#mycroft one shot

[queerholmcs]

4x01

[lazydoodlesandfanfic]

Guided Horse Riding (Mycroft Holmes X Fem!Reader)

Characters: Mycroft Holmes

Universe: Sherlock

Warnings: Mention of murder, stabbings, horses

Request: hello dear can i get mycroft/fem reader? reader has a horse and force mycroft into him we want to see a scared the british government💖 [name is mira and a horse with white yellow mane]

Notes: (Uh.... happy early holidays, I'm not dead? Sorry for being gone for so long I genuinely feel so awful for being gone for so long plz forgive me ok thanks bye)

Mycroft had wondered what had led him to the very situation he was in right at this very moment, and he had mentally been piecing it together in his head, till he reached the first domino that started this all. 

The first domino- no surprises here- was Sherlock, who had realised that there had been a pattern in some recent stabbings, with them all happening in public, packed places, and the more people, the more victims- the first was on the underground, the second was at the opening of an art gallery, and then a charity marathon. Sherlock had deduced that the next attack would almost certainly be at the parade happening, and he slapped together a rough description for what to look out for, and dragged Mycroft along to get him access to more secure areas- which included the stables that held the horses meant to be taking part in the parade, and that had been where he had met you. 

You had been there checking in on your horse- Mira, to make sure she was comfortable, calm and ready for such an event, though you knew it was more like you with the nerves than her, this being the first time either of you had took part in an event like this. So when you had the Holmes brother approach you, asking who you were and what you were doing back here, before asking if you’d seen anyone around you didn’t recognise, you were understandably alarmed. One was dressed mostly like any other bystander (who therefor shouldn’t be back there) and the other was dressed formally and seemed to be softening and adding politeness and context that the other, more brash man was missing. You quickly realised that Sherlock was acting mostly that way because he was in a rush, and that something bad was going to happen if he didn’t get answers in time, and luckily, you had remembered a previous interaction with a man just earlier in the day- one that had rubbed you the wrong way with how he spoke, and you pointed them in his direction. Sherlock immediately sped walked away, while Mycoft took the time to shake your hand, thank you for your cooperation, and wish you luck in the parade. 

The parade itself went off without a hitch- at least from your perspective it did. Mira was an angel, behaved and also let children pet her and families take pictures with her. The only thing you noticed that was a little off, was that there was a lot more police there than you predicted, and they all seemed bunched up in one area, but you just assumed it was a safety precaution, and since nothing bad happened, you presumed it was all good. You didn’t find out exactly what had happened until you were packing up for the day, walking your horse over to her trailer, and Mycroft spotted you, and came over to speak to you. 

That was the second domino. After giving you the rundown, explaining how you had basically stopped a mass stabbing thanks to you pointing the man out earlier the day, and after explaining who exactly Sherlock was, and who he was, you got to ask your own question, which began a conversation that resulted in you sharing your phone numbers to pick it up over coffee- the third domino.

Countless other dominos had been set up and knocked down since then- dates, kisses, admissions of love, and it all- somehow- led Mycroft to where he was now, watching you set Mira up for him, so he could ride her for the first time as you reassured him she was a nice, gentle horse, which he knew, but that didn’t help his nerves.  

“You ready?” You ask, patting the neck of the horse after setting up the stool beside her, turning to look at Mycroft

“Not really.” Mycroft responded, sounding far from confident, but despite that, he still took your hand and let you guide him onto the stool, and position his foot into the stirrup.

“Alright, hold the reins, and swing your leg over, I’ll make sure you don’t fall.” You explained to him, and after a moment of hesitation, Mycroft took a deep breath, and did as you ordered, and you kept your promise and helped him onto the saddle. Mira kept perfectly still as Mycroft got settled, and sat stiffly. “See, that wasn’t so bad.” You commented, chuckling as Mycroft only managed a small, unconvinced noise of agreement. 

“Does this mean I can get off now?” Mycroft asked, glancing at you at the corner of his eye.

“Well you can… do you want to try and get off, or get comfortable first?” You asked. Mycroft, upon realising that he’d have to get off the horse, which meant him mostly going backwards, and guessing his own footwork of a horse with little help that you could provide, Mycroft froze for a moment, before sighing. 

“Fine. I’ll get a little comfortable first.” Mycroft gave in, and you grinned at him, before taking a hold of Mira’s reigns. 

“We’ll just walk on the outskirts in a circle at a slow pace.” You explained, before making Mira slowly start moving, trotting along beside you. You did a full lap of the small field you were in before looking back up at Mycroft, who’s shoulders weren’t as stiff anymore, and he didn’t look constipated anymore. “You’re doing great, honey.” You told him, his eyes coming and look at you, and he managed a small smile. 

“Yes, it’s… not as bad as I thought it would be.” Mycoft admitted. You chuckle a little, gently patching the side of Mira’s neck. 

“You can thank Mira for the positive experience. I knew she’d be able to handle a nervous rider. It’s also why she’s great with kids. I’m just glad you trusted me enough to let me put you on her.” You commented, looking up at him. Mycroft looked back at you, a small smile appearing on his lips. 

“Of course I trust you. I love you.” He responded, his voice warm, which caused you to smile.

“Well since I love you too, how about after this lap I’ll get you off Mira so we can go inside and relax for the rest of the afternoon?” You suggest. Mycroft takes a moment to consider your words, before looking down at the horse, and pauses for a moment. 

“...I think I can handle a few more laps.”

Hope you liked it! If you have any questions, please send them in!

*Not my gif

TAGS: @holy-tea-cup @sassy-specter @keenmarvellover @multifandomfix @sleutherclaw @otterly-fey @courtneychicken  @graysonmalfoy @bellero @originalpottervengerlock @supernatural-pan @esoltis280 @lady-of-lies @lenaswritingandstuff @macbetheliza @mandywholock1980 @cdwmtjb8 @caswinchester2000 @determinedpines @huntheimpossible @automaticbakeryfreakshoe

[nahokura]

There will be a second poll, based on the answer, to choose the character or the ship :)

[random-imagines-blog]

You Will See Me {Mycroft Holmes x Female!Reader Oneshot}

Requested by: Anonymous Wordcount: 4277 Summary: The last time you saw Mycroft, you had your heart broken. What happens when you’re confronted by him again? Notes: Not a happy ending.

It had been a long time since you had seen Holmes come up on your cellphone. Years, actually. You couldn’t remember the last time that one of those boys had any reason to call you. Mycroft, that bloody bastard, was off being the Queen’s hand or something like that, running the government from the inside. And then there was Sherlock, who was always in the papers for something or other, solving a case. You had nothing to do with either of their worlds anymore. And they had nothing to do with yours since the incident. There’s always a goddamn incident, isn’t there?

And yet, for some reason, you had kept both of their numbers in your phone. You haven’t texted, you haven’t called, you’ve skipped past them in your contacts multiple times without giving them thought. You were sure that Sherlock could tell you the reason why, though you couldn’t. He knew everything, especially about you. That’s what best friends did. They knew each other, they took care of one another. Although brother trumps best friend, and a brother is always on a brother’s side.

You thought about not answering Sherlock’s call. It was obviously a mistake of some sort. And if it wasn’t - bad  news, surely. Something like a funeral invitation. No, no, Sherlock would have just sent something like that in the post. He wasn’t the personal sort. Knowing that it was going to bother you until you found out that it was a butt-dial, you answered it, keeping your tone as neutral as possible. “Hello?”

“Ahh, good, so you’re not that busy then,” Sherlock said, curt as ever. No hello, no greeting, just straight to what he is deducing from you. You hated when he did that. And you hated when he was correct because it was your one day off from work this week, and you were intending to spend it doing the ever-blissful nothing at all. The most action that you had taken today was getting out of bed and moving to your sofa, turning on the telly and making yourself a nice cup of tea. “Can you join me this evening?”

“I just want to make sure that you have the right number,” You said, leaning back against your cushions. “This is y/n, not John, or whoever it is that you are ordering around at this moment. Would that be all of Scotland Yard now?”

“Yes, I’d say it’s about all,” Sherlock said, and you could imagine his face getting a little smug at the admission. He did enjoy showing off how superior his intellect was, and using it as some sort of power trip. You put up with it in the past, but you haven’t had to in quite some time. It was more annoying and irksome than you remembered. “But I did call the right person, I don’t make amateur mistakes like that. You didn’t answer my question. Can you join me this evening?” And just as you were attempting to think up some sort of excuse, he added on, “Don’t come up with a lie. You know I’ll know if you do.”

“Fine,” You groaned in a very non-adult way. If you were going to be dragged into whatever it is, you had every right to act petulant. “Yes. I can join you this evening - depending on what we are doing. I’m not a detective, and I really don’t want to see any dead bodies -”

“I know you’re not. You used to get sick at the thought of maggots, you’d never be able to handle seeing them on a corpse,” He said, so matter-of-factly.  “No bodies. Unless you are objecting to the animal kind. I was thinking dinner. Bring a guest, if you like. If you have one.”

The thought of Sherlock with a fishing pole came into your mind, wearing wellies because oh the man was fishing. You weren’t in any sort of mood to tell him that you had no boyfriend, no girlfriend, no partner of any kind. You debated on bringing a friend. Surely, Sherlock was going to be bringing John Watson with him. None of your friends would get along with Sherlock - it would be like mixing oil and vinegar together and expecting them to fuse.

“Dinner at your expense I hope?” You questioned.

“Yes,” He said, sounding annoyed for the first time in the conversation. That made you grin. That lightened up your mood a little. That irritation that you could drag out of him without getting insulted the way that everyone else did.

“Then absolutely. I’ll see you at dinner.”

--

As you attempted to pick out a dress from your closet - Sherlock had given you the address of a rather upscale place, a fancy steakhouse that was way above your budget on an ordinary day - you thought back to the last time that you had seen the Holmes boys. Years ago. Almost two decades. You were wearing a dress that was much like the one that you were picking out now - so you quickly returned it. The color red was gorgeous  but it held so many negative emotions now. And then you decided - sod it. You weren’t going to let the color be ruined just because Mycroft had hurt you when you had worn it once. None of what had happened was Sherlock’s fault, and now that he had reached out, you weren’t going to take it out on him anymore.

You stepped into the dress, then pulled it up around your figure. It fit perfectly. It highlighted what you wanted to highlight and it hid what you wanted it to hide. As you looked in the mirror, you really came to grips with the fact that you weren’t the same young, naive woman that you had been when you last were around the Holmes. Your hair might be the same color that it was then, your eyes were still the same shade, but you had a few gray hairs now, a few small wrinkles. You were a professional with a career, not a student at college. The outer differences were slight but everything inside was completely was different. You had confidence. You had experience. You had -

The trauma of being in love with Mycroft Holmes.

Nope, nope, you weren’t going to go there. You were going to smooth the dress over yourself and put on small touches of make up so that you looked like a million bucks when you walked into that restaurant. Like you belonged there. Like you were completely happy to see an old friend and there was nothing at all mortifying about this. A touch of lipstick, swipes of mascara, putting earrings on, all while trying to keep your cool, all while trying not to think about the past but about what this could mean for the future.

Shoes, check. Purse, check. A black-cab waiting outside of your flat to zoom you through the London streets towards the restaurant, check. Time to go.

No matter how much you tried, you couldn’t get Mycroft out of your head now. Sherlock had just brought it all coming back. All of the memories, all of the feelings that you had been burying for so long. Hurt always bubbles up to the surface. That’s what it does. Once a wound is reopened, the scar tissues takes even longer to make it heal. Even the passing streetlights coming on as dusk started to make the sky darker, turning it into a shade of indigo. How many evenings like this had you spent wasting your youth on a man that had been stringing you along? On one that didn’t love you?  Too many. Way too many.

You grew up with the Holmes brothers. You were the same age as Sherlock, and Mycroft was the cool, smooth older brother. You grew up across the street from them, and unlike a lot of the other children in the neighborhood, you weren’t scared off by their intellect and naturally cold demeanor. You knew from the start that there was a warmth underneath there, you just had to stick around for the ice to melt. You might not have been as smart as them, and sometimes it was difficult to catch up to a lot of what they said but you showed an eagerness to learn. They appreciated that. They started to enjoy teaching you, not just calling you an idiot for it like they did the other kids.

Instead of hopscotch and football, it was crossword puzzles and University Challenge. It was a lot of reading outside with Mycroft while waiting for Sherlock to finish his violin lessons. That’s what you always liked about Mycroft. He didn’t have to sit out here and hang out with you. Most people didn’t do that with their kid brother’s friends. But he seemed genuinely interested in what you were reading, asking questions, telling you more information than what was in the book, always amazing you with how much stayed inside of his head. Even when high school was finished with, and you moved on to a college while Mycroft went to Cambridge, he stayed in touch with you. A little too in touch.

You met up for dinner one night. You had expected him to bring his surly brother along but no, it was just the two of you, at a rather nice Italian restaurant that you had always said you wanted to go to but could never afford. The kind with real breadsticks on the table, not ones out of a box. Where the waiters had uniforms and not just a dirty t-shirt with a washed out logo on it. He treated you to dinner, and a cheeky glass of wine, and listened to - or seemed to - you talk about your annoying dormmate and the lame parties that you had been invited to go to. He eventually got around to asking you if there was anyone interesting that you were seeing on campus. You found it hard to believe that he asked something so personal. He never asked about other friends, let alone boyfriends. The question made you nearly choke on your wine. He was there with a napkin which you gladly used to blot at your mouth.

“Oh um - well, there is one bloke I’ve been talking to a little bit, his name is Kevin, he’s really nice actually. He’s studying-”

“Oh, Kevin,” Mycroft said, the snobby voice starting to take effect. Oh yes, he had that since you two were children as well. There was no getting rid of it, as annoying as it sometimes could be. “Pedestrian name. Has he ever taken you to a place like this?”

You looked around, and had to admit that no. Kevin really hadn’t taken you to a place like this. “He hasn’t taken me to a restaurant, actually,” You admitted. “We went to a party, the one that I was just telling you about. But then he went to his friends and I went to mine...”

“Doesn’t sound much like a gentleman,” Mycroft mused. “If I were to go to a party with you, though I do find the idea of a party to be degrading and below the both of us, I wouldn’t leave your side. Especially not to go and talk to the sort of people that I’m sure that he considers friends.”

