#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 

[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)

[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?

[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.”

[quilliums]

Dude given that this version of Sherlock is the most book accurate I've literally ever seen I was fucking SCREAMING.

If they're not gay I'm going to burn everything down.

Sherlock Holmes? [Yes…?] I’m here for my appointment. You’re seeking a flatmate?

ENOLA HOLMES 2 (2022)

[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.

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

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @helloliriels

@raina-at @meetinginsamarra @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @topsyturvy-turtely

@jolieblack @peanitbear @phoenix27884 @bs2sjh @brandiwein1982

@meandhisjohn @a-victorian-girl @221beloved @ninasnakie @shy-bi-inlovewithregandmoony

(Tell me if you want to be added or removed from the tags)

[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.

[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.

Taglist:

@stilesstilinskiforlife-blog

@im-making-an-effort

@ilse235

@schrodingers-intelligence

@awsedrftgyhujikol

@lxserthxngzzz

@forever1313

@mentallyunstablemanlover

@roo024

@ohimjustagirlidrathetnotbe

@snowy-violet

@jaguarthecat

[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

THIS BLOG IS STRICTLY NO SMUT DO NOT REQUEST IT AS THE REQUEST WILL BE DELTED IMMEDIATELY!!

Please if you’re requesting use some manners, say please and thank don’t demand I write something from you

This blog is for all ages, do not be hostile towards any member of this blog as you will be told to remove yourself immediately and if you don’t I will remove you, hate will not be tolerated this is a safe space regardless of age, sexual orientation, gender/pronouns, disability and such

If you’re wondering about a request you have but you’re worried or confused if I’ll write it or not or you’re just curious please reach out through inbox or asks and I’ll let you know! I write both romantic and plutonic requests for a wide range of characters!

Some things I will NOT write include; teenage pregnancy, smut(or related themes), underage!reader x older characters (these will ALWAYS be plutonic either a parental or sibling relationship). If you’re wondering about anything else just message! 💜

Fate the winx saga

- Saul silva

- Farah Dowling

Avatar

- Jake

- Quaritch/ recom Quaritch

Criminal minds

- Hotch

- Rossi

- Derek

- Spencer

- Jj

- Emily

- Garcia

Castle

- Castle

- Beckett

Lucifer (Fox)

- Lucifer

- Maze

- Chloe

- Dan

Greys anatomy

- Alex

- Derek

- Mark

Twilight

- Carlisle

- Esme

Harry Potter

- Sirius

- Remus

- Snape

Marvel

- Tony

- Clint

- Bruce

- Natasha

- Thor

- Steve

- Loki

- Bucky

- Logan

- Wanda

- Pietro

- Maria

- Phil

- Carol Danvers

BBC Merlin

- Merlin

- Arthur

- Gwaine

- Leon

- Percival

- Lancelot

BBC Sherlock

- Sherlock

- John

- Moriarty

- Lestrade

- Mycroft

Black butler

- Sebastian

- William

- Undertaker

- Claude

Supernatural

- Sam

- Dean

- Castiel

- Gabriel

- Balthazar

- Chuck

- Crawley

- Lucifer

- Jack

The witcher

- Geralt

- Jaskier

Brooklyn nine nine

- Rosa

- Jake

- Amy

The good doctor

- Melendez

- Shaun

Friends

- Joey

- Rachel

- Ross

- chandler

- Monica

- Phoebe

Teen wolf

- Derek

- Peter

- Melissa (plutonic only)

- Chris

- Parrish

- Noah (plutonic only)

Doctor who

- 9

- 10

- 11

- 12

- 13

- River

- Clara

- Rose

- Amy

- Rory

- Jack

Lord of the rings/the hobbit

- Bilbo

- Legolas

- Thranduil

- Elrond

- Lindir

- Thorin

- Fili

- Kili

- Aragorn

My hero academia

- Aizawa

- Mic

- Dabi

- Hawks

- Midnight

- All Might (Toshinori)

- Fat Gum

Demon slayer

- Rengoku

Tokyo ghoul

- Yomo

- Uta

Durarara!!

- shizuo

Skyrim

- Vilkas

- Farkas

Ackley bridge

- Mr Evershed

- Mrs Carter (plutonic only)

- Mr Bell

The vampire diaries

- Damon

- Klaus

- Elijah

- Finn

the watcher

- Ryan

- Shane

911

- bobby

- Buck

- chim

- hen

- Athena

- Maddie

- Eddie

Downton Abbey

- Thomas Barrow

- Anna

- Tom Branson

- Mary

- Sybil

- Edith

- Mrs Hughes (plutonic only)

Kingsmen

- Merlin

- Eggsy

- Harry

Bones

- Booth

- Brennan (bones)

- Hodgins

- Angela

- Sweets

Buffy the vampire slayer

- Angel

- Giles

The walking dead

- Rick

- Daryl

- Negan

- Glenn

- Rosita

- Carol (plutonic only)

- Gabriel

- Aaron