#would mycroft respond? probably not but holmes wouldn’t need him to

[blueintimeart]

Idle doodles

[my-head-is-an-animal]

The Sitter

Mycroft Holmes x Bethany Wheeler (OFC)

Story Masterlist

Chapter 11 - Peru

I’m going to Peru in about four days time, will be gone for two weeks. – BW

It had been nearly a month since Mycroft had called her, he hadn’t contacted her since then to arrange dinner, mostly because he’d been keeping an eye on the situation with Sherlock and A.G.R.A. He was aware that one of the members was currently tracking Mary but had both limited time and resources to devote to it. People like Mary tended not to last too long, but also if Sherlock was tracking down the Thatcher busts, it probably wasn’t a good thing.

Hiking in the Andes? Or visiting Machu Picchu? – MH

Maybe both. I’ve got two weeks to fill with adventures. Do you have any suggestions? – BW

As previously stated, travelling is not my area of expertise. I’m sure I will be asking you for recommended destinations on your return. – MH

I’m sure you will. – BW

Mycroft frowned at his phone, did he say something wrong?

I’ll not be doing anything too pressing over the next few weeks, nothing that requires my full attention anyway. – MH

If that’s your way of saying “send pics” then I will try to send some when I can. I’ll be visiting my parents, so I will try to be subtle, but they find out everything. You sure you still want photos? – BW

Mycroft smiled down at his phone. Sherlock was due to arrive any minute, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care for a moment.

On second thoughts, I may have one or two things that require my attention. – MH

Yeah, I wouldn’t want to be on the other end of “what are your intentions with our daughter?�� either. Though I imagine you’d be able to come up with some reasonable answer that would satisfy them. – BW

Possibly. Though I’ll admit, it’s not a conversation I’ve had to worry about having with anyone before now. – MH

Really? Now that does surprise me. – BW

Does it? – MH

Bethany didn’t respond immediately and Sherlock had walked through the door of his office, taken a seat and started asking him about A.G.R.A.

I’ll keep it subtle and sneak a couple of cheeky shots when I can. I’ll text you before I leave. – BW

Mycroft smiled again, before putting his feet up and devoting his attention to Sherlock again.

‘She’s going to Peru, isn’t she?’ He asked, Mycroft just took a deep breath and chose not to engage. ‘Visiting her parents for two weeks. Lovely people.’

‘You’ve met them?’ Mycroft frowned.

‘Briefly.’ Sherlock nodded. ‘A few days before I met Beth, they’re good people.’

‘Indeed.’

‘You?’

Mycroft nodded. ‘Yes, her father and I met while he was at Cambridge, he built an aircraft that we now use for sending medical supplies to Africa. And her mother I met when she worked briefly with the World Health Organisation. They are indeed good people.’

‘And do they know about your association with their daughter?’

Mycroft chose not to answer that. He got back to the point of Sherlock’s visit.

‘AGRA, a city on the banks of the river Yamuna in the northern state of Uttar Pradesh, India. It is three hundred and seventy- eight kilometres west of the state capitol Lucknow-‘

‘What are you, Wikipedia?’

‘Yes.’ Mycroft smiled, a private joke with himself.

‘AGRA’s an acronym.’

‘Oh good, I love an acronym. All the best secret societies have them.’

‘Team of agents, the best, but you know all that.’

‘Of course, I do, go on.’ Mycroft was enjoying the façade of Sherlock telling him something he thought he might not know, but he really needed him to get to the point and soon.

‘One of them Ajay is looking for Mary, also one of the team.’

Mycroft took a small breath. ‘Indeed. Well, that’s news to me.’

‘Is it?’ Sherlock frowned and Mycroft just gave him a look as if to say of course he knew. ‘He’s already killed looking for that memory stick. AGRA always worked for the highest bidder, I thought that might include you.’

‘Me?’

‘Oh, I mean the British Government, or whatever government you’re currently propping up.’

‘AGRA were very reliable,’ Mycroft said. ‘Then came the Tbilisi incident. They were sent in to free the hostages, but it all went terribly wrong. And that was that, we stopped using freelancers.’

‘You’re initiative.’

‘My initiative.’ Mycroft nodded. ‘Freelancers are too woolly, too messy. I don’t like loose ends. Not on my watch.’

Sherlock leaned forward and grabbed one of the files Mycroft had on his desk. ‘There was something else. A detail. A codeword.’ He scribbled on the edge of the file.

‘Ammo?’

‘It’s all I’ve got.’

‘Little enough.’

‘Could you do some digging as a favour?’

Mycroft smiled. ‘You don’t have many favours left.’

‘Then I’m calling them all in.’

‘And if you can find who’s after her and neutralise them, what then? You think you can go on saving her forever?’

‘Of course.’

‘Is that sentiment talking?’

‘No. It’s me.’

‘Difficult to tell the difference these days.’

‘I told you, I made a promise. A vow.’

Mycroft smiled, he didn’t need to wonder how far Sherlock would go to protect Mary. He’d seen it first hand with Magnusson. ‘Alright, I’ll see what I can do. But remember this, brother mine. Agents like Mary tend not to reach retirement age, they get retired, in a pretty permanent sort of way.’

‘Not on my watch.’ Sherlock was determined and left Mycroft to do the digging he required.

He spent the next few days trying to subtly dig up what he could, all the while keeping an eye on where Sherlock was going.

That’s me off! Machu Picchu here I come! – BW

Beth had sent through a selfie of her sitting on the plane, waiting to take off. She was smiling with her headphones around her neck and her dark eyes were illuminated by the morning light streaking through them. Beautiful.

Hope it’s all you expect it to be, and I hope your parents are well. Stay safe and don’t be afraid to call if any of you run into trouble, I do have some pull with the Peruvian government. – MH

Back to flirting? I’ll keep it in mind. See you when I get back! – BW

Mycroft smiled as he finished getting dressed for the day, unconsciously putting on his navy suit. He wasn’t stupid, his thoughts were firmly on Bethany and that was why he opted to wear it. It was ridiculous, she wasn’t even his, she wasn’t his girlfriend or labelled as anyone significant in his life, she was a woman who he had kissed twice and had a vague association with over the last year and a half. That was all.

Over the two weeks that Bethany was gone, Mycroft was dealing with several things that he wished he wasn’t, Lady Smallwood was in meetings that she needed him to be a part of and most of it was tedious. The only thing that got him through was the occasional message from Bethany, accompanied by a picture of her on her adventures.

Machu Picchu! I reached the summit! Bow before your queen! – BW

Bethany stood at the very top of the citadel with her arms spread out and the sun shining on her tanned features. She just wore her shorts and strapped crop top, why would she have worn anything else? But it had Mycroft quickly putting the phone away to avoid smiling too much at how much fun she was having.

Parents always said I could have a pet, I chose a cat... of sorts. – BW

She was holding a baby jaguar by the looks of things, one that barely looked six months old. Bethany was laughing and Mycroft could see her mother in the background handling a woolly monkey and talking with one of the staff. She looked so similar to her daughter and it was clear where her frizzy hair had come from and her kindness towards all creatures. He wanted to respond and joke about her parents allowing her to have such dangerous animals, but in the interest of subtlety he decided against it.

Peaceful night camping under the stars tonight. – BW

It was by far the most beautiful photo he’d seen of her on her adventures. She wore her cream cable knit jumper, thick black leggings with a camping mug close to her chest. Bethany’s gaze was focused on the setting sun and once again the light streaked through her dark eyes, making them almost look a golden colour under the rays. Stunning.

The last photo he’d received from her was during a meeting with Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin, Mycroft lost focus of what they had been talking about, he didn’t think it mattered so much as they had been disagreeing for the last half hour.

Bailando con mi papa. Homeward bound tomorrow. – BW

Dancing with my dad. She wore a beautiful red dress and sandals and danced with her father who wore a linen white shirt and cargo shorts. Mycroft could see where Bethany got her dark eyes from, her father’s were almost black. They had the same smile as well, but to him, there was more beauty and radiance in hers. They seemed to be in some kind of restaurant with locals and everyone was dancing and having a good time. Mycroft felt his heart swell, to see her so carefree and happy, made him extraordinarily happy as well.

She was coming home the next day. Sherlock was somewhere in Morocco as far as he could tell and everything was starting to slot into place nicely.

‘Sir?’ Anthea interrupted the meeting, not that Mycroft minded, but it seemed to irritate Lady Smallwood and Sir Edwin. Mycroft motioned for her to come in anyway, quickly putting away his phone. She handed him a file he recognised and he gave her a fleeting frown in questioning, but she remained silent. When he opened the file, he realised why.

‘Ah.’ He said. ‘Apologies, we’ll have to cut this meeting short. I have an urgent call to make.’

‘Mycroft, you can’t just-‘

‘We can pick this up later, Lady Smallwood.’ Mycroft gestured for Anthea to head out of the meeting room first. ‘Has anyone else seen this?’

‘No, sir, I brought it straight to you.’ Anthea said, quietly.

‘Good.’ He nodded closing the file. ‘Miss Wheeler will be back in the country tomorrow evening, please see to it that she is in my office at seven o’clock sharp.’

‘Yes sir.’ Anthea went to make a phone call.

Mycroft ran his hand over his face, holding the bridge of his nose, she promised him she would stay out of trouble and this did not fall under that brief. How did this not come up in her background check? How did he miss such a fine and damaging detail?

Mycroft prepared himself for the next day, knowing she would probably be annoyed and probably be upset with the situation, he needed to read through everything and try to make sense of the paper in front of him.

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[thebadboyfanclub]

It’s Alright Darling (Sherlock x Reader)

Ok... Was this requested? No. Am I writing it cause anything Henry Cavill related makes me feel happy? Yes. Enjoy!

Being Sherlock Holmes assistant was something a lot of people would kill for and that makes it even better if you think about the irony of it. However, since Sherlock wasn’t a normal person to mostly everything he did, he had decided to hire a woman as his assistant, Mycroft called him mad and unhinged almost every time he brought up her name. (Y/n) was one of the most intelligent people he had ever been around, combining that with a charming personality was the recipe to success.

“Well, well, well I see my brother is full of surprises”

“Hello there Mycroft is so nice to see you again as well”

She spoke in an clearly ironic tone as she took of her gloves, she was never a fan of hats other than the occasions she knew she would be under the sun for hours. As she walked in the living room area for what seemed like their childhood home, Sherlock had requested for (y/n) to arrive a day later than the brothers, knowing that her and his older brother were like oil and water he chose to “prepare the grounds” first.