You continued sipping on your wine despite the fact that you were feeling rather confused. "Are you telling me that you want me to bring you to one of the college parties? I can’t even picture it,” You laughed. “But you do have a point. His friends are definitely chavs. I try not to speak to them really but-”

“No, I’m most certainly not asking to go to one of those depraved get-togethers,” He scoffed. “What I am trying to say is that you deserve someone who is not going to walk off once there are other options of people to talk to. Why, I’ve always found conversation with you to be quite stimulating. The person that you deem as your equal, as someone worthy of being in a flirtation with, let alone a relationship, should be seeking you out at a party. That is what I’m saying.”

Was it hot in the restaurant or was it just you? “A compliment from Mycroft Holmes. I can hardly believe it,” You chuckled over your wine, holding it in front of your face. “And one involving a party no less. Well thank you, Mycroft. I appreciate it. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Will you?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “I do hope so. We’ve known each other all of these years and still keep in touch. You must know how rare that is for me. I do believe the word is ... captivated.”

That’s all it took. That’s all that it took for you to stop seeing Mycroft as just Sherlock’s brother, and as someone beguiling. The strawberry blonde hair that curled just above one eye, just short enough not to be annoying but also just long enough to get him a step away from the squeaky clean boy image that he had. You spent night after night with him, doing things that you wouldn’t regularly do. Sneaking onto the Cambridge campus for film nights, and then holding onto his arm as he walked you back to the bus stop, laughing about the historical inaccuracies. Walking past protests that were happening against Thatcher and talking about it. You sneakily pinned a ‘Down with Thatcher’ pin onto his jacket. Despite the fact that he would have realized quite early on that it was there, it wasn’t taken off until he switched jackets for the season.

Then there was that night. That dark and fateful night, as a gothic novelist might put it. Where you put your favorite red dress on, with matching rouge upon your cheeks and lipstick upon your mouth, your best pair of heels and stars in your eyes. Stars and hearts both. This was going to be the night when you were going to tell Mycroft Holmes that you had fallen in love with him. This is the night where you were going to go back to the restaurant where he first paid you those compliments that you did keep in your mind, right at the front of it, repeating those words to yourself again and again whenever you had some alone time. Touching yourself to them. Quite stimulating indeed. You were going to confess your love and he would do the same and  you would kiss, shamelessly. You would share a tiramisu dessert, noting that he quite enjoyed sweets.

That’s where the good ended. Right when you walked into the restaurant. Up until then, everything had been sublime. You even had been complimented by a couple of people on the subway. And not just leering perverted comments either. You looked lovely, you looked great, where did you get that dress, someone is going to have a good night. You were feeling it. And you had been trying to chase that confidence ever since.

“Ma’am?” The cab driver asked, bringing you out of your reverie. “We’re here.”

“Thank you,” You said, gathering yourself. You paid him with a hefty tip and then got out, and stood in front of the steakhouse. It was just Sherlock, surely. And John. And a chance to have a good meal on someone else’s dime, never anything wrong with that.

Shoulders back and stand up tall. There were workers right there at the doors who opened them with a greeting and a friendly smile which you returned. You gave your name to the host and he immediately brought you towards a table in the back. You smiled to yourself when you saw Sherlock’s messy head of curls. Some things would never change. The more that people tried to tell him to cut it, the longer he let it grew, until it annoyed only himself. The little rebel. And John, of course, whose blog you’ve perused once or twice - shorter than you imagined but pleasant nonetheless.

What did Sherlock need? He got straight to the point, or rather he did in his own sort of way. There was a lot of information being thrown at you but you remembered enough from your friendship days to sort through it and find what was important. An art piece had been stolen. He didn’t care much about art. But since you had gone to the college of the arts ... he needed your help. He wouldn’t say so upfront, but the way that he spoke made you feel like you were obligated to help him.

“It could be a homophobic attack,” You said, stroking your chin. “The artist was known to have some close male friends. Or it could have something to do with the Nazis. Everything always comes down to them but art theft - they hid so many masterpieces from the world, and some had yet to be discovered. This piece that was stolen is one of the recovered pieces. It could be some deranged supremacist trying to regain the lost collection.”

“Ahh, speaking of supremacist,” Sherlock said, his eyes now gazing above your head. A shadow had come over you, darkening your plate, your glass. You knew who it was by the silhouette.

“Apologies for being late - I didn’t wish to come,” Mycroft’s voice rang, as snobby as ever. It was such a him answer to give. You wish that you had thought of it. You were finding yourself wishing that you hadn’t come either, despite enjoying yourself a few moments prior, remembering why you and Sherlock had been friends in the first place. He walked around without greeting you, or even seeming to notice you - up until he sat across from you at the table. Whoever he might have been expecting to be sitting there, it wasn’t you, and for the first time, you saw surprise gleam across his eyes. And then - was that guilt? You could only hope so.

You were pleased to see that he had aged. That helped you a small bit. In your mind, he stayed in his early twenties, but here he was now, his hair thinning, hairline receding, wrinkles and all. It would have been better if he wasn’t still handsome despite this, but beggers can’t be choosers.

“Miss y/l/n,” Mycroft said, his voice raising as if he were asking a question more than a greeting. You decided not to respond, turning your head towards Sherlock, and bade him to continue, which he did without delay. Get him talking about a case and he can go on for hours. You attempted to enjoy your meal, all while trying your utmost not to look across from you but it was so damn hard. Seeing Mycroft hit you like a truck. It brought back all of those unpleasant memories.

--

You had walked into the restaurant, eager and ready. You thought that perhaps ... just maybe... this would be one of the best nights of your life. Mycroft, your partner, had admitted that he had been hiding something and was ready to come clean. You and your girl friends thought this meant that he was going to tell you that he loves you. You wore your best outfit, you had gotten your hair done, your make up was perfect. You were going to open your heart once he did and say those three words back.

You loved him, you loved him, you loved him. The way that he was so smooth. So debonair. So ambitious. He was going places. You were so proud of him for all of it. Every contact that he made, who he’d tell you about, getting excited like a child because he shook the hand of someone in parliament. He opened doors for you, he would ask you what you wanted at a restaurant and then order it for you, he’d send you flowers when you did well on an exam.

That wasn’t what it was at all. You were having your heart broken. Decimated. Crushed beyond recognition.

An experiment. For school. That’s what this whole thing had been. He’d been studying the psychology of romantic couples, and what better way was there to study than be a part of one himself? He proudly showed you the marks that he had gotten, the stacks of notes in case you wanted to read them over. He had only done a good job because he had a good partner. Well done. Cheerio. Claps all around.

You couldn’t breathe. You felt like you were drowning, you just wanted to flail, to kick, to pull yourself up into the air but you were also terrified of making a scene in the restaurant, of having everyone look at you and know immediately that you were nothing more than a grade, not good for anything else. Wasted time, wasted effort, wasted love.

“Excuse me,” You said, throwing your napkin down on your half-finished meal and you departed. You didn’t go to the bathroom, you walked home. All fourteen blocks. Your heels clicked and clacked against the London streets, and you hadn’t paid any attention to anyone who walked past you. You think, perhaps, someone had asked you if you were alright? But you weren’t. You just kept walking until your feet hurt, and then you took off your shoes, carried them in your hands, and kept on walking. You had dropped one. You got home with only one of them but you didn’t care. You dropped into your bed and stayed there for two full days.

Mycroft tried to call a couple of times. You kept the phone off the hook. He tried to call some of your friends, but after they had found out what had happened, they said such scathing things that he hadn’t dared to call again. A part of you was hoping that he would show up at your dorm, or at one of your classes and tell you that he knew he had made a mistake, but that was not something that a Holmes would ever do. As far as you knew, he had never showed up.

Time went on, life went on, but you never forgot the pain. You never forgot Mycroft. You tried to go on dates with other men, your friends setting you up, dating apps, people from work, but it never felt right. If they didn’t open the doors for you, or offer to order for you, it felt like you weren’t being treated quite right. If they did do those things, since there are still gentlemen left in the world, you couldn’t trust that there was some ulterior motive. That this was a study. A joke. Nothing ever got past a first date. A spinster by twenty-five.

--

You hated how much you looked at him while you were trying not to. Out of the corner of your eye, there he was. In the reflection of your knife. Of your wineglass. Every time that you heard his voice, you remembered the sweet nights, the old dates. The conversations that lasted for hours. You tried to focus on what Sherlock was saying, but it felt impossible. You were trying to overcome that feeling of drowning again. Trying to keep in control and not just walk out like you had the last time.

But when it came down to it, you were still just help in a study. Whether it was for school, or for a case, it was all the same.

When the waiter came around with the bill, you jumped at the chance to leave at an appropriate time. You went through your purse, dug out some notes, and put them onto the table. “Well, gentlemen, it has been a lovely evening.” Your voice was shaky, giving you away. You did your best to ignore that. Pretend it didn’t happen. Pretend a lot of this didn’t happen, for your own sake. “I’m glad you have been of help, and I hope all goes well.”

“So you do still love him,” Sherlock said, making all eyes at the table, including yours, turn to him. And then six were right back on you.

“P-pardon?” You asked, hoping you heard him incorrectly.

“You’re flushed, your palms are sweaty,” Sherlock started to list.

“It’s warm in here.”

“Your voice went higher once he came in-”

“Did not.”

“The complete and utter avoidance while you were still mirroring his movements,”

“We’re at a restaurant, everyone is eating here...”

“And you’ve been fidgeting for the past half hour,” Sherlock finished.

“How do you know I don’t just fidget all of the time?” You argued.

“Pardon, I forgot becoming defensive.”

You couldn’t take anymore. You finally looked right over to Mycroft. Stared into his blue-gray eyes. And then yours narrowed. “I’ll never forgive what you did to me, Mycroft Holmes. Not for any of it.”

And you stood up then. No one tried to stop you this time around. Sherlock didn’t have anything witty to say, or if he did, it blended in with the rest of the noise of the restaurant. You took your leave. You stepped out into the gloomy London evening, raised your arm and fetched yourself a cab. You got into it slowly, situating yourself, looking towards the door of the restaurant, hoping and also dreading that he might come out. That Mycroft is going to run out and apologize and grovel at your feet. No. He didn’t happen. So you gave your address to the patient cab driver and made your way home.

At least you had both shoes on this time.

[j-eryewrites]

Love Story

MAIN MASTER LIST

ANON Request: Can you do a fic based on “love story” by Taylor Swift? Sherlock and the reader are in a relationship, but he's older than her and her mother is probably not for this marriage, so they meet, hiding from others, and like the song he proposes to her.

Author’s Notes: OMG this was so fun to write! Super fluffy and slightly OOC Sherlock. I hope you guys enjoy it! I tried to not make this one too long, but oh well…

Warning: Just major fluff

Flashes of gold and silver twirled around the room. Under the lights of the chandeliers, partners waltz hand in hand. The women dressed from head to toe in the finest silks and fabrics. They wore the shiniest and most entrancing of jewellery. The men were sharply dressed. Not a wrinkle in sight on their tuxedos as they led their partners around the room. Their elegance and grace exceeded your own as you admired the view along the wall. 

You’d never seen a live orchestra before, let alone have one accompany the dancers at a ball. It was London’s greatest charity event of the year. All those who oozed importance or wealth attended. Never in your life could you have imagined you’d be one of those people. You wouldn’t say you were anyone of importance or wealthy. However, you were important to someone. 

“Meet me in the garden.” 

You don’t need to see to know who whispered into your ear. The sharp constants, slight coarseness, and tone seething with intelligence only meant one thing–Sherlock. 

You don’t even get to reply because he’s out of sight by the time you turn around. You looked back once more at the ball letting the music and dancers spin you into a trance before the cool air of the outdoors called for you. 

The garden itself was just as breathtaking as the life of the ball. The moon showed brightly that night, as did the stars. The sky seemed to dance to its own song. The silver light cascaded down illuminating your path. In the garden, Sherlock had said. Where you did not know, but something told you that you’d find him, just like you did all those years ago. 

We were both young when I first saw you

I close my eyes and the flashback starts

I'm standing there

He said he needed an expert. You didn’t understand why it was you. You were only a freshly graduated art student just making your way into the world. Name after name you gave Sherlock, all people who were better qualified than you to give the world’s only consulting detective advice. 

He proved you wrong. You were the freshest mind of them all. Your mind was still structured by the greats and the lessons your schooling gave you. You didn’t have experience or time to make art your own, unlike the others you suggested instead. You didn’t forget your schooling, how could you when it was all you knew? 

You gave your advice. A case was solved and soon there was another. One after the other it came. How could you refuse? After all, he said he needed an expert. 

See you make your way through the crowd

And say "Hello"

Little did I know

That you were Romeo, you were throwing pebbles

“Here,” Sherlock said before dropping something smooth and small into the palm of your hand. 

You pry away your fingers and smile. A pebble. A rock. The shiniest thing you’ve ever seen. If you looked at it just right, there were hints of green and blue. You peer up at Sherlock.

“It reminded me of you,” Sherlock muttered. His cheekbones were ever so slightly blushed, and his sapphire blue eyes averted yours. 

“Sherlock–” You grinned. 

“I read that penguins present what they deem the most perfect stones to those they wish to court,” Sherlock explained. 

You look down at the small stone in your hand. 

“Yes”

Romeo, save me, they're trying to tell me how to feel

This love is difficult, but it's real

Don't be afraid, we'll make it out of this mess

It's a love story, baby, just say yes

Mycroft. You were wondering when you would meet Sherlock’s brother. You never expected to be forced into a black car and driven to the middle of nowhere. The man was just how you pictured him: Stern, cold, tall, and intelligent. 

He told you to stay away. Sentiment is a chemical defect in the brain. A defect that Sherlock must not have. He offered you money and anything your heart desired. You shook your head. You already had your heart’s desire. 

