N)’s safety.

            Mycroft looked at Sherlock disapprovingly. He knew Sherlock was going to go to John first because he was scared to see (Y/N) unwell because it was partly his fault. But he also knew he couldn’t stop his brother form doing what he wanted (and it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t go to (Y/N). Sherlock cared too much to leave them like this for long now knowing how they were.)

            “How would I know?” said Mycroft, deciding to be obtuse as ever.

            “You always know,” said Sherlock, knowing Mycroft as well as his brother knew him.

            “He has a dinner reservation in Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion, though I prefer the 2001,” said Mycroft. “And there is also a sweets shop that sells lollipops there.”

            “I know,” said Sherlock. He had bought (Y/N) their favorite lollipops from there many times.

            Anthea reentered and held out Sherlock’s Belstaff coat. He took it and slid it on.

            “Welcome back, Mr. Holmes,” she said.

            “Thank you,” said Sherlock sarcastically, facing his brother. “Marylebone Road, was it? I trust you can spare a car for me?”

            Mycroft tutted. “Anthea will escort you there. But then you’re on your own.”

            His brother could face John and (Y/N)’s reactions on his own. John’s reaction was easy enough to guess—anger. But Mycroft knew Sherlock could take a punch. However, he wanted (Y/N) and Sherlock to be alright soon. Neither was quite right without the other. Mycroft wasn’t one for guessing or hoping, but he did wish for everything to return to being as it should be.

            Sherlock followed Anthea to the car. And while he watched the streets go by to take him to John, all he could think of was (Y/N). His kid. Soon, everything would be as it should be. Him, John, and (Y/N)—family.

l

            “If you’ll have me, Mary, could you see your way, um…” John cleared his throat nervously. Trying to propose to the woman he loved was scarier than anything he’d ever done. “If you could see your way to—”

            “Sit, I think you’ll this vintage exceptionally to your liking,” said Sherlock, disguised with just a drawn-on mustache. He expertly interrupted John and Mary. “It has all of the qualities of the old with some of the color of the new.”

            John didn’t even look at Sherlock the Waiter and gritted his teeth. “No, sorry, not now, please.”

            “Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers, suddenly one is aware of staring into the face of an old friend,” said Sherlock, trying to prompt John to see him.

            “No, look, seriously, could you just…” John looked up, and his face fell.

            “Interesting thing, a tuxedo,” said Sherlock nonchalantly as if he wasn’t suddenly back from the dead. “Lends distinction to friends and anonymity to waiters.” John stood silently.

            “John?” said Mary in confusion as John tried to take deeps breaths. “John, what is it?”

            Sherlock cleared his throat and intelligently tried to defuse John. “Well, the short version is…not dead.” Or maybe not try to defuse anything. He coughed. “Bit mean springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But in my defense, it was very funny.” John stared angrily. “Okay, not a great defense.”

            Mary’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, you’re—”

            “Oh, yeah,” said Sherlock.

            “Oh, my god,” said Mary.

            “Not quite,” said Sherlock.

            “You died, you jumped off a roof,” said Mary.

            “No,” said Sherlock.

            “You’re dead,” said Mary.

            “No, I’m quite sure, I checked,” said Sherlock. “Excuse me.” He dipped a napkin in their wine glasses and wiped away his mustache as John glowered. “Does yours rub off, too?”

            “Oh my god, oh my god,” exclaimed Mary. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

            Sherlock cleared his throat. “Okay, John, I’m suddenly realizing I probably owe you some sort of an apology.” John slammed his hand down on the table.

            Mary tried to soothe John. “Alright, John, just keep—”

            “Two years,” snapped John. He took a deep breath, but he didn’t calm down. “Two years! Hm? I thought—Mm…I thought you were dead. Now, you let me grieve. You let (Y/N) grieve. How could you do that?” Sherlock winced at the mention of (Y/N). “How?!”

            Sherlock coughed and tried to collect himself. “Wait, before you do anything that you might regret, one question, just let me ask one question.” He pointed to John’s mustache. “Are you really going to keep that?”

            John took a deep breath and chose violence. He grabbed Sherlock’s collar and pushed him to the ground roughly. Onlookers gasped, and Mary shot up from her seat. John didn’t care and just continued to throttle Sherlock.

l

            In a dingy little diner (they had gotten kicked out of the fancier restaurant for fighting), Sherlock attempted to explain himself to John without getting punched again. “I calculated—”

            “You know, for a genius, you can be remarkably thick,” snapped John, just cutting him off.

            “What?” said Sherlock.

            “No one cares how you faked it, Sherlock. I want to know why. For God’s sake, why?!” snapped John.

            “Because Moriarty had to be stopped. I had to protect (Y/N),” said Sherlock simply. “I needed to get rid of his network to protect them.”

            John relaxed slightly. “Fine, fine. Did anyone know?”

            “My brother, of course. And then Molly Hooper had to fake the documents for my death…and maybe a few people in my homeless network,” said Sherlock.

            “So just your bother, Molly Hooper, and a hundred tramps,” snapped John, back to being angry since he suspected Mycroft would know, but others knew before him and (Y/N)?

            “No, twenty-five at most,” said Sherlock, thinking he was fixing something.

            John launched across the table and grabbed Sherlock’s throat.

l

            In a shabby ice cream parlor, Mary crossed her arms and tapped her foot as John just glared at Sherlock as he dabbed a napkin on his broken lip. The night was just getting worse and worse.

            “Seriously, it’s not a joke? You’re keeping that?” said Sherlock, glancing at John’s mustache.

            John cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

            “Sure?” said Sherlock, questioning John.

            “Mary likes it,” said John.

            “Mmm…no she doesn’t,” said Sherlock.

            “She does,” said John.

            “She doesn’t.”

            John glanced at Mary, and she coughed.

            “Oh, don’t,” she said.

            “Oh, brilliant,” sighed John.

            “Look, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to tell you,” said Mary.

            “Right, no, no, this is charming. I’ve really missed this!” snapped John. He groaned. “I’m surprised it’s not you and (Y/N) back at this.” He glanced at Sherlock. “Actually, I’m surprised (Y/N) isn’t here at all.” He frowned. “Where are they?”

            Sherlock was silent.

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

            “I haven’t seen them yet,” said Sherlock slowly.

            “What!” shouted John.

            “I haven’t told them yet,” said Sherlock guiltily.

            John reared back and punched Sherlock.

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