“Where is the young little Holmes?”

“Inside, talking with miss Harrison”

“Alright... who is miss Harrison?”

“Miss Harrison is an excellent teacher and a friend of mine, come to think of it maybe you should go in and ask her to take you as well... you might be a bit old but I’m sure she can make an exception”

Mycroft found (y/n) intolerant, she was dismissive, unladylike, mouthy and a feminist, he still does not understand what asset do she brought to his younger brother. She only smiled while sitting at one of the chairs

“I will let you know I was an excellent student in all my academic achievements, although I suppose you were one as well that doesn’t really prove someone’s intelligence or manners, right mister Holmes?”

Sherlock let a laugh be heard at (y/n)’s quick response, even though he would never take sides and sometimes wanted them to get along, he had accepted that it would never happen and simply enjoyed the situation.

“Amused brother? Of course you are as mad as her since you didn’t only hire her, you kept her around and brought her in my home”

“Now Now mister Holmes, what type of gentleman would you be if you threaten to through out not just a lady but your younger brothers guest, unfortunately you are just further proving my point about our little quarrel”

Before he had the chance to respond a young girl walked in, wearing a white undergarment dress and looking disheveled. The girl who (y/n) could only assume was the infamous Enola didn’t even notice her being in this room.

“No, don’t do this to me. Let me remain happy, I am happy here”

“You are a young woman now Enola, you need an education”

“Test me, on anything you think I need to know in order to be sufficient for this world”

“If she taught you so well, you wouldn’t be standing in your undergarment in front of me”

Silence fell in the room for a quick second. His disgusting answer to his own sister made (Y/n) get on her feet, Enola quickly let her gaze fall on the young woman that was now in her house.

“Why is that a problem Mister Holmes? Undergarments are scandalous for the men when a woman they are interested in wears them, she is your underaged sister”

“This is a family matter, it does not- I repeat- does not concern you”

“Of course it does not concern me, but it does concern me when a young girl is being held accountable for walking in her home, to her brothers, completely covered and still being shamed for it”

Enola understood by that quick argument the lady was not here because of Mycroft, so it only meant she was Sherlocks company, she is not his wife since if not invited he would have at least informed their mother, so perhaps a girlfriend?

“Enola you have no hopes of making a husband out of your state, neither do you... miss (y/l/n)”

“I don’t want a husband”

Enola claimed, raising her voice at the ridiculous claim her brother made. Even though they haven’t been properly introduced they had developed a mutually liking for each other, at a brief look they seemed to have the same outlook on life.

“And that is another thing you need to have educated out of you”

At that Enola turned to look at her other brother, Sherlock, who had remained radio silent throughout this entire conversation. Enola kneeled in front of him, as Sherlock looked at her and then broke eye contact to look down at the book he was holding.

“Sherlock, Don’t let him do this to me”

“You are his ward”

“Make me yours. Guide me. Teach me. For him I am nuisance. For you-”

“Enola. I’m sorry, but it’s out of my hands”

“Just like his cruelty to our mother was out of your hands”

Cruelty to their mother? No, Sherlock would have never allowed his mother to go through anything, he is a man of honor... isn’t he? (Y/n) felt her stomach tighten as she saw this tragic scene unravel, she hoped Sherlock would have accepted and took her in.

“She is not dangerous. She is remarkable and always has been. And if you still can’t see that then shame on you both”

“So remarkable she left you in my care”

Mycroft shot back. (Y/n) could almost feel the pain the young girl felt, you could see it in her eyes how that was an arrow straight in her heart. (Y/n) decided to step up and try to help, she approached the young girl with a kind smile and placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here to calm down. Seems like your brothers don’t share the same love and admiration you do for the woman that made them who they are”

“I am a self made successful man”

“but you wouldn’t be no man if the woman you frown upon had not broken her hips and went through hours of painful labor. Take that as some food for thought before you school me on my manners”

Sherlock looked at her in awe, as she stood proudly next to his sister and became the shield he should have been. Standing up for a girl you haven’t even spoken to or knew before this.

“Let’s go young Enola, seems like a woman’s presence is wanted here only when she does as she is told”

-

“Come in”

“Can I open this door and be promised that I will remain safe or are you holding a dagger and you are ready to take me out of this world?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, dagger you in your own household? I would probably wait to poison you a few days after we leave and write the paperwork of you firing me”

He smiled at her plan as he closed the door in her room. It was already nightfall and the only light here were a few candles, he had let her take a breather after the unfortunate event that had occurred previously. Even though he wasn’t the one that she went toe to toe with, his silence was as obnoxious to her as his brothers loud ignorance towards the female gender.

“You are upset”

“Of course not, why would I be? It’s not like you let that man embarrass his own sibling and talk down to his mother without her being in the room”

She had remained sited in the chair next to the table, a book open that seemed like she was writing on rather than reading it. He was aware she was holding a journal, he didn’t blame her for it, having a job like she did she was in desperate need of something to keep her sane.

“This is a very wary subject”

“I am aware of it, I just can’t seem to understand why not comfort her, try to change your brothers opinion, anything that will show you care for her, you do care for her, right Sherlock?”

“She is my baby sister (y/n), that’s a given”

She closed her book. She ran her hand through her  through her hair and got up from her sit, her hands going in front of her torso at a defensive demeanor, even when Sherlock should be cold or show his higher position to her, he couldn’t help but seek some type of truce with her, how could he not? She looked so beautiful even when she mad at him, the eyes he was so caught up in looked at him with fury, her delicate feature went harsh and she was dressed more... lightly now.

“I spoke with her earlier, she was in the garden”

“I know, I saw.”

“She asked me about you, asked me if you were my lady”

Her eyes went wide for a split second before regaining her composer and turned her back to him. She approached the window before she spoke.

“If you think of how she became familiar with me, she was probably certain I wasn’t even friends with your holier than God brother”

“You mustn't be angry at me”

“And why is that?”

“Because other than my sister and mother, I care for you and for your opinion about me”

She remained silent. Not only because she was caught off guard by his comment, she also didn’t know what he was talking about. Sherlock stepped closer to her, his steps making her heart flutter and her palms sweaty. He stopped when he was right behind her, he wanted to hug her, caress her, kiss her, still he was uncertain of how she would react.

“I still remember the night you got kidnapped”

Someone that Sherlock had helped uncover had escaped prison and kidnapped her. Luckily, she was retrieved safely yet again she was still shaken up by the scary experience, when Sherlock found her awake next to the fireplace she was so vulnerable and grateful to be alive she launched at him and kissed him passionately.

He shared his bed with her, in the middle of the night though she had gotten up and left, when morning came she acted like nothing had happened, barely even looked at him in the eyes for a week.

“Please Sherlock don’t pick at my brain”

“Why did you leave that night? Did you regret it that much”

“That night... was the most blissful I have ever been.... However you are still my boss Sherlock”

“That’s all I am to you? Your boss?”

(Y/n) turned to look at him, tears welling up in her eyes. Those eyes would be the death of him, it was with no doubt the window to her soul, that pure gentle soul of hers.

“What am I to you then Sherlock? This wasn’t just about me”

“You are.... what I never knew I needed”

His hands went up to her forearms instinctively, a soft caress that made her think his hands were made out of the finest silk, she felt goosebumps as he touched her. Her lips parted slightly as she took in a heavy breath, her eyes searching for a hint of a lie in his words.

“Sherlock”

“Shhhhh, It’s alright darling. You don’t have to say anything”

At that he slowly leaned in, his lips on top of hers at a shy and gentle kiss. Her hand went to his neck, bringing her torso to touch his as the kiss deepened, her entire body felt a rush go through it as they should the passion they held for each other with this kiss. As she pulled back her fingertips traveled to his face, taking in his attractive features

“I had almost forgotten how good of a kisser you are”

“Oh love, you will never forget it ever again”

[luxwritesfanfic]

Don’t Take The Money

Poor reader thought it would end up being a normal Sunday but that must’ve been the mix of bleach and Pinesol fumes getting to their head. Or, the one where reader finds out they have more in common with the other woman in Sherlock’s life than they thought and Sherlock has an aneurysm at the revelation. Thanks for reading!

Sherlock Holmes/Reader

You were just waking up when Sherlock was moving around the bedroom trying to pack his overnight bag. You groaned at the noise of drawers being opened and hangers jostled and rolled over onto your stomach, propping yourself up on your elbows. “Sherlock? You’re leaving?”

He stopped in his tracks back towards the closet and moved to sit on the edge of the bed next to you. He looked down at you with fondness that so many people thought he was incapable of feeling and as always, it made your heart swell. Brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, you relished in his undivided attention.

“A case was brought to my attention. I won’t be gone for long, it’s a few towns over.” He insists, trying to ease your worries before they arise.

Although you’d miss him, it never did anyone any good when Sherlock was bored. He needed something to keep him occupied and you needed time to clean up the drywall shrapnel that constantly covered the couch due to the boredness. It would give you the opportunity to deep clean the flat and the idea wasn’t so bad.

“Is John going too?” Sherlock nodded. You don’t know why you asked, they always worked together.

You turned your head to kiss his palm and sat up to get out of bed. “Okay. I’ll make you breakfast before you guys leave. Nobody likes train food anyway.”

Sherlock moved to help you stand, one of the smiles he reserved just for you gracing his lips. “You take excellent care of me. But you should know, you don’t have to be useful for this to mean something to me.”

He caught you off guard, but he usually did when he read you like a book. Your whole life you’d made yourself useful and you weren’t sure if people liked you for you or for the fact that there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for them. You would do anything and everything for Sherlock and it didn’t have anything to do with being useful, honestly. You loved him dearly and you couldn’t imagine treating him like you felt anything less than that. You couldn’t help but kiss him.

“Omelettes or pancakes?”

—

Your shirt was soaked from washing the dishes and you smelled like a mixture of bleach and formaldehyde from scrubbing the fridge clean and removing the severed head that took up the space where your coffee creamer should be. You had done more loads of laundry than you could count, bleached the bloodstained tub from Sherlock’s latest pig quest, the entire flat smelled like Bahama breeze and you couldn’t be more content. The boys weren’t due back for a day or two so you figured you’d spend some time with Mrs. Hudson when you were done and see if you could meet up with Bucky and Greg for lunch. When you passed the kitchen on your way to your bedroom to change, you decided that this may be the only chance you ever get to clear off the dining room table. Sherlock’s science equipment had overrun it and you figured it wouldn’t hurt if you straightened it up just a bit.