(Takes place at a ball/gala. Reader and Sherlock are there, and he’s asked her to meet him in the garden. As she’s walking through the garden, she is getting flashbacks on how they met: Reader needs help on a case and they meet Sherlock, then cut to after the case on the back of an ambulance, Sherlock asks the reader to go for coffee sometime, then it cuts to Mycroft meeting with reader basically paying her to stay away from Sherlock since Sentiment is a chemical defect in the brain. She refuses and now we come to the ball. She finds Sherlock in the garden and he’s proposing to her. It ends with yes and then the song lyrics (these are scattered throughout)

He knelt to the ground and pulled out a ring

And said

"Marry me, Juliet, you'll never have to be alone

I love you, and that's all I really know

I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress

It's a love story, baby, just say yes"

Your hands were cold from the night air, but you never cared. “Meet me in the garden,” he said, and, in the garden, you did find him. A head full of dark curls that you loved to brush your fingers through. Eyes that sang of home and you wished you could never leave. Sherlock stood there in the garden next to the roses and the lilies.

He held out his hand to which you placed yours. His lips meet each of your knuckles before pulling away. There was something on your finger. It was small, round, and smooth. 

The pebble glimmered under the moonlight. You gasped, cried, and smiled. A small stone you thought you had lost now found home on your finger. 

“Will you marry me?” Sherlock whispered. 

Yes

_______________________________________________________________

Comment below if you would like to be added to the Sherlock one shot tag list.

Tag list: @bartokthealbinobat​ @astudyinlaura​ @sherlockstrangewolf

_____________________________________________________________

[mesywelch]

A Night with Sherlock Holmes

Paring: Sherlock Holmes (BBC) X Reader

Summary: Reflecting on your time with Sherlock Holmes as he plays his violin deep into the somber night leads to a few realisations.

Warnings: None

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Gracefully the sun descended down the murky blue sky, travelling with a never-ending burst of bright colour around its powerful body. As it exited the now empty canvas of the darkest shades of blue, a sense of lethargy encompassing its movements as if hanging so high above had drained all of its energy, it passed on its reign to its considerably smaller partner—the moon and its massive army of sparkly, blinking stars. The buildings of London cowered under a thick shadow of gloom, and the moon's white light miserly illuminated the occasional window or passerby. The restrictive view I was presented with of the outside world through my sharp-cornered window wasn't much to keep my attention at nightfall; when the ever-busy human race collectively packed away into their abodes, the long-winding roads of London experienced nothing but isolation from the rickety vehicles for the first time, and when the only living being garnering the spotlight of the street lights were squeaky rats.

However, I needn't worry, as I always had Sherlock to make my boring, sleepless nights worthwhile.

Unlike the rest of the population, Sherlock functioned uniquely. While the average adult might find himself occupied by a heavy load of work during the day, burdened by the clutches of financial stability, like I found myself reviewing and organising shelves upon shelves of books and archives, Sherlock never bothered with money. In fact, he conducted his job free of cost, without any expectations of receiving something in return because the immense satisfaction he experienced merely by taking part in the mind games that his job presented him with were returns enough. 

When deconstructing the sometimes complex logical reasonings, sometimes baffling — to Sherlock, trifling — emotions behind brutal crimes, one might picture chaos and panic; an urgency to not waste time for danger could be thrust upon you at any moment. Taking one look at Sherlock would certainly ruin that weirdly picturesque image.

I distinctly remember the case of the mysterious chain of supposed suicides or "Study in Pink", as our fellow companion John Watson had titled it in his blog; victims consuming the exact same pill seemingly with no reason to end their lives nor any apparent connection with each other. Clues weren't adding up, the only leads we had were dead ends, and John's features were corrupted by worry as he entered the room we occupied; he appeared as though he had seen a ghost (which later we found out was actually not a ghost but Sherlock's brother, Mycroft). The atmosphere was tense, but amidst the room existed a presence that stood in complete contrast. Sherlock — oh, Sherlock — laid horizontally inclined on his well-loved, dented couch, tightly wrapped in his blue night robe, and pale bony hands pressed together under his chin. His being emulated a sense of level-headedness, composure and cool - eyes shut, mouth slightly hung open, and body still as a statue. At the time, I admired and admittedly envied his attitude towards stressful situations that he displayed constantly. But, the passage of time taught me that I had just fallen into the illusion that he was this perfect, mystical, awe-inducing kind of being, as one might get the impression of upon first meeting him. Spending a little more time with him, however, can show you a lot of fine details that previously went undisclosed. Like the uneven furrow of his eyes-brows when he stared off into space and the off-beat tick of his fingers upon paper as he went over case reports.

How much ever Sherlock might not show it (saying it was a whole other matter), his mind was forever running miles faster than anyone could even comprehend, only visible to the naked eye through small signs of physical reactions like these. His brain was a machine, efficient and observant to the highest degree. But unfortunately, the comparison could be drawn further. He was cold and soulless, seemingly made of scratch-less metal. His words were prone to the blunt, the straightforward, and the truth. And these tendencies frequently kept contact away — if there was one thing I learnt in my time with him, it was that people loathed being presented with an honest reflection of themselves. 

Despite this, Sherlock was still undeniably human. However deep one may have to peel off the layers of his skin to come across it, there was undoubtedly pulsing flesh, hot red blood and a beating heart underneath that façade of impassiveness. And this heart, like any other creature, yearned for something Sherlock would label a major flaw in human patchwork. It yearned for passion — In whatever form it may be derived, even if he didn't realise it himself. 

For instance, as he stood staring at the same window I was gazing through moments ago, inspecting the bland atmosphere, a set empty of actors, his long fingers delicately held a bow, dragging it across the strings of his violin. With each movement, with each pull or push of the strings, he created a melody velvety smooth, and he and I bathed in its depth. The notes he played were the only trace of life in the air, for we were nothing but objects in its presence, invisible artists hiding behind the awe-inspiring art. That was the passion Sherlock allowed himself to absorb — the kind that spoke for itself and connected souls in ways no words nor actions could. At first, I used to believe that it wasn't particularly his fault if no one was around long enough to realise this, to realise how Sherlock worked. But looking back, perhaps it was Sherlock himself who didn't allow anyone to do so.

I clutched the fluffy blanket tighter around me, folding my knees towards myself in order to maximise comfort on the sofa I occupied. Memory betrayed me as I tried to recall the day's events, draping a cloud of fog over the images of what were supposed to be work, faces, and... I couldn't swat the white mist away. It always was the case during the night, more specifically when I was joined by the company of Sherlock in the living room. It was like the past blurred itself just so that the present could be ever-clear and sharp. I usually gave in, deciding to take in as much as I could of these moments that littered my life sparingly. 

The clock ticked away in the background, its repetitive beat further making me over-conscious of the now. Dragging my lidded eyes away from the monotone city sights out the window, I glanced across the extinguished fireplace, the unlit lamp sitting on top of it, the rotten, yellowing figure of Sherlock's skull right beside it — teeth gleaming under the moonlight — and then the dark kitchen. Followed the door that led past it, an imaginary image of me walking through the hallway to the room at the far end, and finally, John lying somewhat peacefully under the sheets, deep breaths echoing along the walls. 

John was never a witness to our nightly sessions. The retired soldier, traumatised by but yet incredibly drawn to the war, the battle, and the chaos, was one to surprisingly follow the average human sleep schedule. It was shocking, really, how he was never woken up by the striking sounds of Sherlock's violin despite having a keen sense for noise. But sometimes, I had the innate feeling that he intentionally ignored it. I was glad he did, though, because how much ever affection I held for the man, he was the kind of person inclined to overthink, doubt, and suspicion. These three words were perfectly apt to describe Sherlock as well, but John's were a slightly varied nuance. 

While Sherlock utilised his skill to question everything for his own benefit, John, nine times out of ten, sabotaged himself while doing so — erupting unnecessary worry and distress. A comforting, borderline pin-drop silence like the one settled in the atmosphere as Sherlock ended the piece (an untitled, self-composed one), and slid his pearl blue irises to latch onto mine would only encompass John in discomfort. The anxious aura radiated by his presence would then shatter the calm so intricately constructed by the mutual understanding between Sherlock and me. 

It sounds too dramatic, too hyperbolic, I'm well aware, but no other means could convey how meaningful these overnight hours were to me and my sanity in this dying world. I would really like it if John continued to remain oblivious to them. Or pretend oblivious, I suppose. 

Sherlock gingerly placed his violin on the couch beside him. 

"The only time I can think is when the rest of London wasn't— too occupied by sleep." He spit the word like it was poison on his tongue. "Why is that not surprising in the slightest?" 

I let his words hang in the air, pondering his question. Sherlock often found himself susceptible to the meaningless, unimportant thoughts of those around him. It was like he could hear them out loud, like he could read minds. However, such supernatural diction might be disapproved of by Sherlock. 

In his own words, 'trivial expressions depicting stress, confusion, ignorance and whatever definable emotion you can think of on people's faces are nothing but translations of inner feelings and thoughts.' And Sherlock being the ever-observant and present person he was, was even more exposed to these signals than the average person — disrupting him from continuing his original train of thought. 

He did, although, also confide in me that for people like Anderson, whose idiocy plagued the very world around them, signals weren't required to get the gist of whatever nonsense was going through the pea brain of theirs.

"I'm going to assume that I am exempt from this rest of London you speak of?" 

A side-eye; not a trace of hesitance in his voice. "Obviously." 

"Hm." 

Sherlock went back to analysing whatever he could of the scenery outside. I went back to analysing him. It was a past-time I took part in often, sometimes hours passing by before the bubble around me popped, dropping me harshly back into reality. 

It has occurred to me here and there that I may be in love with this man. 

Love. Even muttering the word under my breath felt unfamiliar to me, a person who never really cared about fleeting emotions like those. 

But it had to be love. Because surely— surely, no one spent as much time as I did picturing Sherlock and his tall frame playing the violin with such grace and care just as he was moments ago — his elegant movements like that of a lily swaying in the wind. Surely, no one understood the sensation that took over my being when his eyes settled on me with such intention and purpose, whether I was looking or not. No one endlessly wondered about what may be running through his one heck of a brain as he deduced a man's whole life story by a mark on the cuff of his shirt— God. 

God. 

Consciously thinking about Sherlock made me put into picture how much of a miracle he actually was. What I was capable of imagining had to be just a fraction of what he was capable of doing. I loved knowing that he was somewhere above all of us. I loved it. 

Sherlock was an enigma, and if it was my life purpose to try and understand him completely, I would certainly do so. Whether what I felt for Sherlock was true love (if that even existed) or a manic obsession of sorts, whether Sherlock even felt anything in return, for I never considered what his opinions of me could be, whether he was even aware of the intensity of the spell he put me under—it didn't matter— I would stick with him. 

It was only when my eyes caught the rectangular sheet of light draping over the couches, the books, the papers, and the mess of the living room, that I came to realise that it was the dawn of the new day already. 

I stood up unsteadily, cloth-covered feet coming in contact with the carpeted ground, the soft thump of the thick blanket falling behind me onto the floor. My body wobbled as I moved forward towards the window where Sherlock also stood—his position altering between the window and the sofa opposite mine throughout the night. Goosebumps instantly arose across the bare skin of my arms and legs, and I shivered. But I didn't think the physical reactions were caused by the chilly wind. 

The early spurts of yellow spread along the horizon like watercolour, rapidly claiming domain in the sky. Soon, the golden sun followed, its body obstructed by the buildings around. I squinted my eyes as I accidentally stared straight at it, but I couldn't look away—the celestial body marked the end of my shared solitude with Sherlock, but it did so mesmerisingly, glowing brightly and ejecting rays on earth, pumping life into the cement. The only sight that could beat the magnificence of the sun, unfortunately, was standing right beside me, and so I eventually found myself staring at sherlock's marble-carved face instead, a hint of a smile tugging at the edges of his pale blush pink lips as he marvelled at the sight in front of him. 

It seems as though even Sherlock, the ever-placid Sherlock himself, couldn't resist the delicious temptations of nature — the ultimate source that manifested passion within him. The kind that spoke for itself. 

As Sherlock tentatively reached out the fingertips of his hand to garner the attention of my own, slowly swinging them to give me momentary but frequent contact, I thought about how one man – and a man he only was – altered my life entirely in the span of months, making my old life seem discoloured and pointless compared to what I was blessed with now. My undefinable feelings towards Sherlock would only grow as time passed, and even if I lose him — I will try my hardest not to, in the first place — I would not mourn. Instead, I would be thankful that I got a chance to have him in my life. I would be satisfied knowing that a person like him walked the earth. 

The sun rose higher and higher, and at the distinct voice of John Watson questioning our presence out in the open at such ungodly hours, Sherlock's hand left mine. 

[helloliriels]

A MASTERLIST of this years FANDOM TRUMPS HATE 2024 works for our community: BBC Sherlock, Johnlock, and Mystrade! a.k.a. things I wanna check out (and don't wanna lose track of!)

🌹 Unremarkable by discordantwords for Podfixx :: It's an unremarkable day. John has a date. Sherlock has a case. And Mycroft & Rosie have just been shoved into the boot of a car.

🌹 Open Line by anyawen for sherlockian4ever :: Greg & Mycroft have front row seats to a spat between Sherlock and John.

🌹 There's Nothing in the Rulebook by avalanching_effect for bluebellofbakerstreet :: In which Lestrade rolls with the punches, Sherlock's body betrays him, and John is completely normal :)

🌹 Mimetidae by avalanching_effect for 796116311389 :: Magic has to make everything so complicated, doesn't it?

🌹Another Fortnight Lost in America by Biana_Amberly_Vacker for Silvergirl :: Sherlock gets offered a New York City vacation by a wealthy client. John thinks he's hiding something more, though.

🌹 The Disappointed Optimist's Guide to Sharing a Flat with a Madman by Calais_Reno for LHR_etc :: John Watson has a bit of luck when he meets Victor Trevor. Taking over his lease.

🌹 You Don't Live Here Anymore by elwinglyre for Jim88 :: Sherlock leaves 221b because he can’t bring himself to live there alone without John. Post-S4 Mary death.

🌹 In the Arms of the Ocean by standbygo for Silvergirl :: Sherlock and John are gifted an Atlantic cruise. Will either one of them finally get their heads out of the sand?

🌹 John Watsons Big Adventure by mydogwatson for Silvergirl :: There is a wedding in his future, but John Watson wants to have an adventure first. He gets his wish, but will he survive it?

🌹 The Part of You that Stays by holmesian_love & Accident for helloliriels :: Sherlock comes home a broken man and after serving as John’s best man, seemingly has a mental breakdown.

🌹 Cover for The Murder of Sir Emory J. Amat [Art] by bluebellofbakerstreet for ChrisCalledMeSweetie :: inspired by the fic. also

🌹 [Podfic] The Murder of Sir Emory J. Amat by semperfiona_podfic for ChrisCalledMeSweetie :: a podfic audio recording of the fic!

🌹Show Me Your Flaws by holmesianlove for Lock_John_Silver :: A talented stranger crosses his path and suddenly life isn’t boring. But how can John win over someone like that, when he's so flawed?

🌹A Minor Detail by meetinginsamarra for Katiegee444 :: Sherlock has found the perfect flatmate for sharing 221b Baker Street. If only there were not that minor detail in the small print of the lease ...

🌹Wasteland, Baby by LoloLolly for ShakespearelovedLadyMacbeth :: Things hadn’t felt right in 221B since John and Rosie moved back in. If only Sherlock knew it was about to get worse ...

🌹Scheherazade of the Thrift Shop by standbygo for thegildedbee :: Sherlock, cut off by Scotland Yard and desperate for something to do, decides to try deducing in a thrift shop.

🌹 Meet Ugly by jrow for 72reasons :: One encounter with a gorgeous madman is a good story. Twice is crazy coincidence. Three times might just be fate.

🌹 Cover for The Murder of Major Sayer [Art] by bluebellofbakerstreet for ChrisCalledMeSweetie :: inspired by the fic

🌹 The Mile High Club by elwinglyre for Silvergirl :: All they wanted was to get married without a fuss. Sherlock has more on his mind.

🌹 Johnlock on Holiday [Banner Edit] by a-victorian-girl for Silvergirl :: for the collection of FTH 2024 fics Silver prompted!

🌹 A Magical Holiday by PipMer for Silvergirl :: He had wanted to wait until after the new year, but it seems John needs a pick-me-up.

🌹 Never Trust to General Impressions [Cover Art] by helloliriels for thetimemoves :: a.k.a. Never Judge A Book By Its Cover (unless its cover is smexy)

🌹 What if John never disposed of the gun he shot the cabbie with? by safedistancefrombeingsmart for khorazir :: a story told in GIFs.

🌹 Shadows of the Fallen Oak by sherlockian4ever for luckettey :: Rosie Watson is kidnapped by a vengeful criminal from Sherlock's past. Their rescue mission tests their bond and reaffirms their love.

🌹 Always a Soldier by Lock_John_Silver for Silvergirl :: Mycroft arrives at Baker Street with disturbing news Sherlock can’t ignore.

🌹 The Cavern by elwinglyre for Katiegee444 :: Sherlock doesn’t believe in magic, he believes in making rock & roll history. His best chance is with John's band.

🌹 Full of Life and Full of Love by anyawen for ChrisCalledMeSweetie :: She watches over them. Still.

🌹 Bloods Tracks & Love Attacks by topsyturvy_turtley for Katiegee444 :: Six people enter a chairlift at the bottom of the mountain. Only five arrive at the top. All of them dead. Casefic.

🌹 Confirmation Bias by thalialunacy for Silvergirl :: A casefic featuring Harry Watson, knights, con men, and body farms.

🌹 Fan Edits for The Secret Writer by emilycare for Lock_John_Silver :: This is a collection of edits inspired by the story.

🌹 The Pillar Upon Which England Rests [Art] by khorazir for thetimemoves :: based on the fic by discordantwords.

🌹 36 Views of London by helloliriels for thegildedbee :: A patchwork image of John & Sherlock’s London, as seen through their eyes.

🌹 and back again by anyawen for helloliriels :: a book familiar and meaningful to both men offers guidance and hope.

🌹 Take My Hand by her_ladyships_soap for Mouse9 :: A tale of closeness, moving fwd, and finding comfort in unexpected places.

🌹 Minuit te va si bienby fireandhoney a translation for ChrisCalledMeSweetie

🌹 The Case of the Missing Patty-Pan by ChrisCalledMeSweetie for chainedtothemirror :: When Mrs. Hudson invites Sherlock to tea, his own cleverness gets him in trouble. Fortunately, Dr. Watson is eager to come to his rescue.

🌹 Every Song Reminds Me of You by ChrisCalledMeSweetie for alexxphoenix42 :: Music hath charms to help John acknowledge his feelings for Sherlock.

🌹 The Campari by CorvidCordelia for Silvergirl :: Technically, it’s a forced vacation for Sherlock, but when wouldn’t it be?

🌹 Sleeping Irene by Khorazir for ChrisCalledMeSweetie :: Cover for the wonderful fairy tale inspired fic

🌹 Pretty in (A Frankly Alarming Shade of) Pink by helloliriels for thetimemoves :: a Rock Out edit prompt from 80's album.

🌹 Every Song Reminds Me of You [Cover Edit] by a-victorian-girl for ChrisCalledMeSweetie :: for the fic of the same name!

🌹 What If I'm Not? [GIF] set by safedistancefrombeingsmart for helloliriels :: Johnlock :: for the fic of the same name.

🌹 No Going Home by emilycare for 13Monkton :: When Sherlock dies ... What if instead of John moving on, they both realized what they meant to one another when he returns?

🌹 Through The Rain by Snowfilly1 for Raechem :: A missing person from John’s past sends Mycroft and Greg on an investigation to Dartmoor.

🌹 Where It Is Always 1670 by Iwantthatcoat for khorazir :: Sherlock and John go on a diplomatic mission away from the heart of London to a little village called Adamczycha. The year is 1670.

🌹 The Red-Headed League by JRow for bluebellofbakerstreet :: Can Sherlock figure out what Rosie's teacher is involved in? And can he prevent the inevitable, namely Ms. Shea falling in love with John?

🌹 FTH2024 Artwork for A Case of You by Silvergirl by DemonicAngeling for Silvergirl :: Inspired by the fic

🌹 The Missing Half by aquileaofthelonelymountain for reveling_in_mayhem :: It was a fancy box of chocolates, the kind you didn’t get in supermarkets ... “So”, Greg said cheerfully, “you’ve got a secret admirer, then?”

🌹 Momentary by BlueMoononTheRise for StellaCartography :: Greg Lestrade has just been diagnosed with cancer. Unable to come to terms with the reality, he decides to go on a trans-Canada roadtrip.

🌹 The Beginning of Always by mydogwatson for thegildedbee :: John Watson wants to be a doctor. Sherlock Holmes wants to be a consulting detective. Most of all, they both want to be loved.

🌹 Handbook for Unrequited Love by Bluebuell33 for holmesianlove :: Life was one cruel joke after another for John. Mary lied and left him. Sherlock wanted nothing to do with him. How had his life ended up here?

🌹 John Watson and the Tale of the Bloody Finger by ChrisCalledMeSweetie for PatPrecieux :: A childhood tale comes back to haunt John.

🌹 An Ounce of Cure by BakerTumblings for safedistancefrombeingsmart :: When John needs elective surgery, Sherlock isn't at all thrilled about it. And when it doesn't go as planned. John finds himself fighting for his life.

🌹 Life finds a way. by Bluebuell33 for felinefemme :: Anthea convinces newly retired Mycroft that he needs a pet for his quiet cottage life. He comes home with more then a new cat. <3

🌹 The Rescuing by BakerTumblings for Podfixx :: Sherlock, off in Serbia, has been captured and severely injured. Mycroft recruits John to aid with freeing him and then overseeing his recovery.

🌹 A Gentleman's Agreement by Peanitbear for Enterthetadpole :: Sherlock is an alpha that doesn't want an omega. John is an omega that doesn't want an alpha.

🌹 Cover for My Pictures of You by bluebellofbakerstreet for 72reasons :: inspired by the fic.

🌹 The Murder of Sir Emory J. Amat by ChrisCalledMeSweetie for PatPrecieux :: A Sherlock Holmes mystery, as recounted by Dr. John H. Watson. Can you follow the clues to deduce whodunnit?

🌹 The Light Gets In by Raina_at for Besotted08 :: John comes back to Baker Street on a rainy Wednesday in January. He wants to feel whole again. Maybe that’s not achievable. But fuck, he wants to try.

Posting here, as not all of them yet appear in the FTH 2024 collection on Ao3, but I knew they existed! *whew*. Please let me know if I missed any???

Glad to see I wasnt the only procrasti-writer this year! (my first year offering fic) and so proud of those of you who made it to the finish line and HOLY mother of fandom those of you that wrote more than one!!! (bowing lowly to the floor). Writing for FTH made me more in love with those of you who do this every year. It's a brilliant challenge and all for charity!

[sarascamander]

So I've finished the first episode of BBC Sherlock and... I watched it while giggling and kicking my feet like it was a bloody romcom instead of a murder mystery. This is not even an exaggeration 💀.

- Sherlock and John were literally so cute, I was rooting for them since day one. Their scenes together are literally the best and again, adorable. It really feels like watching a rom com with so many people assuming they're a couple.

- just an observation (definitely not staring at his lips) but Sherlock has the most perfect cupid bow I've ever seen.

- the ending is when Sherlock realized it was John who shot the villain — I WAS GIGGLING AND SQUEALING. it was so cute, I'm sorry. And the fact that John actually did that.

- Sherlock is such a little shit I LOVE HIM and his pure hatred for Anderson gets me laughing every time.

- Sherlock and John chasing after a cab and giggling together after like teenagers after their first kiss. Guys, they're so in love.

- John is so adorable, I didn't expect him to shoot someone and not regret it in the slightest (I mean it was hinted that he liked the violence but seeing it is different) but honestly, king behavior.

- the ending where John found out about Mycroft was HILARIOUS. I was laughing my ass off because I really thought that he was Moriarty/ any villain instead. My reaction was literally like John's and it was pure comedy, I love it.

There are so many thoughts but it all boils down to this. Just know that I love it SO MUCH. It's humorous, suspenseful, and I LOVE the main characters.

[holmesianlove]

Chapter 11 - Ribbons

“Brother?” Mycroft asked, surprised to see Sherlock at his door.

“Yes, well, no need to stare,” he snapped, pushing past his brother and into the apartment. He moved straight to the kitchen, unravelled his scarf, placing it on the counter, and grabbed an apple out of the fruit bowl, biting into it aggressively.

Mycroft watched as Sherlock paced alongside the kitchen counter in silence. He did this when he was worked up. He’d spit it out eventually. While he waited, Mycroft grabbed a crystal tumbler and opened his freezer to pull out some vodka. He poured himself a bit and then held it up in question to his brother. Sherlock waved him off impatiently. Apparently drinking wouldn’t help. Mycroft knew to wait in silence until Sherlock was prepared to speak.

“He’s just… so infuriating!” Sherlock finally burst out with.

“I can only assume you mean John.”

Sherlock flashed his brother an angry glare.

“Want me to have another little talk with him?” Mycroft offered.

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock snapped, pointing his half devoured apple at his brother.

“Okay but you’re here. You have… feelings to express apparently.”

“Huh. Feelings.” Sherlock scoffed and continued to pace in silence for a time and Mycroft let him. “The thing is, there’s this case. And John’s reaction has been… difficult to understand.”

“Right…”

“When he first moved in, he asked…” Sherlock paused, looking at his brother to assess his level of judgement. Mycroft wasn’t giving anything away.

“He asked me about my situation.”

“Situation?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock simply gave his brother a look in answer and continued. “Yes, and I said the usual.”

“Not your area?” Mycroft checked.

“Quite so.”

“Seems reasonable,” Mycroft agreed. “You barely knew each other and given Dr Watson’s hobby of serial dating, I can’t see how—“

“He’s bisexual.”

“Oh? I hadn’t… spotted that.”

“Well he covers it well,” Sherlock mumbled, clearly irritated by it.

“He told you this?” Mycroft asked.

“No.”

“Okay… then…” Mycroft was confused.

“Only, now, we’re dealing with a case and it seems to really be bothering him. I can’t understand how it should bother him, though, if he is also…”

“Not publicly though,” Mycroft suggested. “Publicly, he makes a point of being straight.”

“True. Although to be precise he always says he’s not gay.”

Mycroft paused. He didn’t like seeing his brother so distressed. It often coincided with danger nights. “Sherlock, won’t you sit. The pacing is… distracting.”

Sherlock hesitated, ready to argue as usual and instead pulled out a stool and sat at the centre bench.

Mycroft relaxed against the opposite bench. “So tell me,” he began, before taking a sip of vodka. “I can decipher why the case might be bothering John - perhaps some hidden truths he’s not ready to acknowledge - but why is it bothering you so?”

Sherlock munched quietly on his apple for a while.

And Mycroft sighed. “Oh. I hadn’t noticed it before. But now I see it.”

“What?” Sherlock asked, annoyed.

“You love him.”

Sherlock instantly choked on a piece of apple and stood up again, beating at his chest to move the piece of apple lodged there. He shot his brother an angry glare.

Mycroft simply stood watching his brother flail about dramatically with a knowing smirk. “Confirmed,” he said, when Sherlock finally sat again. Without a word he grabbed another glass and poured his brother some vodka after all, sliding the glass across to him. “I can’t believe I hadn’t seen it until now,” he said.

“Well you are the slow one,” Sherlock teased, taking a sip and sitting back down.

“Lucky for you John is the slowest.”

Sherlock gave him another annoyed look.

“What do you need then?” Mycroft asked more gently.

“He’s oblivious. Irritatingly so. I don’t think he’s aware of his own identity. I can’t… see a way past it.”

Mycroft took a leisurely sip of his drink. “When we were children, Mummy used to read us a book. I don’t know if you remember it. Well, she read it to me and so I assume to you also. The one with the ribbons?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock frowned. “Why would I keep a children’s book in my mind palace?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Well the gist of it was about two people who loved each other so much that a connection grew. Two ribbons that tied them together. Tied their hearts together. And everywhere they went these ribbons connected them. No matter how far, the ribbons just grew long enough to keep them connected. I think Mummy used to read it so we understood that when they travelled so much, we were all still connected through love.” He huffed then, realising how it sounded. “The idea that someone could fly to another country entirely and still have their ribbons remaining connected is, of course, completely ridiculous and romanticised. Children are so gullible and stupid,” he scoffed.