You were in the midst of cleaning out Sherlock’s beakers when you heard the knock on the door. Figuring that John would have posted on his blog that they weren’t currently taking clients because they were on a case, you expected to see Mrs. Hudson and the mop she was letting you borrow. You cracked the door just enough to see who was on the other side and was surprised to see an older woman holding a plate of baked goods who wasn’t Mrs. Hudson.

“Hi... how can I help you?”

The woman in question’s eyes lit up at the sight of you and you weren’t sure why. She smiled and gestured to the platter in her hands. “Is Sherlock Holmes here?”

She must be a client, you thought. Shaking your head, you responded, “No, sorry! The boys off on a case. I’m a friend of theirs. Is there something I can help you with?”

She was looking past you into the flat and you weren’t sure what she was looking for. “Do you mind if I come in? I could really use a cup of tea. And I wanted to drop these cookies I made for Sherlock off.”

You looked at what she was holding and decided it wouldn’t really hurt to let her in, and the cookies looked amazing. Sherlock must have helped her in some way.

“Sure, come on in. Sorry about my clothes... I’ve been doing some spring cleaning.” You stepped aside and let her in. “So, are you a client of his?”

She went to place the platter on the table and you were excited that it was already worth cleaning off the table. “Not quite. I’ve known him his whole life and have loved him even longer.” She turned and smiled at you, seeing through you in a way that seemed eerily close to Sherlock.

You hummed, taking in her answer. Sherlock didn’t talk much about his friends, so you weren’t surprised that you never heard of her.

“Just a minute, I’m gonna change.”

You excused yourself to the bedroom where your phone was charging on the bed. After sending Sherlock a quick text that someone who wasn’t a client was here for him, you dug around in the closet for something clean and more appropriate.

The lady didn’t really seem like a threat and you were sure if it came down to it, you’d be able to protect yourself. You could chuck the skull on the mantle if need be, it was a hard hitter.

When you returned, she was wandering around the flat and looking at all of the pictures of you, Sherlock, and John that you’d recently framed and put out.

“You and Sherlock, you’re close, yes? Tell me about him. It’s been so long.” She was holding a picture that you took of you two in the back of a taxi. Sherlock was on his phone but you thought his hair looked extra good and the golden hour light made him look like an angel so you had to take the picture.

“Yeah, I mean. He’s a seriously great person. A brilliant detective, he’s so smart. He helps all these people for free, and he never complains if they don’t offer him anything. He hates when I tell him he’s a godsend but who else would do that? Um... he’s really funny, probably one of the funniest people I know. You just have to keep up with his humor. It can be kind of dry, but it’s there. He’s one of the most loyal people there is and he’d do anything for the people he cares about.”

It was so easy for you to speak so highly of him. It was like second nature.

“He can be stubborn sometimes, and he can be a little more blunt than he needs to be but... he’s amazing. There’s no other way to explain him, really. He’s got a light that comes from him that rivals the sun and I don’t think it could ever be dimmed.”

She turned back to you and slowly broke out into one of the biggest grins you’d ever seen someone wear. “You really love my son.”

“Your son?” You blinked, unsure of what was going on. You really started to look at the woman in front of you and you realized Sherlock had her eyes. A complete copy and paste. “Oh my God, you’re Sherlock’s mom. I never even introduced myself. I’m Y/N, a friend of-”

“You’re not his friend, dear, and I’m not blind. Old age takes a lot from you, but I could never miss the way my son shines. And you... you see it too.” She walked up to you, still holding the picture frame in her hands. “You love my son in a way that no one else has. Let me tell you all about him.”

—

You couldn’t stop laughing.

Sherlock’s mom had brought over tons of scrapbooks and old pictures that she had acquired over the years, and you had a feeling she knew you were here alone before she even knocked on the door. Mycroft, probably. You spent the whole day getting to know each other and taking a stroll down memory lane with her telling you all about Sherlock as a kid and how it was growing up with two geniuses as sons. She even gave you a copy of one of Sherlock’s high school pictures that you were going to cherish forever. She seemed so happy to have someone to talk to and assured you that spending time with you was the closest she had felt to Sherlock in a long time.

You insisted that she stay and let you make dinner, but she was as equally stubborn as Sherlock and ordered you takeaway as her treat. You tried to argue but she was having none of it. “My God, you scrubbed this whole flat clean. I’m not going to let you dirty your dishes. How does Chinese sound?”

—

Sherlock barreled up the steps with all the force he could muster in his legs and rushed in to see you, perfectly fine and all in one piece, having dinner with his mother.

“Sherlock!” You both exclaimed, his mother full of excitement and you full of worry.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, standing up from your end of the couch. “I thought you were on a case? Is everything okay?”

“I’ve been texting and calling you all day! You’re that daft that you couldn’t text back once all this time?” He’s still out of breath and he can feel his heartbeat in his ears. His tone is exasperated and you could hear the mix of anxiety and relief in his voice as he’d yet to acknowledge his mother. She seemed perfectly content to sit back and watch the situation unfold, amusement at her son’s unusual outburst gracing her features.

“My phone was dead! And then I put it on the charger and I forgot about it once your mom came, by the way!” You went to the bedroom and retrieved your phone to find a dozen missed texts and calls.

Probably just a client. SH

11:07 AM

Are you sure it’s not a client? SH

11:43 AM

Are they still there? SH

1:00 PM

Missed Call

1:17 PM

Missed Call

2:03 PM

Call me back. SH

3:26 PM

Y/N, I’m on a case. Call me back. SH

3:44 PM

Missed Call

4:13 PM

Is everything alright? SH

4:52 PM

Missed Call

5:08 PM

Missed Call

5:10 PM

Missed Call

5:12 PM

I’m boarding the train now and I’ll be there soon. Don’t worry. SH

5:21 PM

Sherlock followed after you, still without ever acknowledging his mother, and shut the door after himself. With his palms braced against the wooden door, he tried to ease the tension out of his bones through a deep breath as he watched you check your phone. He wasn’t worried about the case at all. It was mostly solved and what little was left John could do with ease. He felt the weight of the missed calls in his stomach like lead and the three hour train ride that he couldn’t curse to defy time any quicker. He had plenty of enemies and you had virtually none, so there would be no reason to think you’d hesitate to assist anyone who came to his door, especially if it was in the name of helping him. He thought he’d walk into a crime scene and he couldn’t shake those images out of his head.

You got up from the bed and walked over to him, reaching to wrap one arm around his neck and to take his hand in yours in the other. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, and then to his chin, over his eyelids, his nose, and then lastly you met his lips, murmuring “I’m sorry” in between every kiss. He didn’t usually voice it, but you had known him long enough to know when he was upset. He relaxed into your touch as he always did and you pulled away from him long enough to pull on the ends of his scarf. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Let me help. We got takeaway for your mom and I but we can share mine. I got what you like anyway.”

He let you pull his scarf and jacket off and you were delighted to see he wasn’t really mad with you. You hang his jacket on the closet door and by the time you turn back to face him, he’s already making his way back out to the living room. Following after him, you see his mother gesturing him to come over.

“What are you doing here? I thought I told Mycroft to tell you I was away on business.” He was messing with the cuffs on his sleeves but his question was directed at his mother with unmistakable intent. She tsked at him, and you began to see even more similarities in their mannerisms.

“That’s no way to talk to your mother, William. I was spending some time with your darling partner here and I don’t even get a kiss or a hug?” She began gathering her belongings and threw her purse over her shoulder. You weren’t happy to see her go.

You did peak up at the name. “William? Your name is William?”

Sherlock groaned, ignoring you completely. You swore you could see a blush dusting his cheeks. In no time he was at the door, holding it open for his mother. “It’s getting rather late, don’t you agree? Father must be wondering where you are. Be sure to pay Mycroft a visit the next time you’re in town. I assure you, he always has time for family.”

She turned to you and blew you a kiss. “I had a great time with you today, I hope you’ll manage to bring Sherlock home more.”

Walking over to Sherlock, she paused to kiss his cheek and whisper in his ear, “I know you know what you could lose here. So be sure you don’t, Sherlock.”

Before she totally stepped out of the flat, she turned around one last time. “Promise me you’ll come home soon. Your father and I miss you dearly.”

“I heard you the first ten times. Goodnight and safe travels, mother.” Sherlock shut the door before his mother could get another word and your shoulders slumped.

“Hey, that was your mom! She’s really nice. We had a good day.” You started to clean up the coffee table and take the dishes into the kitchen. You couldn’t understand Sherlock’s relationship with his family but you were sure there was a lot of things you didn’t know. Still, it was nice to have a chance to bond with your (maybe one day) future family. It was then that you realized that Sherlock never said anything when his mother mentioned you being his partner. You two never really officially defined what you were, so to see him not object to an actual title made you feel all warm inside.

“No, you had a good day. I was trying to work a case and clear a man’s name while trying to figure out if I’d come home to you kidnapped or dead.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, watching you from the doorway. You looked back at him as you dropped the dishes into the sink and let out a sigh. You hated the fact that you let him down.

“I have to go back tomorrow to tie some loose ends with John. If you come with me, I have a feeling I’ll get over it a lot quicker.” His voice was quiet but full of mirth. He won’t hold this over your head, and you both know this, but if it makes him feel better you’ll follow him. You’d follow him to the ends of the Earth and off the edge if he lead you.

Sherlock pushed himself off of the doorway and walked towards the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he went.

“So, you’re staying home tonight?” You swung around the  kitchen doorway and called out to the hall. You hadn’t even thought about Sherlock having to go back, and you couldn’t help but be excited that he would be there for you to fall asleep next to tonight. 

“You didn’t expect me to make the trip back at this hour, did you? Besides, I sleep better with you and it’s obvious that I don’t focus well if you’re not around, Which is why I need you to come with me tomorrow. It seems you owe me, anyway.” Sherlock takes a step back so you can see him in the bedroom doorway, and you can feel your heart in your throat.

He’s so beautiful, you think, all alabaster skin and lean muscle. He’s pulling a t-shirt over his head and you wonder if you could manifest a photographic memory long enough to commit him to memory. Of course he notices you staring, and you almost want to mention all the times you catch him staring at you but he changes the subject and opens the blankets for you and you shut up and follow him. You follow him and you love him and you wake up in the morning at the crack of dawn to run downstairs and order coffee from the shop next door before your train leaves, being sure to get them to write “William” on the cup. Sherlock doesn’t find this funny at all, but he still lets you fall asleep on his arm on the train ride there and doesn’t complain when his arm falls asleep right along with you.

He thinks that if this is the life his mother wished for him as a child, that would be one thing he could take off of his list of things she eventually needs to answer for. Because mothers know best, and when it came to you, she could have never been more right.

[malereader-inserts]

The Sociopath’s Son

Fandom: BBC Sherlock  Pairing: Sherlock Holmes & Son!Reader Summary: What was Sherlock like a father? Well, something you wouldn’t expect Word Count: 1,104 Request: @coffeebvster “hullo! first of all, i LOVEEEE your works so much. second, can i request a sherlock × son!reader? you can make it anything you want, it's up to you. thanks a lot before <3 “

You and your dad were somewhat opposite to each other. 

When you had first met John, he was expecting a carbon copy of Sherlock just younger. But, he was pleasantly surprised that you weren’t that similar. Sure, you were insanely smart and your deduction skills were almost polished, Sherlock was very pleased to hear. But, you like to store useless facts just to piss your dad off when something basic comes up.

You enjoyed sports a lot more, unlike Sherlock, in fact, you were heavily invested in your school football team, playing striker and vice captain of your high school team. Yes, you excelled in school, but you never really cared for science as much as your dad. You enjoyed chemistry, but you would prefer music, physical education and art. 

You played the violin like your dad, but you played the drums as well to be loud in the apartment and have your dad storm into your room telling you to tone it down whilst he thinks as you grin at him spitefully. 

And it’s not like you do it because you hated your dad, in fact, you adored your dad.

Sherlock was a lot different to you, his son, compared to any other company. In fact, you were one of the few people, two, that he would show emotions to. It was a side that John found a bit unsettling from him. Sherlock would do anything to support whatever you wanted, whilst he had a lack of that from his parents, he wanted to show it to you.

Sherlock was just delighted that you got his brain and you were eager to learn, though a bit disappointed if you turned down any chance to visit a crime scene. Though, both you and him know that Lestrade would never allow a teenager on the scene. 

Sometimes, you wonder how much you could push your dad.

“Hey, dad?”

“Yes?”

“Can I buy a dress?”

“Sure, nothing too expensive,” Sherlock says giving you some money as you say your thanks.

Sherlock doesn’t know whether you bought a dress or not, it wasn’t much of his concern really, it was your life and he wasn’t going to stop you. You never really told him what you did with that said money, whether you did buy a dress or not, it was only you who knew. 

Sherlock tried to understand your hobbies, such as dungeons and dragons, you and him had a lengthy day about you explaining what it was, but sometimes he would just really couldn’t get the grasp of the concept. 

“I think it’s pointless.”

“I know,” You responded, used to the reaction of most of your hobbies, “But, it’s fun and keeps me entertained for hours.”

“Well, I guess if you’re happy, then so be it.”

You would always beam at your father’s constant need to be trying his hardest. He would always ask you if you need anything for said hobbies. You would explain things you watch on Netflix, anime, YouTube and any other streaming servers. John would explain what merch is to him and Sherlock would try to look up shows you watch.

He even asked to join you to watch one of your favourite shows, under one of your request that wouldn’t loudly say that they’re dumb. He got hooked on one of your favourite shows, and you started to tease him about it.

At least, Sherlock thinks, you’re easy to buy for birthdays and Christmases. Sherlock is a great dad in your opinion and you share that opinion with a handful of people. John agrees, it warms his heart. Mycroft agrees too, your uncle always praises Sherlock for being a spectacular father.

Mrs Hudson finds it endearing, really she does, and she likes the thought that you are probably the only person that can control your father. Your father is less likely to go off the railings, he wouldn’t do something that could risk his life, because the thought of you becoming an orphan hurts him too much. 

Sherlock would never touch drugs again.

And he’s explicitly said to you that you’ll be in deep trouble if you’re going to participate in any form of illegal drugs, of course reassuring you that he would try his best to help you get out of the habit after his lengthy lecture if he found out. 

Lestrade likes this side to Sherlock when he first found out, even stood up for the sociopath when Donavan and Anderson tried to pick on him for having a “freak” son. Unfortunately, Lestrade had to stop him from creating a crime scene on top of a crime scene. 

Sherlock is a great dad.

You wouldn’t want any other father than him. 

It has always been you and your dad, your mother was out of the picture fairly quickly. You arrived at your father’s guardianship when you were still a few months. Your dad taught you all the basics; walking, talking, potty. You’d never believe that Sherlock was overjoyed to be a father. 

Mycroft had to drop in a few times to see if Sherlock was sure to keep you and if you were still alive. Still, Mycroft has copies of Sherlock’s videos of your first word (it wasn’t murder as Mycroft expected, in fact, it was dada - which warmed the ice man’s heart.)

It’s always been you and your dad, he was there to teach you how to ride a bike (he had to search up on youtube and ring Mycroft on how to teach you that), Sherlock taught you how to swim before giving up and sending you to swimming lessons. He was there for every injury, he was there to calm you down when you failed a test saying there’s always next time. He was there when you asked him dating advice, but he was a bit awkward and didn’t really give you a definite answer.

To this day, you still wonder what your dad was trying to this day because all you heard was gibberish. He was there for your first heartbreak as well. It’s always been you and your dad against the world.

“Love you, dad.”

Sherlock looks at you, softly smiling at you as you lean against the back of the sofa, your chin resting on the back of your hands which rested against the backrest. You stare at him with big eyes, something he’s very fond of as you grew up to be a fine young man.

“Love you too, son.”

“DID YA HEAR THAT UNCLE JOHN? DAD SAID HE LOVES ME AND GENUINELY MEANS IT.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, every time.

[hvbris]

@governmentofficial​ / continued from here

It had certainly been a surprise to bump into the infamous Doctor Lecter while on business in Italy. Mycroft had been aware of the other man's escape, but he had thought that he would have been in hiding, not wandering around Florence under a fake name. Apparently the disguise was working, though, as nobody seemed to be concerned about his presence. Perhaps the sensible thing to do would have been to instantly leave the room and inform the police but, well, something had made Mycroft pause and, before he could contemplate what that something was, eyes had met eyes across the room.

By that point, it was too late to leave. Considering that, the next best thing to do was take control of the situation. Mycroft stode over, introducing himself to the other man by his new title of Lord Holmes and playing along perfectly Hannibal's new identity. While in public, it would not be wise to reveal that they already knew each other - that would give the game away, resulting in Mycroft compromising his own safety. He did have questions, though - ones that he knew he would be able to ask as soon as they were behind closed doors.

An invitation to have a drink with Hannibal after the event was all that was needed. Mycroft drifted away, spending the rest of the evening doing what he had actually set out to do - socialising with the intent of making contacts that would be useful in his line of work. As he did so, part of his mind mulled over the fact that he should probably be more concerned about the fact that he had agreed to meet in private with a known violent cannibal. He wasn't too worried about that, though. Why should he be? Hannibal's pattern included some kind of revenge against rude people, and Mycroft felt as though he had been rather kind to him, even during the other man's prison time. Considering that, the balance of probability was that he would be perfectly safe - though, of course, he would still be keeping his guard up just in case.

Or that had been the plan, anyway. In reality, Mycroft attempted to demonstrate his lack of concern by jokingly asking if Hannibal had missed him and the answer he had received had sent his defences crumbling to the ground.

What? Kiss-

What?

For a long moment, Mycroft's mind utterly stalled. He began to blink rapidly, unsure of how to respond. Would he like to kiss Hannibal? Well... Were they to go back eight years, the answer would have been yes. Secretly, mind you, and he would have never acted on it, but still a yes. How had the other worked that out? Mycroft had never mentioned any kind of attraction to him. He wouldn't have - it was far too important to keep that secret.

Perhaps he was just going out on a limb with a guess? Or maybe it was a joke in return? Whatever the reason, it was a response that had momentarily completely destroyed Mycroft's barriers, leaving him weak and open for a further attack. The worst thing was, his inability to instantly deny any desire for a kiss said just as much as confirming that it was something that he would like would have.

Old habits died hard though, and, once Mycroft's mind managed to reboot itself, he instantly defaulted to his tried and tested method of denying everything.

"I am not sure what you mean," Mycroft claimed. "Why on earth would I do that?"

Hannibal was enjoying his life in Florence for many reasons, some more obvious than others. Of course, what a delight to finally exist in the real world, away from a little box with glass walls. A view, at last. Every morning he walked to the Palazzio Vecchio, to take his coffee there. A simple luxury, the pleasure of a free man. But Hannibal Lecter was as refined as he was greedy, and he had made sure to secure himself a spot in the high Florentine society. He had never feared his own hubris, for Hannibal Lecter did not fear anything. 

For a man so eager to be free, he was being very careless, but what was life without a little bit of excitement? He would not live his new life as a fugitive. They could try and cage him again, but his jaw had grown more ravenous than ever. He was a beast now more than ever before.

Perhaps he should have been more worried to find a face from his past tonight. Especially a young man so influential. But again, this was nothing a well snapped neck couldn’t fix. A shame, though, to kill Mycroft Holmes. He quite liked him. And the boy had been nothing but polite and pleasant to him, even when Hannibal was incarcerated. He’d avoid killing him, as long as it was not necessary, as a way to repay the courtesy. 

And it seemed that the British man had not planned on being a threat. An annoyance, on the other hand...

Hannibal, of course, knew enough good manners to suffer through the boy’s little display with nothing but the tranquil smile of a predator. Dangerous men know better than to boast too soon. And as Mycroft introduced himself with his new title, the cannibal couldn’t help but think of a young kid eager for some fatherly approval. Nothing he couldn’t chew on later.

And as later came, Hannibal was pleasantly surprised to find Mycroft in his apartment, and on time no less. Mycroft Holmes was a smart young man who was aware that this was a lion’s den, and so, there was no disrespect or foolishness in his presence. 

Hannibal, of course, did not plan on attacking Mycroft. After all, he had respected his cover, he had walked willingly to their little private appointment. This was proof enough -for now- that their reunion could be enjoyed genuinely.