Sherlock laughed. “Speak for yourself. I clearly dismissed it early on, which is why I hold no memory of it. I never took you for such a romantic, though.”

Mycroft snorted, looking down at his drink. “Actually, I loved that book so much. I used to read it to myself even when they were away. There was something… hopeful in it,” he admitted. “I think part of the reason I’ve remained single is because I refused to give any time to anyone who wasn’t worth that kind of love. I never found it.”

“You’re not dead yet, brother,” Sherlock said, suddenly feeling very sorry for his older sibling. Sherlock did tease him constantly about being a sad, lonely old man, but in truth he had always hoped Mycroft might find someone to share his life with.

“It’s fine. I’m… comfortable,” he said stiffly. They remained together in silence for a long time. Finally, Mycroft decided to impart his wisdom.

“When I first met John. When I picked him up and tested him, I was… quite taken aback. He was nothing like any of your other friends. He was instantly loyal, virtually unshakeable, in fact, yet with a vulnerability he tried desperately to hide. I couldn’t have found a more perfect partner for you, with all the resources I have at my disposal. The two of you connected instantly and I saw it.”

Sherlock looked up. “Saw what?”

“Ribbons,” he said softly, finishing his drink. Sherlock looked taken aback.

“You want my advice?”

“Please,” Sherlock said, watching his brother closely.

“John has trust issues, yet he trusts you. But he doesn’t really trust himself. He’s never going to tell you he has an interest. He’s never going to admit to being bisexual. He’s going to assume you are too far above his station in life. He’s going to assume you have deduced everything about him, including any feelings he has about you. He knows how you operate. He will expect you can see and hear his every thought and are wilfully ignoring them out of disinterest. I suspect all it would take, to win him, is to make the first move and he would topple over the cliff with you.”

“I see,” Sherlock said, swallowing hard.

“That is, if he will allow himself to admit he has feelings for a man. He could just as easily deny it to the death,” Mycroft added.

“Well that’s been very helpful,” Sherlock said, the comment dripping with sarcasm.

“You asked,” Mycroft replied smugly.

Sherlock stood and reattached his scarf to his neck. He swallowed the last of the vodka and gave his brother a little bow.

“Thank you brother. I will take that advice with the usual level of disregard that I always give it.”

Mycroft pursed his lips tight. He had tried.

And with that, Sherlock stormed out of the apartment again, out into the snow.

— —

Thanks @notjustamumj for the prompt list

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[generalsdiary]

Ratio and Aventurine are Sherlock and Watson coded but not in the way you think. Where one might assume Ratio would be Sherlock because of his intellect and analytic approach to life and the comments he makes, allow me to switch the perspective. Aventurine is an addict. To what? To feeling like shit and endorsing it, to having low self-esteem, to rejecting everyone in a way so no one gets too close and realizes how vulnerable he is, how much he yearns for love. He hid it away so well that he himself isn’t aware anymore of how much he wants it. to be loved, appreciated, and seen as more than just his luck- much like Ratio wants to be seen for more than just his achievements (poor man ain’t aware of how much he wants it either). Aventurine plays this perfect little role of a charismatic, lucky, fun-to-be-around persona. And that’s all it is, a play, a stage act.

let us switch gears back to Sherlock and John. Sherlock is also an addict, depending on at which point in the timeline, it is nicotine, drugs, crime cases, and similar. Here is where the point lies. Who is the one that pulls Sherlock out of that shit, out of the drug den, to hide his cigarettes away? John. We think Sherlock functions fine… before John, sure. After John, after Mary dies; oh no, Sherlock is not well without him. He can barely function, (yes, Mary’s death comes also in account here, but I won’t get sidetracked), living in a mess, doing drugs again, smoking, treating himself like shit and like he is worthless. So, who reminds Sherlock of his worth, of his genius, of the fact that he is human and not just a performance act that he puts on of deducting others? John. Both Sherlock and Aventurine throw these spectacles, these performances, these acts of a grand image, they play it and they dance to the song that others sing, moving to the melody that strangers decide; playing into whatever image that is painted of them no matter how untrue it is, ex. Aventurine will play a gambling alcoholic as much as you wish although he is more than that, and Sherlock will play the killer, the crazy ‘psychopath’ that kidnapped those kids and poisoned them, and he is also more than that. The difference is that Sherlock performs his knowledge and analytic skills, unlike Aventurine who keeps those cards close to his chest- that is how he survives, that is how he survived, his instinct, his trauma making him aware of a lot of things in his surroundings and aware of everyone else; carefully analyzing everyone to ensure his safety. Aventurine is better with his tongue, knowing what to say and when to say it, with much better people skills- that is what got him this far after all; so, he performs with flashy promises, with fun games- gambling with his own life because what is it worth to him anyway anymore? it circles back to his ‘the only survivor trauma’. Sherlock was ready to gamble his own life (S1E1) and who stopped him? John. Well, more like who saved him. The drug addiction that Sherlock has is a bit downplayed and it always ends fast within the episodes, but in its own way, it is also his gamble, him not valuing his life as much as he should.

yes, in a way Ratio and Aventurine can both be Sherlock. But it is not about Sherlock, as much as it is about Watson. And exactly what Watson brings to the table, to their relationship. In the case of Johnlock, Ratio is very much Watson. The one to tell Aventurine his life matters, the one to go along with his plan of deceiving Sunday- because Aventurine had this great plan, a huge gamble. sound familiar? The usual thing about Sherlock with big plans, ex. exposing Mary after getting shot, going to Magnussen’s to sell Mycroft’s PC. And who follows along even when they don’t agree? John.

to take into account Johnlock in the later episodes/at least the second season, when they are closer- we are brought up to speed on where Aventio are. it is a well known fact that Aventio knew each other before the first scene in the hotel of them interacting. So, they have a history, and their period of getting familiar is over. They know each other. we only see John openly criticizing Sherlock later in the series, be it insulting him or calling him out on his bullshit. The same thing happens with Aventio, where Ratio is the one to openly state his thoughts and criticize. While yes, one may argue that that is in Ratio’s character to behave as such, if we recall the scene between Ratio and the MC, he doesn’t behave that way if unprovoked. And Aventurine wasn’t provoking him, hence the conclusion. As much as Ratio seems like the black sheep here, the odd one out (which he is don’t get me wrong), in this perspective it is Aventurine who is that. and yes, Ratio walks on eggshells around him, apologizing for his harsh words. these two aren’t the perfect puzzle pieces for Johnlock, they do differ in the way they walk in public and who leads the way, and of course the point of this isn’t to make them overlap, but to draw parallels. And while writing this, truly a lot of opposing things came to mind, where both couples differ in such vast ways, all four being complex, rich characters- it pained me that Aventurine and Veritas would be compared to Sherlock and John only in the way that the “genius” matched the “genius”. smh.

Now the way Ratio is Sherlock is very simple, he doesn’t consider himself human- more like, doesn’t allow himself to be human, to feel, to connect, to breathe; when he is too much of a human – and the main reason he wasn’t accepted into the genius society. Poor Ratio, cursed because he wants to help and spread knowledge, what a mean fate struck upon the burned out gifted autistic asexual kid. To switch to Sherlock (also very autistic asexual coded), he is the most human out of them all, (I believe Eurus calls him that but I don’t recall the exact quote, also pointed out by Mrs. Hudson, John, and Mycroft), trying to be this analytical machine when his caring bleeds through his skin, evaporating through his pores, his love for John and so many others making him pull himself apart and do anything to protect them, ex. killing Magnussen, giving himself to Smith to a guaranteed death, faking his own suicide to protect Lestrade, John, and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock who, much like Ratio, wishes to be strict in his way of life, but cannot help wanting to explain and help others, and Ratio here differs by wanting to help everyone improve while Sherlock is willing to help only after the person has shown some amount of will, intelligence, proved themselves in some way (Irene Adler) or he so rarely happened to like them (ex. the kid that was at Mary’s wedding). Although, their shared way of calling others around them idiots is neat. I’d say this is their main connection and outside of it they are extremely different characters, which is why further comparison is pointless and shallow if you just want to compare characters because they are quote on quote the clever one.

Case in point, Aventurine is Sherlock because Ratio is John, and the one that saves him. The one that grounds him, and Aventurine NEEDS him. He needs Veritas. And Sherlock needs John. Therefore, Aventurine isn’t Sherlock without Ratio, much like there is no Sherlock (be it books, movies, or the show) without John. It is more about the relationships between them than the actual characters, and that, honestly, makes it even more beautiful.

[dragonnan]

Saturday Sherlock Fic Recs

Gathered from my bookmarks :)

It's Not The Violin by copperbadge - M Somewhere between Alejandro and the fistfight, John Watson became someone Sherlock Holmes would kill for.

Sound of Silence by SailorChibi - G Sherlock returns from the dead but nothing is like it was. He doesn't speak and John doesn't understand, not until an encounter with the Yard explains the depths of Sherlock's trauma.

Lost for Words by awanderingbard - M Sherlock is assaulted by an unknown assailant while John is away at a medical conference, leaving him with a severe brain injury. While his intellect and personality are intact, he's lost the use of his right-side limbs and his ability to speak freely. John suddenly finds himself as the main source of support, and possibly a caregiver, to a flatmate who is struggling to do the things he loves most. And Sherlock Holmes has never been the best of patients.

Following On by in_in_in_in_in_in - G ‘Well,’ says Sherlock, throwing the empty bottle down into the foot well. ‘I did think I was going to die.’

‘You thought you were going to die?’ Donovan chokes out. ‘I knew you were a freak, but are you really so self-centred? I thought he was supposed to be your friend, and instead of worrying about him you’re worrying about yourself? Did you push him in front of you or something?’

When something happens to John, Sherlock doesn't understand why everyone's so surprised that he was worried for his own life.

Flinch by Salr323 - G "We hated him."

Oubliette by CherryBlossomTide - T After a traumatic incident, Sherlock becomes trapped in the darkest part of his Mind Palace. The only thing that can still reach him is the sound of John's voice.

A Cure for the Final Problem by Saasan - T (Warning for Character Death) As far as Sherlock knows, he's back in rehab, but something is amiss. Why won't John come visit him?

The Holiday by Scriblit - M (Warning for offscreen noncon) A month following an horrific, sadistic attack during a case, Sherlock is still physically incapacitated and emotionally damaged. A holiday is suggested, but even stuck out in the middle of nowhere, he and John happen upon a case that could make Sherlock begin to feel like his old self again - or could kill him.

Paying Back by Dayja - M Some men do not appreciate Sherlock's handling of their cases. They decide to pay him back.

Harmless Things by J_Baillier - M This is definitely not how John had imagined their Saturday night.

It takes John Watson to save your life. by Sparkypip - T A series of One shots where John saves Sherlock's life in so many ways. Will be updated sporadically as and when I get any time to write. As always I like my characters hurt, so plenty of angst, H/C, whump and bromance.

Seek Out The Unworthy by squire - T Set after the events of His Last Vow - but this time, the plane carrying Sherlock off to Eastern Europe never turned around, and John's life is very different as a result.

Hopeless Wanderer by Cyane (orphan_account) - Not Rated Mycroft wakes up in a cold, dark, cliche. Normally this would be fine, except this time, his captors were smart/stupid enough to drag Sherlock into this.

And they're going to be there for a while, until his agents and Scotland Yard figures out where they are.

This would be a hell of a lot easier if Mycroft wasn't blindfolded, tied up, and forced to listen to Sherlock's screams.

Redemption by sgam76 - G The reappearance of James Moriarty means an initial reprieve for Sherlock Holmes. But the consequences of that reappearance put not just the Holmes boys, but most of the world, at risk. An emerging threat in Eastern Europe brings visions of the plagues of the Middle Ages--but that's the least dangerous part.

English as a Foreign Language by standbygo - G Sherlock is not quite right after Mycroft pulls him out of Serbia.

When Your Belly's in the Trench by Morgan_Stuart - T The next time that door opens, John Watson will kill the person on the other side.

The Least of All Possible Mistakes by rageprufrock - M If ever a people deserved tasering, it’s Holmeses.

Define Vulnerability by TheGracefulBlueCat - T Shortly after Sherlock's return John realises something is very wrong with his friend. He, Greg and Mycroft try to help Sherlock as he falls deeper and deeper into the abyss called PTSD. But Sherlock is not ready to allow anyone in, but then the events of the current case cause him to hit bottom hard.

Into the Gloaming by Vulpesmellifera - M She lays the sage bundle down in one of his seashells, avoiding the label. How he loved cataloging natural items. That sharp mind of his so naturally tended to the sciences, and she’d taken great joy in encouraging him all his life. All the first thirteen years of it. The last year has been entirely different.

His hand lies just outside the white comforter. When she touches it, the chill of his skin sends a shiver down her spine. His lips move, his voice as soft as dead, dry leaves.

“What’s that, love?” she says.

“In the trees,” he says, his eyes still closed. “Is it John there in the trees? I think he’s waiting for me.”

Viola turns her gaze out the window and to the closest tree, a resplendent cherry in the throes of autumn. In the branches there, for just a second, she thinks she sees it: a black bird, feathers gleaming in the sun.

Learning the Heart by Calais_Reno - T An android tries to understand love and grief.

The Ancillus's Tale by Chryse - E (Warnings for noncon and MPREG) Once Sherlock’s body had been his alone. He was free to treat it with great care or none at all; to live on cigarettes and coffee and cocaine and then sleep it all off for days on end. He was free to stay in and sleep alone or to go to clubs and choose someone to touch him, mark him with nails and teeth or to kiss him with sweetness and care, according to his whim. Every part of it had been his decision. No more. Now he was property of the Crown, tagged and marked like one of the King’s deer, to be bred like one of his horses.