So, now, it was time to make sure “Lord Holmes” knew who lead the waltz.

How fun, to watch Mycroft, all grown up, crumble into pieces at the innocent mention of a kiss. Like a kid caught the hand in the cookie jar. Oh, and Hannibal knew that Mycroft had contemplated the cookie jar before. 

“It is a simple offer, Mycroft,” replied Hannibal, endlessly entertained, “should I rephrase it for you?”

[kissmyassloves]

The Selected Enola Holmes: Chapter One (1)

Fair warning! This fic is not mine. It belongs to my frined ‘multifandomkingdom’ on AO3. I asked her to write it and thankfully she said yes Heres the link if you want to read it there. Enjoy!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27004441/chapters/65919898

.Enola should have known that this would probably be a bad idea. Yes, she had run away from her brothers to avoid a life that she thought would strip her of her liberty, but even  she  could admit that she should have thought this one through just a little more. No matter. She would wing it and make the most of the situation at hand. Even if she was about to enter a competition that could eventually make her the future Queen of the United Kingdom.

To be fair, she knew that she had to simultaneously hide in plain sight and in a place that her brother Mycroft would least expect her. And that was in this superficial excuse of a speed dating chalk up for Prince Reese. A prince that she did not even care to know. Granted, she'd never even seen him. But she was sure that he was just another aloof prick that preferred to be pent up behind his tall walls of privilege. Plus, she hated the idea of someone having their pick of the litter and thought it a bit shallow. But the young women that lined up at every available stall that took submissions didn't seem to. To each their own, she supposed. For most of them (at least from where she was standing in a bustling London), it was a free pass to being rich, famous, and of course, a future ruling queen. Still, to her, it was merely a meal ticket and an overt hiding spot. Pricey and elaborate but a hiding spot nevertheless. And at the time, it seemed great because, on the off chance that she got selected, she'd be practically unreachable to her brothers. Even if she was plastered on screens everywhere because of the competition from that point on. Her brothers couldn't get past the palace walls unless a royal gave the say so or an event was planned. She knew that much.

All of that would have been ideal. But rationalizing now, Enola was sure she wouldn't even get a double-take from the said prince. Which is why she was waiting in line, in the midst of giddy and excited young women to make her submission. Because at least then it would allow her time to think of a backup plan if and when this one fell through. She was desperate, and admittedly, this wasn't one of her shining moments. However, her brothers didn't know she was in London, and if she didn't find a way to put at least some distance between her and them, she was certain Sherlock would sniff her out sooner than later. So really, she was buying time. Yes, she'd go with that for now. It was her turn to submit her form and take her picture to complete her submission.

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

The results for who had been "selected" were about to be announced. She was at a cafe, and all eyes except hers were on the TV hanging in the top corner. She enjoyed her muffin with half the mind to get up and leave, but her curiosity always won. So she stayed. She'd be lying if she said she wasn't a bit nervous because, truth be told, she could think of no other backup plan that didn't involve her hiding in obscure lodgings. She knew the money her mother left her wasn't going to last forever. But even so, she continued to eat and let her mind run a mile a minute. All while barely paying attention to the voice that came from the screen above her. She hadn't even bothered to look up at the royal family that she assumed was plastered on screen because she didn't really care to gauge the reactions Prince Reese would probably have of every selected girl.

That was until she heard  her  name leave the lips of the news commentator.

She seemed to have been momentarily frozen into place. Eyes slowly widening as the realization came in increasing waves. By the time she looked up, she had only seen her picture fading and moving on to the next selected girl. She was one of the 35. She could hardly believe it. And she was shocked to find that she hadn't been immediately filled with complete dread at the idea. She would blame that on the fact that she was relieved that she didn't have to find a plan b for a little while. As she made her way to her temporary room that's she'd (thankfully) be moving out of, she began to think. But then other thoughts crept into her head. Thoughts that varied from the fact that sherlock and subsequently Mycroft would undoubtedly know where she was or at least where she was about to go. And the fact that she was on her way to "compete" ( ugh ) for a prince's affections. She even thought with a bitter chuckle that Mycroft would be pleased as being selected immediately raised an individual's status and, by extension, their family's. Upholding appearances and achieving an exalted societal standing seemed to be a kink of his.

But as far as she was concerned, she would have to work on staying in this little game that was now afoot. At least long enough to come up with a better plan to eventually live the life she wished to.

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

The day had come for the selected to arrive at the palace. Enola had mentally prepared and reminded herself to maintain a level head in the limo ride. She was riding with a few other girls that registered in her area. As they chatted amongst themselves and bonded over being able to snag the "dashing prince," she allowed herself to get lost in the moving image that was outside. She could see a hoard of fans and photographers that lined the streets, no doubt wishing them well and itching to get a glimpse of them. Though the window glass was tinted, she wasn't quite used to the flashes. Not quite knowing what to do with herself, she settled on waving back and smiling much to the delight of ecstatic... fans ? Could she actually call them that, though? They didn't really know her yet. Would she stay in this tournament of sorts long enough to even let them get to that point? She wasn't sure, but she did know she'd at least go out swinging when that time came.

As they pulled up to the palace gates, Enola could only observe and take in the place in all its grandeur. She could only think that a child growing up here would be...lonely. And from what she remembers hearing, the prince was an only child. That moment of sympathy she had for him was dashed as she watched a multitude of servants line the entrances. He was still so obscenely wealthy, which wasn't necessarily his fault. Still, he must've been used to having everything served on a silver platter to him. But from what she could view, maids of three had been assigned to each selected girl that had already arrived. Would she be getting the same? She didn't quite know how to manage that. Would she be forced to learn?

What if she couldn't-

"You're in the way 5ft4". 

Rolling her eyes at that, Enola could only restrain herself from responding to the girl that pushed her out of her sight like this mistake in her perfect picture. She wasn't here to cause any trouble. She had to remind herself why but she wasn't going to lie. It was hard when at least 40% of the girls here seemed to be like this. Would the future Queen be one of them? Her stomach might have just curled at the thought. Making her way to the line before her, hands cooly in her pockets. A single whistle escaped her as she continued to take in the place.

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

She had been introduced to her ladies in waiting (Jesus, she wasn't sure she could get used to having those) and shown to her bedroom. She wasn't going to lie; she was impressed. As expected, it was every bit as luxurious as she thought it would be.  Not a bad free ride , she mused as she looked around and the bed?  That,  she could get used to. It seemed to mould to her, and she was starting to worry she would never want to leave it.

Not too long after that, her ladies were getting her ready for their first dinner with the royal family. This would probably be the first time she would meet the lad that had these girls so boy crazy. She had to admit, she  was  a bit curious to know if he was worth all of the hype—just a little.

And even if he was, she wasn't actually here for him anyway. It took more than looks to sway Enola. What use was a boy with no substance?

As they were seated, she could see the King and Queen whispering to each other discreetly while sizing up the selected. I had noticed a chair to the king's left had been empty. The prince wasn't even here. Well, and that fact had slightly deflated the women around her. Subsequently, a servant came in announcing that the prince sent "his apologies but was otherwise occupied with work but will be sure to greet you all personally tomorrow." You could physically feel the energy in the room shift and reignite at the prince's mention of meeting the women. The almost sudden change tickled Enola. It was truly comical. But she'd stay mum. After the most delicious meal, she could honestly say she has ever tasted (damn, did she pick the best place to freeload ), she along with the rest of the selected, made their way to their rooms. But she needed fresh air to at least start concocting a plan b when the warm blankets and delightful roast dinner eminently stops being a possibility for her. Besides, she was never meant to be caged in. Not when outside was so big and revitalizing.

But as she made her way to the door that leads to the great garden, the guards at either side had literally crossed their rifles in front of the door as she tried to leave. Enola was slightly flabbergasted. she deemed that that kind of thing was only the stuff of movies, yet here she was.

Now that just wouldn't do.

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

Now, Enola didn't mean to get into a near screaming match with the guards who were now putting their hands on her to get her away from the door. But here she was. She’d almost broke one's wrist when she felt him inching a bit too low. All she wanted to do was go outside for a second to think. Was that too much to ask?

"Let her go!" the guards looked at whoever elicited that authoritative tone behind her in confusion, momentarily stiffened, and then released her immediately. She’d smoothened any caused wrinkles on her clothes, slit eyes never once leaving the buffoons in front of her in annoyance. Mystery man continued,

"Open the door and let her out." The guards looked taken aback.

"-but your hi-" Was this door not supposed to be opened or something? Were we not allowed to go into the gardens?

"-I didn't stutter, now please open the door."

Smiling smugly in triumph at the guards in front of her and without turning back even once, she made her way out into the night air.

"Are you ok? No, bruises?" Fantastic. Whoever it was had followed her out. She did notice that the voice was deep and male. But surprisingly gentle for the timbre. And Enola also realized how mannerless she was being by not thanking him for helping her back there. It was then that she turned around. And under the dimly lit garden lights stood a tall young man, with attractive broad shoulders that possessed what she would begrudgingly have to accept was probably the most gorgeous face that she had ever seen in her young life.

[shadyscroller2]

all depending

Tags: BBC Sherlock; minor character death, grief, hurt/comfort, bed-sharing, first kiss, fluff

Summary: When Mycroft suddenly passes away, Sherlock experiences heavy grief. John is there for him through thick and thin. After all, there’s no one way to deal with grief. It all depends on the person. It all depends.

READ ON AO3

It had all started on a bleak day, as it should have. It was raining for days, the quiet pattering on the roof loud and yet just soft enough to notice.

That was the only sound in the flat that day. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, was being particularly quiet because she liked to read her novels on rainy days. Thus, there was no reason for her vaccuum to run, nor for her Spanish music to blast on her radio as she scrubbed the grime from her sink.

Then that's when the phone rang. It wasn't the house phone. It was Sherlock's cell phone, buried deep into his pocket, the ringer loud enough for John to hear across the room, where he was trying to type up their latest case on his blog. The sound was just shrill enough for John to lose his concentration, and he had stood up and crossed the room to tell Sherlock to get off the microscope answer it already.

"I'm busy," Sherlock said, even though John hadn't said anything yet. "Can you get it for me?"

John huffed, rolling his eyes, but he obliged the man anyway. He reached into the pocket of Sherlock's dressing gown, and pulled out his ringing cell phone.