[lazydoodlesandfanfic]

Answer The Phone (Mycroft X Daughter!Reader) *PARENTAL

Characters: Mycroft X Daughter!Reader, Sherlock X Niece!Reader

Universe: Sherlock

Warnings: mentions of being drugged via gas (fun story, this happened to me once lol), bomb, explosion, burns, unhealthy relationship with parent

Request: Hello could you do mycroft x daughter reader. Final problem the two have really broken father and daughter relationship and they haven't express themselves and because of it sherlock is kinda the father figure of the reader. So instead of Sherlock doing the phonecall its the mycroft who did the phonecall and reader almost said 'I love you ' to mycroft but its time up and mycrift witness the explosion in reader apartment and the Holmes are broken as they heard the shrill scream coming from the reader. Its up to you if you wanna turn out to let reader died. 😊

It had been a long time since you had actually gotten along with your dad. A long time since tensions weren’t running high when in his presence, well aware that things were one thoughtless comment away from a bicker or an argument. Whether it was wanting something from one another- more affection from him, or a more agreeable personality from you- or just not agreeing on things in general. He often commented on how you were more like your uncle Sherlock, even when you were young. Back then you took it as a compliment, seeing your uncle as a genius who adored you and was by far the funnest uncle in the world, but in your pre-teens you realised he meant it as an insult.

You could never forgive him for doing that, even if he didn’t mean it, or didn’t even realise what he was saying. Everytime he said it, it made you pull away from him even more. Spend more time with the man he compared you to, the only person who seemed to actually care about you. Of course, that was until you met Mrs Hudson and then John moved in with Sherlock. Mrs Hudson kept you company when your uncle was busy and you were avoiding your dad, and she’d softly poke into your home life and your relationship with your dad and try and give advice. John thought you were Sherlock’s assistant for a short while before Sherlock corrected him, acting insulted that he thought you were ‘just an assistant’. When he met Mycroft, he immediately began to understand why you weren’t close, and tried to be a responsible adult you could turn to. In the end, when you became a legal adult, you moved to an apartment much, much closer to Sherlock than your dad, and never in the 3 years you’d had it, had your dad stepped foot inside of it. He wasn’t allowed to. 

You had a lot of feelings towards your dad from childhood to now. Anger, resentment, distrust. A disconnect you never thought and come to accept could ever be fixed. Whenever you needed support, you went to Sherlock. John. Mrs Hudson. Never him. But this time was different. 

You were currently trapped in the said apartment. The one place you were supposed to feel safe no matter what, yet here you were, eyes focussed on the bomb that had been planted in the middle of your living room, the heart of your apartment, with several wires linking to it all across the apartment like spiderwebs. Linked to every possible escape route- the windows, the fire escape, and the only door in and out. You didn’t remember what had happened- you vaguely remember an odd smell as you wet to sleep last night, and when you awoke, you found yourself laying on the floor of your living room, and sitting up and seeing the device. Whoever had done this, had been nice enough to leave your phone right beside the bomb. You didn’t call anyone or even turn the phone on for several hours, scared that it had been tampered with as well and that was also a trigger, but you grew desperate. The first person you tried to call was your dad. You didn’t get through, so then you called Sherlock, and he picked up almost immediately, and you told him what was going on. 

That was about two hours ago now. The police cars littered the streets outside, the complex and surrounding buildings completely evacuated. It was just you and this bomb within a 50 foot radius. Well, for a period of time, both Sherlock and John were on the other side of the door, asking you a billion and one questions about what you could see, and you described everything to the best of your abilities, and it was useful. One, Sherlock was able to piece together it was well made, and whoever made this was an expert and had experience with this- probably a military man, working in a bomb squad or something, and that this was purely explosive, no nails or anything to cause more damage, and due the size, the blast wouldn’t go far past the walls of your home. However, after demanding his honesty, he admitted he also had no clue how to diffuse it, or if that was even possible. It seemed too fragile, that even a light breeze could set it off. That solidified your decision to remain perfectly still within two of the wires attached to your windows, too scared to even touch the glass or move to quickly, remembering his comment on a breeze, and didn’t want to risk vibration. 

You still hadn’t been able to reach your dad. 

“John?” You had asked over the phone. The phone was often being in call between people, mostly Sherlock and John, though Mrs Hudson had called when neither were available to try and keep you calm. It was John’s turn as Sherlock was following leads. 

“Yeah? Is something happening?” John asked. 

“No it’s just… I can’t reach my dad. I keep trying to call him but he won’t pick up… I… I just want to hear his voice.” You admitted. It sounded ridiculous, childish, but you were tired, hungry, and the adrenaline had drained your energy a while ago now. “Does he know what’s happening?” You asked. He was silent on his side for a minute. 

“I don’t know, but I tell you what, I’m going to personally find him, and drag him here, and make him answer his phone, okay?” He promised, and you could hear the anger oozing over the phone, which you couldn’t help but smile at. “In the meantime, I think Sherlock is going to call you later, I think he’s onto something. Hang on, alright?” He said, before handing up. You placed the phone on the floor, carefully standing up, and with distance between yourself and the window, you peered out of it, able to see John as he dashed off towards Lestrade, telling him something, before the pair got into a car and took off presumably to go and find your dad. Looking around more, you spotted Mrs Hudson peering up. She waved when she saw you, and you waved back. With nothing else to do, you sat back down in front of the bomb, trying to examine it to the best of your ability, seeing nothing of importance, before you laid down on the floor, closing your eyes, and waiting.

You flinched when your phone rang. You flinched every time it rang, even if someone had told you just a minute prior it was coming. You reached over, picking it up and placing it to your ear, remembering what John had said. “Sherlock?” You asked. 

“How many pieces of furniture in your flat can you crawl under?” His question was far from reassuring, as you bolted up, on high alert. 

“U-Um, I don’t know, why? Do I need to hide? Take cover? What’s going on?” You panicked. 

“The wiring to the bomb is far too fragile for someone to be able to rig it from the outside after escaping. They must have either found or made another way inside, somewhere where you wouldn’t have noticed. If we can find it you can get out yourself, or we can get inside. Think. Lay on the floor and look around for anything, furniture that you can get under, or furniture light enough but large enough to cover an escape but be able to move from below. Be. Careful. Watch the wires. Call me back if you find anything, I’m on my way back.” He said before hanging up, leaving you alone with silence and overwhelming pressure. You looked at the wires around you, before trying to think of the best places for someone to hide a hatch- under the coffee table, the recliner that you knew was easy to move, your wardrobe in your room which had some crawl space underneath, and for you, the most creepy- under your bed. You quickly checked under your coffee table in front of you, of course finding nothing, because of course that would be too easy. Your recliner was across from you, so after a deep breath, you got down on the ground, and carefully crawled under the wires, spotting a wire that was too low to crawl under, and you stood and carefully stepped over it. You then carefully moved your recliner, checking underneath, and found nothing. That left your bedroom. 

Your phone rang again, and your cursed yourself, realising you left it beside the table, and you hurriedly but carefully moved back, grabbing it and answering it. “Hello? Sherlock?” 

“Y/N?” Your dad’s voice caught you off guard, and you gasped in surprised. “What’s going on? John told me to call you and said it was dire.” He asked. A relief came over you just from hearing his voice, your eyes burning as you sniffed. 

“Dad… it’s bad.” You started, getting silence on the phone. “There’s… someone put some sort of sedative gas into my flat when I went to bed and broke in- they moved me into the living room and- there’s a bomb. There’s a bomb in the living room and it’s wired up to every escape and I can’t get out and I’m scared and I don’t want to die-” You rambled to him before you heard him finally repeating your name to try and interrupt you. 

“Y/N, Y/N, breathe. Is Sherlock working on it?” He asked, that last sentence sound a little distance, and you faintly heard John confirm in the background, before he returned to the phone. “Alright. Sherlock’s working on it. What has he told you?” 

“He um… He said that he thinks there’s a secret entrance somewhere- and that’s how the person who did this escaped after rigging everything. He told me to look for it- I’m going to check in my bedroom next.” You explained to him, looking over, being relieved when you saw no wire attached to the door. 

“Is that door rigged?” 

“No. Hold on, I have to crawl under the wires.” You explained, getting back down, crawling under the wires, before reaching it the door, and holding the phone to your ear. “Okay, I’m at the door.”

“Do you feel like a secret agent?” He asked, catching you off guard. 

“What?” You asked, pausing in your plan. 

“Crawling under and over the wires. It’s like the laser lights and those agents avoiding them. You used to love those movies when you were little. You thought that was what Sherlock did in his cases.” He reminisced. A faint smile met your lips. You’d totally forgotten about that. 

“Yeah… I remember one time when I pulled out all the red thread from a jumper you had gotten me, pinning it all over the house so I could pretend to be a secret agent and then using it to make an information board… you were so mad when you came back home because the jumper was some expensive brand and I’d made the board on a wall and wrote on it and everything… sorry about that.” You told him, somehow finding the energy to chuckle pathetically. 

“Don’t apologise.” Mycroft told you. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. You were 6, you were just being a child.” He pointed out. “I’m… I’m also sorry that I didn’t answer your calls. I should have known something was wrong when you kept trying to reach me.” He apologised. You hummed, before you realised something. 

“This is the first time we’ve been able to actually talk without bickering or arguing in years.” You pointed out. You heard him sigh. 

“When this whole mess is over, I promise you we’re going to have a proper family dinner, catch up, and actually talk. No bickering. No arguing. A genuine conversation. How does that sound?” He asked. You smiled to yourself. This was the best thing that had happened all day, not like that was hard. 

“Yeah. Let’s hope the escape is in my room.” You said, remembering your task. You reached out, grabbing the handle of your bedroom door, and opening it, and pulling the door open. “Hey, you know, despite not really getting along my whole life, I want you to know that I do love-” You looked up to search your room, but the sound of a beep made your eyes focus on the bomb attached to your bedframe, this one a lot bigger, that was rigged to your bedroom door, that you had just set off.

Mycroft heard you gasp, the sound of you running, hearing you muttering repeatedly ‘no, no, no, no”, the sound of you trying to open a door before the call ended. “Y/N?” Mycroft asked. He heard nothing. He tried calling you back, and it didn’t even ring. He got an awful feeling in his stomach and he wanted to be sick, but he looked up at John who looked confused at what was happening, having not heard what he’d heard. “Get me to her flat right now.” 

By the time the pair arrived on your street, it was already blocked off and there was more than one firetruck trying to subdue the fire that was blazing where your flat used to be. Mycroft didn’t speak as he approached, seeing the sight, realising what it was exactly that he heard. He heard his daughter realise she triggered an explosive. He heard his daughter run across the one place she was meant to be safe to the front door. He heard his daughter try and open the door, and realise it was locked and she was trapped inside.

He heard his daughter die, terrified and alone. And for what? Why? Why not him, or Sherlock? He wanted to be angry, demand answers, find who did this and get revenge even if it isn’t lawful, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t find it in himself to be angry right now. Only guilty. He should have spent more time with you. He should have tried harder to be a better parent to you, he should have been kinder, more understanding. He should have been there. 

“John! Mycroft!” Mycroft didn’t hear Mrs Hudson at first as she dashed over as quick as she could- she was sobbing and sniffling, clutching a handkerchief to her face as she approached. 

“Mrs Hudson, what happened?!” John asked alarmed and out of breath. 

“There was a second bomb in the bedroom, when she opened the door it set it off.” She explained. Mycroft finally looked away from the blaze to look at the woman. The call had ended only 20 minutes or so prior, and since the flat was still in fire, so there was no way to examine the scene. 

“How do you know that?” He asked her. She didn’t say anything, simply grabbing his arm and pulling him down the street, pass the firetrucks, past the police who looked defeated, and towards an ambulance. The back doors were open, and inside he was able to see two paramedics tending to someone in the bed. He felt his heart leap into his throat as he sprinted to the edge and jumped inside, able to finally see your face, an oxygen mask over your face, burns littering your body, and you were unconscious as a paramedic was placing bandaging on one of your burns. “Is she okay? Is my daughter okay?” He demanded answers, one of the paramedics looking up at him. 

“She’s suffered burns and blunt force trauma from the explosion. She was conscious when she was able to get out, but she fell unconscious, and we need to get her to the hospital now. Please sit down if you’re coming with her.” He instructed, and Mycroft followed and sat down. He turned, seeing John and Mrs Hudson stood, staring at you. 

“Please make sure Sherlock finds out who did this. They need to pay for this.” Mycroft demanded. John nodded firmly, before the doors shut, the sirens turned on and the ambulance began to move. Mycroft put his whole focus on you, making sure your chest moved up and down, looking for any sign of you waking up, and more importantly, any sign you were in pain. He only saw you breathing, and he decided for now he should be thankful for that. He didn’t know what exactly he was going to do, but he knew that somehow, someway, he was going to fix this. He was going to make everything better. He had to.

Hope you like it! If you have any questions, please send them in!

*Not my gif

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[lisbeth-kk]

Sherlock fandom.

Someone To Rely On

Sherlock never trusted anyone, but now, barely without his knowledge, he trusted five people. Five! It was outrageous.

Despite his snarl and distaste for his brother’s involvement in his life, Sherlock trusted Mycroft nearly most of all. Nearly.

Whenever Sherlock ended up in a drug den, needed transport, or rescue from Serbian prisons, Mycroft was the one to trust, and he never failed to deliver.

Behind Mycroft in line, there had been Lestrade. Sherlock could always count on the DI lacking the brains to solve a difficult case, then turn to the world's only consulting detective for help.

His beloved landlady was dearer to Sherlock than his own mother. Her biscuits and cakes were the best in the land, perhaps even the world, and he didn’t mind her fussing all that much. Not that he’d ever admit it, of course. Besides, she loved their bickering just as much as he did.

Molly, next. His cheeks blushed when he thought about how over the years, he has exploited her crush on him to the fullest. Crowding in on her to let her get a whiff of his cologne. Lowering his voice when he wanted to get access to some interesting body parts. 

The only times he has touched her, though, were to apologise for his behaviour and thanking her for helping him faking his own death. Both kisses were full of regret on his part, and he still wished he hadn’t needed to bestow them on her.

And then there was the enigma, the soldier, the doctor, the man with as many trust issues as Sherlock. John Hamish Watson. The most loyal man he has ever met. A man who actually killed another man to save Sherlock from his own stupidity mere hours after they’d met. He was admittedly an awful cabbie, but the truth remains; John had not hesitated when he fired that gun. His hand was steady, his shot perfectly aimed. It took Sherlock an embarrassing amount of time to realise who the hitman was, but when he did, he was defenceless.

***

After years of living together, Sherlock knew for a fact that John was the puzzle that would always remain unsolved. That thought appeared in his mind numerous times a week. Sometimes, numerous times a day.

On Mycroft’s last visit, he called John a Living Weapon. When Sherlock had insisted on an explanation, his older brother had rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“You are totally blind when it comes to Doctor Watson, brother mine.”

Sherlock waved a hand, indicating for his pompous arse of a brother to continue.

“How loathe I am to state the obvious, there is…how shall I put it…the effective way he disposed of Mr. Hope. I don’t think I need to go into details of every time the good doctor has kept you from harm’s way, for which I am most grateful. Be it his hands, his fists, his arms in general, or illegal firearms, he is there for you, Sherlock. Always. From day one. I am certain he would have a go at me if he thought I was a threat to your life.”

Mycroft looked smug after this delivery, which Sherlock didn’t notice. He was so deep in thought, he failed to perceive that his brother left the flat. When he returned from his Mind Palace, two hours had passed.

He had created a new room for John in his mind, using all the images Mycroft planted there while he listed every way John had saved him over the years. He used less than three seconds to name it.

John Hamish Watson - The Living Weapon

***

“You’re unusually calm,” John murmured into Sherlock’s ear when he came home that afternoon.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock asked a bit puzzled.

“Considering that your brother has visited,” John clarified.

“Ah. The knocker,” Sherlock sighed. “We really should consider gluing it to stay askew for eternity.”

John chuckled and kissed Sherlock’s jaw. The great detective inhaled sharply when he realised that John’s new room in his Mind Palace would need more images. All the ways John brightened his life, how he loved him, were weapons too. Sort of. Because Sherlock was totally helpless when his lover used every trick in the John Watson Bible of Seduction to get his attention.

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I'll leave it up to you to deduce whether Mycroft was aware he was using a pun...

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[ponkydraws]

Johnlock rant pt 2

You thought I was only gonna write Sherlock’s perspective? No. Anyway. John.

Spoilers + suggestive themes ahead.

You have been warned.

John is introduced as a character who has trust issues and is wary of the world, partially because of his PTSD. He is a retired soldier. He has seen it all. But as Mycroft remarks, “you’re not haunted by the war. You miss it.”

There is a very obvious difference in John’s reaction to Sherlock’s deduction and Mycroft’s deduction. He’s star struck when Sherlock does it, but when Mycroft does the same thing he glares at him and asks “who the hell are you?” Yes, the circumstances of the scenes obviously affect his reactions, but even with a dead woman on the ground in front of him he can’t help but praise Sherlock’s intellect, so clearly discomfort isn’t much of a factor. You could argue that John is being defensive on account of being scared, but Mycroft outwardly tells John “you don’t seem very afraid” and John simply says “you don’t seem very frightening”.

And to add onto this, Mycroft clearly has suspicions about their relationship and outwardly says so. John simply says “I barely know him, I met him…yesterday” and Mycroft says “Mm, and since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?” John doesn’t respond nor acknowledge the question, but asks “who are you?”. Mycroft simply assumes that the man Sherlock is living with is a romantic and/or sexual partner, meaning he’s not surprised at all by the idea that Sherlock would be in a relationship with a man.

When John asks what he wants he says that he wants information about Sherlock, but quickly adds “nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel…uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.” Which does sound like a polite way of saying that he doesn’t want nor need to know about what he gets up to behind closed doors (presumably with John, since he says nothing that JOHN would be uncomfortable with telling, not Sherlock), he just wants to check on how his brother is doing. The definition for indiscreet also is “having, showing, or proceeding from too great a readiness to reveal things that should remain private or secret” so I think it speaks for itself what he’s implying. He’s just an older brother who wants to make sure his younger brother is okay, but makes sure to inform John that he’s not interested in hearing about Sherlock’s sex life.

Other than that, Mycroft seems to genuinely like and respect John. He bids him farewell when leaving, asks him about his life, even if it’s just “what’s it like living with Sherlock?” And Mycroft clearly knows how much John means to Sherlock. They have this semi-brother in law situation going on

John has on multiple occasions risked his own life to save Sherlock’s. When Moriarty is threatening Sherlock, he throws himself at Moriarty and tells Sherlock to run. This is despite the knowledge that this would get himself killed & “if your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr Moriarty, then we both go up” and Moriarty mainly shows amusement, but still tells Sherlock “isn’t he sweet? I can tell why you like having him around.”

In the final problem, John agrees quite quickly that Sherlock should shoot him instead of Mycroft and takes it with stride. He does not fight it. He accepts that he has to die in order for Sherlock to live.

In the very first episode - I repeat - the very first episode, John shoots a man to death because Sherlock was in danger. What’s so interesting about this whole scene is that Sherlock was not under direct threat, he was choosing to take one of the pills but John shot the man anyway.

- Sherlock also realizes halfway through his deduction to the police that John is the one who shot the cabbie, and immediately takes back what he said about the murderer to keep John out of trouble. He does not care about John killing a man, he’s more worried about John’s well being. He even compliments him on the aim and the two of them walk away from the crime scene giggling like 12 year old girls.

John dates a string of women throughout the show although they always end up in some kind of bad ending. As stated in the previous rant, John’s girlfriends are sick of being less important than Sherlock. And if you’re really keen on details (which, you’re watching Sherlock, of course you are) you’ll find that one of the women he dates wears a coat that resembles Sherlock’s, and she pulls her collar up in the same way Sherlock does. Subconscious attraction? Neither does he actually find a long term relationship until he believes that Sherlock is DEAD, and it takes him 2 whole years to even try to move on with his life (but only needed 2 months for Mary’s passing?)

Now, John is a jealous and protective man. Even more outwardly so than Sherlock is. Mycroft even comments on it when they meet for the very first time - “you are VERY loyal, VERY quickly.” he notes as he makes a face that implies even he is surprised about how sure John is of his decision. When faced with a naked Irene Adler and Sherlock in the same room, he actively interrupts their conversation to get in the way. He passively aggressively tells Irene to put some clothes on and then remains skeptical of her for the entire episode. When they’re talking another time he also interrupts and making an unamused joke about baby names.

He displays a sense of protective behavior when he meets Irene again after Sherlock’s alleged “heartbreak” and gets outright mad at her for treating him like that. He even shouts at her despite Irene not showing any aggressive behavior “WHAT DO YOU NORMALLY SAY? YOU’VE TEXTED HIM A LOT”. Speaking of the texts from Irene, John not only is the only one to point out the text notification noise but also admits to actively counting the amount of messages Sherlock has received, which, yeah a handful would’ve been acceptable but this man kept track of 57 NOTIFICATIONS on a phone that’s not his. (This isn’t really a real point but someone joked about how Sherlock asks John “what noise?” When John addresses the moaning text notifications despite knowing very well what noise he’s talking about, as if he’s expecting him to repeat it or something. Not really relevant but it made me laugh)

In this conversation with Irene, he admits to having no clue what Sherlock’s sexuality is, quote: “who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but, for the record, if anyone out there still cares, I’m not actually gay”. Irene responds with “well I am. Look at us both”. Which earns a defeated scoff from John. Irene asks John if he’s jealous about her texting Sherlock so much, John does not answer the question but tells her “we’re not a couple” to which Irene immediately says “yes you are” without even looking up at him. John does not fight back, but makes a vague nod and leaves it at that.

John repeatedly tells various characters that he is not gay - but only that. He never says that he’s not attracted to men, he’s not attracted to Sherlock or anything like that. No. He just says he’s not gay. Bisexuality is a thing. He could very well be a closeted bisexual who struggles a little with accepting it. It’s possible that his lesbian sister wasn’t treated with respect by the family and that has caused some inner turmoil, but that’s a fan theory we’re not going to get into right now

John also seems to be the only one thinking about how gay they look in certain situations. After saving John’s life, John says “I’m glad nobody saw that. You…ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people might talk.” As if he didn’t almost just literally explode. A near death experience leaving him weak in the knees and he’s thinking about how people will think he and Sherlock were getting it on in a darkened swimming pool? Okay, buddy. This also goes for when they’re running from the police handcuffed to each other and Sherlock tells John “take my hand!” To which John says “now they’ll definitely talk.” I would argue that if you are constantly thinking about how gay certain things you do with your best friend are and how people will talk, maybe people aren’t the ones who should reevaluate themselves, maybe you are, seeing as you’re having gay thoughts even when fearing for your own life.

Oh and we haven’t even gotten into the pool scene. I don’t know if it was accidental but when Sherlock undoes John’s jacket to get rid of the bombs, he gets on his knees in front of John - who leans his head backwards as Sherlock looks up at him. Then afterward he’s so visibly weak in the knees he has to sit down to even talk. All of this is filmed from behind Sherlock. They could’ve filmed it in any other way. But that’s what they chose? Okay. Totally doesn’t remind me of anything else or anything.

When Sherlock is pretending to be dating Janine, John seems so genuinely out of it. He watches Sherlock and Janine make out with widened eyes, before turning around to stare at the wall with a disgusted and horrified expression on his face. He can’t even pretend to not be shocked, he barely manages to keep himself together and is outwardly very awkward when talking to them. Janine offers that they should have dinner together sometime soon and John just goes “yeah, great. Dinner. Yeah.” With a halfassed smile on his face as if he can’t bring himself to even mimic regular conversation. Once Janine has left, Sherlock starts talking to John about a case. John is not listening. When Sherlock stops talking John just goes “…you have a girlfriend?” And Sherlock seems surprised and confused by the question, since he had already moved on from that conversation. Sherlock confirms that yes, he does have a girlfriend. John still can’t properly process the information and asks again “right, yeah, but…you…you are in a relationship?” Despite already being told the answer.

When Sherlock proposes to Janine, John looks shocked. But it morphs into something else. He looks at Sherlock with a horrified expression, his eyebrows furrowed together in disbelief and his mouth hanging slightly open. This is not the face of someone who is shocked in a good way. It’s the face of someone who just got a metaphorical gut punch. The camera even shifts focus from the ring to John staring at it with a hardened expression, then to staring at Sherlock with a shocked and mildly pleading look.

He also punches an officer in the face for calling Sherlock a “weirdo”. When Sherlock hands him an itemized list of Mary’s enemies he doesn’t even look twice but one vague insult to Sherlock and he gives the man a bloody nose and gets arrested as well - Sherlock taunts him a little with his “joining me?” Comment but seems genuinely a little impressed when he finds out why John is also being taken into custody.

When getting drunk together (which, Sherlock was the only one who John spent his bachelor party with), they get wasted and start to play a game of Who Am I? They’re weirdly gentle and soft with each other, making playful jabs and breaking down into laughter at each other’s statements. Sherlock, who has a note on his forehead that says “Sherlock Holmes”, asks John “am I important?” To which John responds “uh, to some people” and smiles. Sherlock asks “do people like me?” And John says “uh, no, they don’t. You tend to rub them up the wrong way.” And then rests his head on his hand while he lovingly gazes at Sherlock and chuckles at his own statement with a look of love that looks like one you’d give a lover when they’re being cute. John asks Sherlock “am I pretty?” And then follows up with “this” and points to the note on his forehead. Basically this is John asking if he’s pretty, then having to specify that he meant the person Sherlock picked, and not actually himself, as if he was expecting Sherlock to call him pretty without understanding the question was meant for the game. Sherlock does not answer the question, but rather goes on a drunken mini rant about how beauty is a social construct based on culture and John interrupts him saying “yeah, but, am I a pretty lady?”

Sherlock remains quiet, squints at John’s note and then admits “I have no idea who you’re supposed to be”. John rolls his eyes and tells him “you chose the name!” But isn’t genuinely upset, just amused. With his drunken stumbling, he also loses his balance when shifting his sitting position and grabs onto Sherlock’s leg for support. Sherlock doesn’t react. The two of them later fall asleep next to each other on the bottom of the stairs, babbling about nonsense. Mind you, John couldn’t sleep comfortably in a warm bed next to Mary, but had no trouble finding peace when laying down on the fucking stairs next to Sherlock.

During this same evening, John has to interfere and physically drag Sherlock away from a drunk fight at the pub. Same goes for when Sherlock is drugged by Irene, where John comes into the room and promptly grabs ahold of Sherlock and pushes him back onto the bed telling him “I’ll be in the next room if you need me” Sherlock groggily replies with “why would I need you?” And John simply says “no reason” and shuts the door.

Oh also John and Sherlock got locked up together in the same drunk tank. How cute is that?

And oh my god the fucking sexual tension between these two makes me feel like I’m interrupting something intimate. Even in the first episode, Sherlock asks John if he’d seen a lot of violent death. John goes “yeah, plenty. Far too much. For a lifetime.” And when Sherlock then asks “would you like to see some more?” John replies with a breathless “oh god, yes.” The same tone can be detected in the 1800s episode an exchange between Sherlock and John, where John tells Sherlock “ah, ah, ah, Holmes, you have misdiagnosed”. Sherlock lowly says “then correct me, doctor” and gives him such obvious “fuck me” eyes that I felt embarrassed watching the scene with my dad. The episode also includes John asking about Sherlock’s libido - no - I am not joking. And here’s the kicker. None of this is real, it’s all happening inside of Sherlock’s subconscious. So my question is, why does Sherlock’s subconscious make up scenes where his platonic best friend is asking him about certain urges and speaking to him with a flirty tone?

John also has a habit of letting his eyes drop to Sherlock’s lips when talking to him, or straight up licking his lips when Sherlock reveals he’s single (in the pilot). They look into each other’s eyes for just a littleeee too long for it to feel friendly.

This is just me being a little bit of an annoying fan who misinterprets everything but Eurus asks Sherlock to play the violin for her. He does, but she stops him saying “no, not Bach. Play you.” And Sherlock starts playing another tune. She blurts out “oh! Have you had sex?” And Sherlock simply goes “why do you ask?” Again, not answering the question. Obviously that question is a bit strange to ask your older brother when you haven’t even seen him since the two of you were little kids and he doesn’t remember you exist, but, once again he doesn’t feel the need to confirm or deny. I see a lot of people saying this is a hint to Irene, and it probably is, but I personally find it more likely he’d hypothetically find time to get into…adult contact…with someone he lives with. But that’s sidetracking. Anyway.