Then John pressed answer.

"Hello?" John asked.

"Hello. Is this Sherlock Holmes?" the person on the other end asked. A monotone voice. Matter-of-fact. Business-like.

"No, this is Doctor John Watson," he said. "Can I take a message?"

The next few seconds were filled with absolute dread, like something had reached in and clenched the guts of John's stomach so hard that he nearly doubled over. The blood rushed in his ears, flowing from his face and leaving it white as a sheet.

John's mouth fell open. His throat felt dangerously dry, but he still somehow found the strength to reply.

"Oh, oh my God," John said. His voice was hoarse. "Thank you. Right. I'll pass on the message. Thank you."

Sherlock had heard the tone of John's voice, and he looked up from his microscope as John hung up the phone. John's hand was shaking, and his forehead slightly sweaty. Face deathly pale. Something was definitely wrong.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, and even he was unable to keep the concern out of his voice. "What's wrong?"

John couldn't answer. He looked at Sherlock. Furled his lips. How was he supposed to tell him what the call was about?

"John, please tell me," Sherlock said, halfway out of his seat. "You're worrying me."

John swallowed hard. Best to just get it out, then.

"It's Mycroft, Sherlock," John whispered. "He's dead."

John never knew where the call had come from, and he didn't want to know. It could have come from Mycroft's office, a business associate, or even from the Prime Minister. He didn't care. But from what the other person on the other side had gathered, Mycroft had been on his way to meet with the leader of a distant land, and it was a trap. A missile had been launched as soon as Mycroft's plane was approaching. It was too late to stop it. There was nothing that they could do.

The funeral was small and quaint, just like Mycroft would have wanted it, probably. He loved to act like he was drawn to things with style, but it was also no secret that he would not want any attention or for people to mourn for him when he was gone. That was just Mycroft's way.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes sat in the front row, their mouths drawn tight, with Mrs. Holmes sobbing loudly into her handkerchief. Mr. Holmes held his wife tightly, with only a hint of a tear gathering in the corner of his sorrowful eyes. Sherlock sat with them, and he looked like a statue, his face completely impassive. But John knew better.

When John had told Sherlock the news in the flat, standing above the kitchen table, Sherlock did not speak for a total of three and a half minutes. Sherlock had been calculating, thinking, trying to will his internal walls to remain upright, trying to find the most logical response to such news.

But in the end, it hadn't worked.

Sherlock's screams had echoed off of the walls, thundering in John's ears, as John had wrapped his arms around Sherlock to keep him from falling out of his chair. It sounded like Sherlock had been shot, like his heart had been ripped out of his chest and smushed until all that had been left of it was a red smear on the wooden floor.

Mrs. Hudson had run up the stairs, bursting the door open, and looked at the scene before her with utter shock and confusion. Sherlock was clutching onto John like he was a heartline, long fingers digging into John's back as he struggled to remain upright. Sherlock couldn't speak, sinking deeper and deeper to the floor with John just trying to hold him and to soothe him. Eventually, Mrs. Hudson left them alone, demanding an explanation to be told to her when they were both decent.

Now Mrs. Hudson sat on Sherlock's right side in the church pew, her small hand gently holding Sherlock's, and her other hand dabbing at her eyes. Sherlock made no move to hold her hand, to reciprocate. It was like he was the one that was dead.

Few people gave eulogies. Business people, professional coworkers, those who had admired the long hours and admirable work Mycroft always put in. The priest simply spoke his way through the service, using that grating yet also calming voice when speaking to the small crowd that had gathered.

After the service, John led Sherlock out of the church, his hand clutching the other man's arm, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't want to stick around for refreshments. They breezed past Lestrade and Molly and Mrs. Hudson, and John gave a comforting hug to both of Sherlock's parents. Sherlock simply stood by like a spectre, emptily accepting hugs and sympathies from friends and family.

That night, Sherlock still had not talked. He had not eaten. He had not slept in days. John had sat next to him on the couch, and he had looked at him intently, trying to look at Sherlock in the eye.

"You need to eat, Sherlock," John said. "You need to sleep. Please."

Sherlock's eyes ticked up to meet John's. They held his gaze for what felt ages. But this time, Sherlock's gaze held no heat, none of the intensity that was usually there when John and Sherlock's eyes met. Now there was just emptiness.

John took the spoon from the soup that he had placed in front of Sherlock, and held it out to him.

"Eat," John said, and he wasn't asking. "Now."

Sherlock looked down at the spoon, then back at John's eyes. Slowly, his mouth opened, asking to be fed.

John fed him the whole bowl, and none of them said a word the entire time. It was almost intimate, to have John feed Sherlock constantly, never breaking eye contact, holding the spoon to Sherlock's lips until Sherlock had licked all of the soup from the metal.

Once Sherlock had eaten it all, John put down the bowl, and he carefully placed a hand on Sherlock's back, looking to meet him in the eyes.

"Hey," John said softly, gazing at him. "You know I'm always here for you, right?"

Sherlock looked down at his feet. Nodded slowly.

"Good," John said. "Because I can't imagine what you're going through now. I really can't. I mean, if I had lost Harry...I don't know what I would have done."

Sherlock didn't respond. He didn't even nod his head this time. He just stared down at the ground, his face set like a stone, eyes still completely empty.

"Anyway," John said after a moment. "You can. Um. Talk. If you'd like. I-I wouldn't be against the idea. Like I said, I'm here for you. So. If you have anything you want to say..."

John knew that Sherlock wasn't going to talk, but he had to make it clear that he could. John looked at Sherlock, who was still looking down at the floor.

After a moment, John patted Sherlock on the knee softly, rubbing his tumb across the other man's kneecap.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John finally said, and he stood up from the couch, and went to bed.

It rained for a solid two weeks, and John was sure that this was the longest stint of rainfall ever to happen in London.

Cases did not come. Lestrade did not call, did not text. Mrs. Hudson came up every ten minutes to check on them, bringing tea on a tray, and she always stayed to talk about the latest gossip from her book club. It had occurred to John long ago that she was giving Sherlock the gift of stable constancy. To let him know something will always remain the same.

Sherlock didn't speak much, and when he did, it was to yell at the telly or when he was talking to himself when working with his experiments. But almost always, John would find him sitting still in his armchair, staring straight ahead as if trying to study something plastered on the wall.

John had dealt with many cases of grief over the years. Many who had just lost a loved one would choose to push their emotion down and remain strong, or some would automatically seek and accept comfort from their friends and family. But to tell the truth, there was no one way to deal with grief. There was no specific way one would show their sadness or sorrow. It was all different, like a variety of emotions, each of them none the same from the other.

But John had never seen a case like this, where Sherlock wouldn't talk, wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep. This behavior would be regular for Sherlock, if he was working on a case. But he wasn't. He wasn't doing anything. There was something going on in his mind, something profound, and John had no fucking clue what it was.

That night, John sat with Sherlock on the couch and watched a James Bond movie, with John snacking on popcorn while Sherlock sat straight up the entire time, face completely straight. John said nothing about it.

Then that was when it happened. A nerve-wracking sob shook Sherlock's body, bending him over at the stomach, and Sherlock cried out in agony, nearly falling from the couch. John immediately reached out and caught him in his arms, pulling Sherlock close to his body. With his free hand, John muted the movie, and he tugged Sherlock close to his chest.

Sherlock cried and sobbed and sniveled, and it was unlike anything John had ever seen Sherlock do. It had been so sudden, like a dam breaking, the floodwaters bursting out from the walls and taking everything in its path.

John rubbed Sherlock's back soothingly, thinking that he had no clue what he was doing. Was he really helping Sherlock? Was anything that he was doing helpful at all? Or worse, was John only making it worse?

Sherlock clawed at John's shirt, trying to seek grounding, and John gave it to him, resting his chin in Sherlock's curls. Doubting himself be damned, John was going to do the best he could.

It felt like hours, but Sherlock finally quieted down. John got up, and got Sherlock a roll of tissues. Without saying a word, Sherlock blew his nose, and he wiped away his tears.

"Are you all right?" John asked, but he knew the answer. Sherlock was not all right. His brother was dead.

But nonetheless, Sherlock nodded. It was slow, soft. It was obvious that Sherlock didn't believe it.

John leaned his head down, touching his forehead to Sherlock's. "I'm not going to leave you," John said softly. "I'm here, Sherlock. Please, talk to me. Okay? Just talk to me. I'm not going to leave you. I'm going to stay right here. I'll sleep here next to you if I need to. Okay? You understand me? I need you to say you understand."

Sherlock didn't make a sound. His head was leaning against John's shoulder, his eyes staring out to the other wall. Then, "I understand, John."

John nodded. He rubbed his hand up and down Sherlock's arm. "Okay," he said. "Okay."

Weeks later, on another rainy night, John was sleeping in his bed when he was woken up with the soft creak of his door.

Light streamed in, spreading across the floor, and into John's eyes. John blinked blearily, and he looked up to see who was at his bedroom door.

Sherlock's unmistakable figure was standing at the doorway, slouched, exhausted. John knew Sherlock hadn't slept in weeks, and when he did, Sherlock would have nightmares and scream out so loudly that he'd wake up Mrs. Hudson and John.

"I couldn't sleep," Sherlock droned, a statement said as if Sherlock knew John had already guessed. "Can I come in?"

John was already wide awake. "Please," John said. "God Sherlock. You look terrible."

If it had been any other time, Sherlock would have likely responded with a smart-ass comment like, Well I see your charm still has not left you. Or Do shut up.

Not this time.

Sherlock climbed into John's bed, pulling the covers over his body, and it was like they had done this many times before. And while John would have loved to think that after all of this time pining after his flatmate, he had finally gotten Sherlock into his bed, John knew that this was simply not the time.

Sherlock laid still, straight, very obviously making sure not to make physical contact with John. Sherlock seemed to know that he was crossing some sort of line between them, something that neither of them had ever the courage to do. So it was not a surprise that Sherlock was being so very careful not to compromise their dynamic that they had worked so hard to make.

John and Sherlock didn't speak or talk. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done. John was almost convinced that Sherlock had just come up here so he wouldn't be alone tonight. Completely understandable.

Minutes passed. John was starting to drift off again. But then Sherlock spoke.

"I have dreams about him," Sherlock said, and John knew he meant Mycroft. It didn't have to be said. "Times back to when we were children. I would be running across the river, looking at the fish, and Mycroft would be telling me not to fall in. Then I would fall in anyway, and Mycroft would have to jump in after me and save me."

"He sounds like a caring brother," John said softly.

Silence followed. Sherlock didn't respond. He was thinking.

"Then sometimes I see Mycroft, and he's playing with me and teaching me his mathematics that he'd be learning in school," Sherlock said. "It was a game that we'd play. I would see if I could learn a lesson before he did. Sometimes I would be able to. Most times I wasn't. Mycroft would always be there to teach me."

John didn't say anything this time. He waited for Sherlock to say his piece.

"Then when I overdosed for the first time," Sherlock said, and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "When I overdosed, Mycroft was there first. In the drug den. He dragged me out, took me to the hospital. Paid for everything. Didn't ask for anything in return. And do you know what I said to him then, John?"

John turned his head just slightly, looking at Sherlock's face in the dark. It was contorted. Tear-stained.

"I told him to piss off," Sherlock choked out, and he inhaled sharply. "That I didn't need him. But he was just...he was just trying to help me. He always...always did. And I...and I...I told him to go away. I pushed him away, John. I always pushed my big brother away, and now it's too late for me to tell him that I'm sorry."

Tears were streaming down Sherlock's face, and he was sniveling again. John considered reaching out again. But he let Sherlock cry. Let him get it out.

"I-I-I-I..." Sherlock stammered, crying, choking on tears. "I'm so so sorry..."

Sherlock's body was shaking now, his deep voice broken, his hair frizzled. John didn't know what to do. What could he do? How could he possibly help?

"Oh, Sherlock," John said softly. "Oh, I'm so sorry."

Sherlock didn't respond. He cried softly, broken sobs in his throat, his body wracking itself. It was like he was having a small seizure.

John turned his body. Wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso. Lifted Sherlock up so that he was in a seated position on the bed. Tears had stained the pillow that Sherlock had been lying on, and John reached across the bed to get the tissues. He gave them to Sherlock, placing them in his hand. Sherlock blew his nose.

"Please tell me how I can help you," John said, because he had no idea. Sherlock Holmes is not like most people. Or is he, really? Sherlock is human, that much is clear. Was his case similar to what John was used to? Or was Sherlock a completely different specimen altogther? It was difficult to tell.

Sherlock looked up into John's eyes, bloodshot red, his beautful colorful orbs clouded by sadness and tears and mourning.

"Just..." Sherlock said, murmuring, making it difficult for John to hear. "Just stay. With me. Please."

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's body. "Always, Sherlock." John said, whispering. "Always. I'm not going anywhere.”

They woke up the next morning in John's bed, with Sherlock entangled with John's body, and his head leaning against John's shoulder. None of them said a word about it. None of them mentioned that for the first time since Mycroft's death, Sherlock had been able to get more than an hour's rest.

Grief did not go away overnight. John knew that. It took time, a lot of time, sometimes years. Sometimes therapy. And everybody handled it differently. John should know. He went through it when he had thought Sherlock had died. After he had jumped off of Bart's. There wasn't one way to go through with it. There was no one path of healing.

But sleeping next to another human body had been comforting to Sherlock. That much was clear. And it helped him, immensely. It was stable, and it was safe. Sherlock needed that.

So from then on, they never slept in separate beds again.

At the end of each day, it was already a given that they would be sharing a bed. Neither of them brought it up. Neither of them made a fuss. Neither of them questioned it.

Nothing was said about it when a week passed and Sherlock's things were moved into John's room, his sock index mixing in with John's and his dressing gowns hung on a hanger above the door. It was not mentioned when John went out and bought a larger comforter so they wouldn't have to hog the sheets all night. It was something that just went without saying. Don't bring it up.

Every morning, John woke up with Sherlock in his arms, his hand placed at the small of the other man's back, and the other hand buried in Sherlock's curls. Sherlock would wake up seconds after John, and every morning they would lie and look at each other, staring at each other, before one of them would move and that would be the end of it.

Sherlock still did not take cases. But he was talking again. Lestrade came over in the afternoons to check up on him, bringing folders of cold cases that had been sitting on his desk for ages. Sherlock always accepted them, and then left them in the corner to collect dust for the next few days. Every time Lestrade would come around, John would pull him aside, and thank him for coming to check up on Sherlock.

Lestrade would always wave his hand, and say, "I just want him to feel better."

"Me too," John would reply.

"We care about the bastard more than we should."

"Yeah. I know."

"He'll be all right, won't he?"

"He will. He just needs time, I think."

"God. I can't imagine. Losing a brother like that."

"I know. Yeah."

"I hope you'll take care of him, John. There's not a doubt in my mind that you will."

"You know me. I'll always be here."

Then Lestrade would pat John on the shoulder, give him a wave, and he'd be on his way.

Weeks passed. Sherlock was getting better. Slowly. Surely. Definitively.

Then two months had passed since Mycroft had died. Sherlock finally picked up a cold case folder, flipped it open, and stared reading. Then in the next second, Sherlock closed it. Tossed it aside. Well. Progress was progress.

The next day, Sherlock opened the folder again. Read through it again. Made it to fifteen minutes before flipping it shut. He took notes on what he noticed.

Then the day after that, Sherlock would make himself a piece of toast, a cup of tea, and sat down once more. He solved the case in two minutes after that. Then he opened up another folder.

Since Mycroft had died, Sherlock had picked up his violin a total of five times. He would often scratch out harsh notes from the strings, sometimes sharp enough to leave John's ears ringing. Nobody stopped him, though. How could they?

Then there were times, in the dead of night, when Sherlock would be at the window and looking out over the city of London, and he would play a melancholy tune that would nearly bring John close to tears. It was one of the rare times that John was able to get a glimpse at what Sherlock would be feeling.

"I owe you a sincere apology, John," Sherlock said one night when he was pressed against John in the dark, snuggled up against him, and ready to fall asleep. "One that's long overdue."

"Mm, really?" John asked. "What is it?"

"I'm so sorry," Sherlock said. "About faking my death. Making you believe that I was gone. I...I know what it's like. Now. To mourn."

Yeah, well, I'm in love with you, so that makes our circumstances a bit different. John thought, but didn't dare say that out loud. That would qualify as insensitive. A Bit Not Good. Not to mention much too revealing.

"I can't imagine what you must have felt," Sherlock said, and he sounded sincere. "To believe that I was dead. That I wasn't coming back. That I was really gone, and everything that might have been said wasn't said, and now it was too late."

John knew Sherlock was speaking out of personal experience, but John could still feel a stab of pain in his chest as Sherlock spoke. Because it was all true. John very nearly died during those two years. If it hadn't been for Mary...

No. Best not think about her now. Her, or her child that had turned out to be an elaborate lie to keep John engaged to her until marriage, and she would be able to steal everything they owned. Luckily, John had found out before it was too late. Imagine what would have happened if they had actually been married. God, the horror.

But now it was over. Now John was here with Sherlock in his arms. And while they were not together formally, while they hadn't kissed or shagged, the feeling was there. John knew it, and he knew Sherlock knew it, too.

Sleeping in the same bed was not the orthodox way of friendship, and John understood that. He knew that his and Sherlock's relationship was special, one that no one else had with anyone. It was difficult to qualify them as anything. Even from the moment they met, they meant more to each other than what was normal for friends. For anyone.

Sherlock cleared his throat now, as if preparing to speak some more.

"I missed you," Sherlock whispered into the dark, and John's heart skipped a beat. "Through those two years. I missed you. I really did. It was like I wasn't home. And the feeling was...unpleasant to say the least."

John gulped. Wrapped his arm tighter around Sherlock.

"I missed you, too, Sherlock," John replied, murmuring. "More than you'll ever know."

"I know," Sherlock said, then turned over, and fell asleep. And that was the end of it.

The next morning, around two and a half months after Mycroft's death, John and Sherlock were both up early. They walked around London together, watching the sunrise over the buildings and into the sky. The bright orange and pinks mixing into the blue was enthralling. Beautful.

They walked to the cemetary, just because they could. John stopped at a vendor and bought flowers to lay on the gravestone, carrying them the entire way.

Neither John or Sherlock talked about their converstation, their revealing I missed yous that were uttered in the night air. It might have been a love confession. It might not have been. John had a feeling they'd never really know what it was.

When they got to Mycroft's gravestone, Sherlock laid a hand on Mycroft's etched name, tracing his fingers across the M. Then the Y, all the way to the S in Holmes.

John watched as Sherlock knelt down in the grass, placing the flowers on the ground, and ran his fingers again over Mycroft's birthdate, and then the date of his death.

The dash between the birth and death date struck John like a knife more than anything. It was Mycroft's entire life, shortened down to just one line. It was almost poetic how meaningful Mycroft had somehow made that one little dash. That one little dash that represented Mycroft's years of life.

John was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost didn't hear Sherlock speak.

"Why," Sherlock said. He wasn't talking to John. He was talking to Mycroft. "Why the hell did you get on that plane?"

John's heart ached. Sherlock's body shook slightly, and it almost looked like Sherlock was merely cold.

"You didn't have to die, you know," Sherlock said. His voice was not weak. It was strong. Sherlock was angry. "You didn't have to leave me. You didn't have to...you were the strong one, Mycroft! Always the strong one. Why didn't you think to check for any bombs or missiles? Why didn't your plane detect it in time? You're posh, you're a Holmes! How could you have been so stupid?!"

"Sherlock..." John said softly. "Sherlock, please." But Sherlock ignored him.

"You had enough money to have the best sensors in the whole of the United Kingdom," Sherlock hissed. "You knew...you could have saved yourself, if you hadn't been so...so stupid. So stupid, I can't believe you were so stupid."

John laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but Sherlock didn't relax. He stared at Mycroft's name with burning anger.

"You didn't have to be on that plane," Sherlock hissed, eyes wet. "You could have been..been..alive. You would be here. Being my...insufferable big brother who teases me, and deduces with me. My big brother who knows everything, who's smarter than me. Well you're gone now. Who do you think could possibly replace your pompous posh arseface who has me followed? Nobody. That's who. And now look where you are. Six feet into the bloody ground. You arent' alive. And I wish...I wish that you were."

John furled his fists. Sherlock's knees collapsed to the ground. There was not a tear on his face.