[calaisreno]

Loyal, So Quickly

Greg and Mycroft have another chat. See An Arrangement.

560 words / Prompt: Intimidate

Mycroft Holmes doesn’t do things like other people, Greg realises. Where another man would text or call, ask to meet for coffee, Holmes kidnaps people. 

Not exactly kidnapping, but it’s a bit intimidating to be followed by a black car, invited in by a beautiful woman who does not smile. Maybe that’s a condition of working for the man: no smiling allowed. 

“I assume you’ve met my brother’s flatmate,” Mycroft begins without preamble.

“John Watson,” Greg replies. “Yeah, I’ve met him.”

“What do you think of him?”

“Seems like a good bloke. I mean, I think he’s trustworthy.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I can see he has a steadying effect on your brother. He keeps Sherlock’s attitude in check at a crime scene.”

Holmes seems to be making a mental note of this. “How much does Watson know about my brother’s habit?”

“When he found out about the drugs, I could see he was surprised. It didn’t take the world’s only consulting detective to see that he won’t tolerate that. Now that he’s aware, he’ll have an eye out for it. A doctor’s eye. Sherlock’s not going to jeopardise their relationship, though.”

“And what relationship is that?” The grey eyes narrow. 

“Your brother doesn’t have friends, Mr Holmes. Even me—he doesn’t consider me a friend. I’m just DI Lestrade, the person who supplies cases and needs Sherlock Holmes to solve them for me. We don’t hang out, have a pint and discuss the footy. We’re colleagues, I suppose.”

“You’re suggesting that he considers Doctor Watson… a friend?”

“I don’t know. Never seen him with a friend, so I’m not sure what that would look like.”

“And what about Watson?”

Greg remembers after the cabbie was shot, talking with Sherlock, who was wound up, talking a mile a minute, describing a man with a strong moral principle, a crack shot, a fighter. He’d noticed Watson standing behind the tape, waiting for Sherlock, looking innocuous. And he’d realised. Sherlock himself hadn’t realised until a moment later, when he begged Lestrade ignore me. 

He felt a bit proud, seeing something Sherlock hadn’t seen. So he watched, and saw more. Sherlock, walking towards Watson, Watson looking at him. They exchanged a smile and a few words, and he knew. 

He didn’t know Watson well yet, but he’d worked with Sherlock for a few years, and had never seen him look at another person like that. Admiration. Longing.

And then there’s the unsolved murder of Jeff Hope. Well, that bullet anyway. The man died of an aneurysm, but technically it could be murder, if the gunshot was what set things off. Not that he’s going to share his suspicions about that with the elder Holmes. No point setting up Watson for another interview. Though he’s sure that if anyone can stand up to Mycroft Holmes, it’s John Watson.

The look on Watson’s face. 

I think he would kill for Sherlock. I think he would die for him.

“He’s a loyal one. You can trust him. He won’t leave.”

Holmes is quiet for a long moment. Then he nods. “I hope you’re right. I think he could be the making of my brother. Or he could make him much worse. Either way, I will be watching.”

His smile reminds Greg that he’s not the only one likely to be followed by a black sedan.

--

I'm posting my #mayprompts2024 here on AO3 and in this collection. Please add yours!

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

The Same Page Part 9

Sherlock and Mycroft & little sister!reader

A/N: you guys have been the epitome of patient, and I’m so sorry it took so long to update it. I got so caught up in my requests (which were all supernatural, which I also love btw) that I didn’t even realize that it’s been months. Updates are not gonna take this long in the future, I do love this series too. Thank you guys for being so patient

Warnings: angst, Sherlock’s kinda mean in this one

“I’m asking you not to declare war.”

Mycroft’s words struck a nerve in Sherlock. He wasn’t the one who threatened a custody battle, and he wasn’t the one always trying to take you away.

“It’s not about declaring war,” Sherlock argued. “It’s about you going against our agreement. You agreed that she should stay here for a few days, and it’s only been one night.”

“Yes, and she’s already had a panic attack,” Mycroft shot back as he led the argument into the kitchen so that they wouldn’t wake you up. “My agreement was made when I thought that you would actually stay here with her, not run off on a case. And I assume that that case is yet to be solved?”

“I’m getting close,” Sherlock said, feeling defensive.

“Which means that you’ll leave again. She can’t be alone Sherlock, she just can’t. You may disagree with me on that, but as her legal guardian I’m putting my foot down; if she’s in this house, she won’t be alone. Ever.”

“How is she ever going to go back to normal if you keep treating her like she can’t do anything on her own?” Sherlock challenged.

“That’s the problem with you, Sherlock! All you can think about is getting her back to normal. Why don’t you stop and try to think about what she needs, instead of just what you want.”

“You think she doesn’t want to go back to normal?” Sherlock scoffed. “You think she wants to be like this?”

“Like what?” Mycroft challenged. “No, don’t turn away,” he continued when Sherlock started to turn, shaking his head. “Like what, Sherlock? Are you going to stand here and tell me that because she’s hurting and she needs help, there’s something wrong with her?” When Sherlock didn’t speak, Mycroft persisted. “Like. What. Sherlock?”

“Like an invalid!” Sherlock snapped. “Like she can’t spend a couple of hours alone, like she can’t eat unless you’re hovering over her, like she can’t do anything by hersel—“ Sherlock’s voice cracked as he stopped, and the blood draining from his face instantly alerted Mycroft. He turned around to see where Sherlock was staring…

“Myc?” Your voice came out in a whimper as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes. “Myc, I want—I wanna go home now.” You kept your head down, not looking at Sherlock even as he started to protest.

“N/N, I didn’t mean it like—“

“Of course,” Mycroft cut him off. “Of course I’ll take you home now.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock glared at his brother. “Let me talk to her.”

“Myc, I want to go home,” you repeated, your voice a little more desperate now. The meaning was clear, even if you didn’t say it—you didn’t want to talk to Sherlock.

Mycroft turned on his heel and led you towards the door without responding to Sherlock.

“We haven’t finished discussing this!” Sherlock argued.

The only answer he got was a slamming door.

…

“I can do it,” you insisted, ignoring Mycroft’s outstretched hand as you reached the stairs leading down 221B.

“Please let me help you.” Mycroft was already reaching for your hand as he spoke, but you snatched your hand away.

“I can do it!” You repeated.

Mycroft pulled his hand back, but remained close as you made your way down the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled after a moment.

“It’s alright,” Mycroft assured you, and the two of you remained silent after that.

Mycroft was too preoccupied thinking about Sherlock to speak anyway. As much as his little brother had been out of line, he hadn’t been completely wrong. Surely you wanted to go back to the way things had been, at least a little. What was Mycroft going to do if you stopped needing him around? Of course he wanted you to go back to school, to start sleeping regularly again, to eat right, all of that…

But what if you went back to Sherlock? Mycroft realized suddenly that he didn’t want that, even if you completely recovered mentally. He liked you living with him, and he was pretty sure you liked it, too.

But it wouldn’t be fair to you if that wasn’t what you wanted. But Mycroft could no longer tell what you wanted. He was trying to give you what you needed, and it was clear that you weren’t ready for the level of independence that Sherlock was pushing for, but…but what if one day you were? Would you stay with Mycroft, or go to Sherlock?

Mycroft was starting to realize that he needed you to need him too much, and he wasn’t sure what he would do once you didn’t need him. Would no longer needing him mean that you no longer wanted him?

“Is everything ok?” John’s voice interrupted Mycroft’s thoughts as the two Holmes’ passed him in the stairwell.

“Not really,” Mycroft sighed. “We’re going home.”

“What? I’m sure you and Sherlock can—“

“Not now, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft insisted. “We’re going home.”

…

You were quiet the whole way home, and when Mycroft asked if you wanted to sleep you just nodded silently.

As Mycroft got you settled in your bed, he talked quietly to you.

“I don’t want you to worry about today, alright? Any of it. Sherlock and I are going to figure out our custody arrangement, you’re not going to be left alone again, and…and Sherlock didn’t mean what he said, alright? There’s nothing wrong with you, so don’t think about it.”

You blinked up at your brother for a moment before turning on your side and closing your eyes. Mycroft sighed, turning to sit in his chair by your bed. You hadn’t gone this silent in months.

This could be harder than Mycroft had thought.

…

Mycroft stirred at the sound of sniffling. He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep—he was usually able to keep himself awake until you fell asleep, but he must’ve dozed off.

He squinted in the dim light to see your short hair, sticking out at a few angles as you cried face-down in your pillow.

“Y/N…” Mycroft was at your side in an instant, but when he pulled you away from your pillow you started to shake your head and push at him. “It’s ok,” he insisted. “It’s ok, it’s just me.”

You continued to shake your head, but Mycroft noticed that your fingers had a vice grip on the front of his shirt.

“It’s alright…I’m right here.” Mycroft pulled you into his arms, and you stopped fighting him. You still didn’t speak, and Mycroft just held you in his arms until you cried yourself to sleep.

“Sherlock, what have you done?” Mycroft muttered to himself.

…

You had barely managed to hold in your tears until Mycroft fell asleep in his chair, but it didn’t matter, because you’d woken him up anyway. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak as you tried to fight Mycroft off, or even as he held you close. You didn’t actually want him to go away, but after what Sherlock had said…

“She can’t do anything for herself!”

Even if Mycroft claimed it wasn’t true, you couldn’t get that voice out of your head. You’d barely said a word since then, and you weren’t ready to change that yet. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to, it was more like the weight in your chest was so great, that even if you wanted to speak, you didn’t feel able anymore. Your anxiety clawed its way up your throat, choking even the idea of speech.

So instead of speaking, you just let your big brother hold you in his arms until your exhaustion won the fight with your anxiety, and you finally drifted off to sleep.

…

Mycroft was concerned almost as soon as he woke up. After you’d gone back to sleep, he’d returned to his chair but stayed in your room, just in case. But when he woke up, he saw that you were already awake—your eyes were open, but you hadn’t moved.

“Are you ready to get up?” Mycroft asked softly, and your eyes flickered to him at the sound of his voice. You pushed yourself up wordlessly, and Mycroft began to wonder just how long you’d remain silent. “Let’s go downstairs and get some breakfast,” Mycroft added, being careful not to phrase it like a question; he knew your answer would be no—you never felt like eating when you got like this—but Mycroft wanted (more like needed) to keep you on your eating schedule.

You didn’t protest as Mycroft helped you down the stairs, or when he put a plate of toast in front of you. But you didn’t eat it, either. Mycroft sighed, exhausted.

“I need you to eat. Just a little bit, for me?”

You blinked up at him before returning your gaze to your lap.

“Just a bite or two,” Mycroft added. When you didn’t move, he sighed and pushed the plate aside. “Alright, we can try that again later. Do you want to play our game? Tell me what you see.” Mycroft was desperate for any kind of interaction with you, but you remained unmoving and silent. “C’mon, you can’t—I can’t do this again, please. I can’t. I need you to—“

Mycroft cut himself off when your hand reached out and grabbed his in a death grip, your breath suddenly coming in gasps.

…

“I can’t do this again, please. I can’t. I need you to—“

Panic gripped your heart as Mycroft struggled to speak.

“I can’t do this again.”

This. You.

Would Mycroft get tired of trying to cater to you, the way Sherlock seemed to? Would he get sick of the way you “couldn’t do anything for yourself”?

You’d sought out Mycroft’s hand without even meaning to as your fear forced itself up your throat, restricting your breath.

What would you do if Mycroft got sick of taking care of you? Where would you go?

You remembered the earlier days of living with Mycroft—when CPS workers came over to “keep an eye” on your custody switch. They’d taken one look at you and tried to convince Mycroft to bring you to some care facility. If Mycroft didn’t want you, was that where you’d go? You wouldn’t last a week there, you just knew it—not without your brothers.

“Y/N! Y/N!” You’d been so lost in your own head that you didn’t hear Mycroft calling out your name until he was shaking your shoulders and yelling in your face. “Yes, good, look at me.” Mycroft breathed in relief when your eyes finally met his.

“I’m sorry.”

Mycroft couldn’t even take a moment to be relieved that you were speaking again as you sobbed in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” you repeated. “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t—“

“Hey, hey now,” Mycroft cradled your face in his hands, trying to get your attention back. “I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere. I’m here Y/N, I promise.” You finally seemed to focus on him, so Mycroft just repeated “I’m right here,” again and again as he wracked his brain for a reason behind your sudden change to hysteria. He’d been speaking just before you started to panic—what had he said?

“I can’t do this again…”

Oh no. You hadn’t understood him; worse, he hadn’t made himself clear to you. Now you thought…

“Hey.” Mycroft made sure he had your full attention before he spoke. “I need you to listen to me now. I…I didn’t mean that I can’t—or won’t—take care of you, ok? I didn’t mean that I’ll leave you. I’ll never leave you, never. You understand me?” At your hesitant nod, he continued. “Good, good. I never meant to make you think that, I just…I just meant that I don’t want to see you in so much pain again. You didn’t talk for so long, and…and I know how much you were hurting. I don’t want you to hurt like that anymore.”

“I’m sor—“

“No, no don’t.” Mycroft wouldn’t let you apologize again. “Don’t ever apologize for being in pain, that’s not what I wanted. I just…I really want you to forget about what Sherlock said. He didn’t mean it, he didn’t. There’s nothing wrong with you, ok?” You didn’t nod this time, but Mycroft didn’t push it. “But it doesn’t matter. Because no matter what happens—with Sherlock, with wherever you decide to live, with all of it—I will never leave you, alright? I’ll be here whenever you need me. I’ll always be here for you.”

Mycroft willingly let you pull him into a hug, and when you all but collapses your weight into his embrace, he held you up without wavering.

“Please tell me you know that. Tell me you believe me. Because I promise it’s true.”

“Ok,” you sniffled. “I-I believe you.”

“Ok,” Mycroft sighed. “Ok.”

Mycroft eventually led you over to the couch where you dropped in exhaustion, and soon enough you were fast asleep, remnants of tears still staining your cheeks.

Once he was sure that you were asleep, Mycroft reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone, pressing a number and placing the phone to his ear.

“Sherlock? Yes, it’s me. I need you here, now. You’ve got a mess to fix.”

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