"I wish you were alive," Sherlock whispered finally. Then he stood up. Looked down at the gravestone. He didn't move again.

John looked up at him, studying his face. Sherlock just stared emptily at the stone. At his brother's name and deathdate and the dash.

Sherlock inhaled then. Softly. "I'm ready to leave now," he eventually said. He looked down at John. Met his eyes. "Let's go. I think I need...a coffee."

"Are you all right?" John asked.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said. He sighed. "I need a coffee. Maybe a biscuit."

John nodded. "Right. Me too," John said. "It's getting pretty cold out, actually."

Sherlock nodded back. John glanced down at his feet. "We can come here again whenever you want to," John said. "Anytime."

Sherlock nodded again. "I know," he said. And then they walked to Speedy's for coffee and a biscuit.

John could remember Mycroft. He could remember their first meeting, with Mycroft leaning on his umbrella and assesssing John like he was a fascinating science experiment. Like John was the bacteria and Mycroft was the scientist.

John could remember Mycroft scolding his brother in Buckingham Palace for wearing nothing but a sheet. And while John was mostly checking out Sherlock's bare arse nearly the whole time, he can still remember the firmness of the Mycroft's voice. The brotherly, and also motherly and fatherly tone that Mycroft had used.

Mycroft was Sherlock's caretaker. He had been, ever since they were children. That much was true and obvious.

John didn't know the reasoning behind why Mycroft always was the one to take care of his younger brother. Maybe their parents weren't around much. It would make sense. Sherlock mentioned once that his mother was a mathematician, and his father must have been something important as well.

Mycroft had to play Mother, Father, and Brother all at the same time. And Sherlock had grown used to it. It was always Mycroft who would dry Sherlock's tears after the bullies at school had been particularly mean to him, and it was always Mycroft that would remind Sherlock that caring is not an advantage when Sherlock was betrayed by a friend.

It was always Mycroft. Always him. The one who cared so deeply from the beginning, and the one who had stuck with Sherlock since before Sherlock even knew how to walk.

So yes. Of course. It made sense why Sherlock would miss his brother. It made sense, also, why Sherlock was extremely dumbfounded by his brother's death. His strong brother, taken down by something that no one had any control of. His brother, who could cover up a mishap in a second, who could track anything using only a computer, who seemed to take control of any room simply by waving his umbrella around.

How could he be dead?

It was the first sunny day in a long while. It was bright, and for once, there was something to be happy about.

John had been let off early from the surgery where he worked, and he was on his way home. He had gotten the shopping done, and he was going to cook Sherlock a nice meal. Maybe Sherlock would eat it. Maybe not. Who really knows with him, anyhow.

John opened the door, and he put the groceries on the table. He took everything out. Put them on the counter.

"Sherlock," John called, and only silence responded to him. "Come on out. I'm making your favorite. You can start a movie if you'd like."

Silence. John rolled his eyes.

"Well if you're not hungry, you can just say so," John said. Still nothing. "Or if you want me to make something else, that's fine, too. Just let me know."

Nothing.

John looked around. Now he was confused. "Sherlock? Are you here?"

John walked around the apartment. Checked his room. Checked the bathroom. No sign of Sherlock.

Then John eyed Sherlock's room. The door was closed. As it always was.

"Sherlock?" John called. He walked to Sherlock's door. He opened it.

It was a mess in there, with papers strewn all over the floor and old cases nailed to the wall. John walked forward, but something cracked beneath his foot. A glass syringe.

An empty syringe.

Recently used.

Oh Christ.

John looked up, and for the first time, he saw legs sticking out from behind the bed, still and unmoving.

Sherlock.

Oh, God.

"Sherlock," John breathed, and he rushed over, bent down, and John was checking his pulse, checking his pupils to see if they'd dilate. "Oh God Sherlock, what... please tell me you can hear me."

Sherlock stirred. Groaned. He needed to get to a hospital.

John pulled out his cell phone. Dialled 999.

"Please, I need an ambulance at 221B Baker Street," said John, his heart pounding. "My flatmate's overdosed. I-I don't know how long he's been out. My name is Doctor John Watson."

It took eight minutes for the ambulance to arrive. John sat in the back with Sherlock as he was wheeled into the bus. John clenched at his hand. Turned over his arm.

Oh God.

All up and down his wrist, there were dots where the syringe had entered. Over and over again. Some old, some new.

For all John knew, Sherlock had been doing this for months.

"Sherlock, please hang in there, please," John said, and he begged, pleaded.

The entire thing was like a dream. They wheeled Sherlock into a room to have his stomach pumped. To get it out of his system. To get him rest. It was all a blur, and John had no idea what to do or what to think.

Somewhere in the back of John's mind, he had hoped that Sherlock was getting better.

Time passed. Hours. Maybe days. All that John knew was that he was not leaving.

John didn't know what happened. But then the doctors came out, and they said that John could see him.

Sherlock was awake when John went into the room. His eyes averted away from John's. Shameful. Tired. Sorrowful.

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock whispered. "I-I...I don't know why I...I...I can't handle this..."

"Hey, Sherlock, look at me," John said, and walked up to Sherlock in the bed. Then he found that he had nothing to say. What could he say, really? How could he react?

Sherlock was mourning, yes. He must have felt it become too much. What he did was wrong. After all, how much justification can grief really give a person? Should John be mad? Probably. Should John be forgiving? Understanding? Maybe. It goes two different ways. It's difficult to tell.

John wants to tell Sherlock not to apologize. But he can't. John wants to tell Sherlock that it's all fine, and that it was his fault for leaving Sherlock alone. But he can't.

Sherlock is not a child. He's mourning the death of his brother. Just because Sherlock is mourning doesn't mean that he isn't capable of himself. Doesn't mean that Sherlock couldn't be left alone. Right? Oh Christ. This was all so complicated.

Sherlock was looking up at John, waiting for John to continue his sentence. John didn't know what to say. So he settled for, "I'll always be here for you."

And that seemed to be enough for now.

Once Sherlock was released from hospital, John took him back to the flat, and never left his side. John fed him from the spoon, then took naps with him in bed. John did everything that he possibly, humanly, could.

Sherlock flushed the rest of the drugs down the toilet. John didn't even have to tell him. Sherlock said that it had all been a slip-up. His brain had gotten the better of him. The thoughts had begun to come back. Sherlock had just wanted it to be quiet.

John took care of Sherlock over the next few weeks. They talked. They took it all slow. It was almost like it was normal again.

And every night, they would find comfort in each other's arms, an unspoken connection that was lifesaving. For both of them.

"This isn't what most friends do, Sherlock," John said just as they had settled into bed one night. Sherlock stirred in John's arms. Turned to look at him.

"What do most friends do, John?" Sherlock asked, and he looked up into John's eyes.

"I don't know," John responded. "They, well, sleep in separate beds, for one thing. And most friends don't know so much about each other."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we know...stuff..about each other. Intimate stuff."

"Such as?"

"Like...like I know that you like to have your head rubbed every night before going to sleep. And you know that I always sleep on my side but I'll always wake up on my back."

"Well, John, we've been sleeping in the same bed for about four months now," Sherlock said. "That's all pretty understandable to me."

"Yeah, but Sherlock-"

"Does the closeness bother you?"

"No-"

"Because I could have sworn that you might like it."

"Sherlock-"

"Am I wrong?"

John looked at Sherlock, and for the first time, there was something there in Sherlock's eyes, something that John hadn't really seen before.

Intensity. Hope.

Desire.

John gulped.

"No," John said. "No, you're not wrong."

Then Sherlock closed the distance between them, and he kissed him, like it was nothing, and it felt so easy. Easier than it should have been.

John kissed back, almost lazily, but his heart was beating wildly, his pulse thrumming, and it was unlike anything he'd ever felt before.

Sherlock curled an arm around John's waist, pulling him closer. John plunged his hands into Sherlock's curls, nipping at his bottom lip, moaning when Sherlock licked at the underside of John's tongue.

They kissed for ages, well into the night. When they finally pulled away, they smiled. Turned over. Went to bed.

And that was the end of that.

There are five stages of grief.

Denial. Anger. Depression. Bargaining. Acceptance.

The teacher in John's Psych 101 had said that they could happen in any order. It all depended on the person. What their path of healing was. Sometimes Acceptance came first, and then Denial after that. Sometimes the griever went back a stage. It all depended.

John hadn't paid attention in class long enough to know how to identify the signs and stages of grief. He didn't know if Sherlock had gone through all of the stages in the past five months since Mycroft's death.

One thing was for sure. It took time. Grieving the loss of a loved one can be a painful process. Correction. It is a painful process. But John would like to think that because he was there, it was a little less painful for Sherlock.

Sherlock had started going on cases again. Just the other night, they had gone on a chase across the Thames, tracking down a petty theif with a gun. John engaged in a shooting match with him and won. John had missed the feeling of adrenaline in his veins. And when they got home, Sherlock had pinned John against the wall and snogged him breathless until John felt positively weak in the knees and Sherlock had to hold him up.

Sherlock was also starting to laugh again. It was the most beautiful sound in the world, and it was the best sight to see Sherlock smile. It was refreshing. It was nice.

And no matter what it was they were doing, both John and Sherlock made it a point to go to Mycroft's grave every Wednesday to change out the flowers. Sherlock always said a few words. Sometimes they were angry. Sometimes they were joking. Sometimes Sherlock just stuck with the words, "I miss you, you prat." It all depended.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes have stopped by frequently as well. They seem to be doing fine, too. They have had their own friends in Sussex to care for them, and to talk to. It was obvious that they were still healing, though. And that's okay. They all were, after all.

Before Mr. and Mrs. Holmes would leave, they would always give Sherlock a long hug, telling him how much they love him. Sherlock hugged back, now. He'd always respond with, "Yes. I know." But that seemed to be enough.

Life went on, as it always seemed to do, regardless of what happened.

No matter what happened. Life moved on.

[jawnloxk]

“Heroic Origins” Pt. 1 Sherlock Miraculous AU

𝓢𝓾𝓶𝓶𝓪𝓻𝔂: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have been flatmates and best friends for over a year, when they are given a secret identity no one can find out about - not even them.

𝓟𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼: Johnlock (John x Sherlock), Mystrade (Mycroft x Greg), Sherlolly (Sherlock x Molly)

𝓦𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰𝓼: Explicit language, mentions of home abuse

𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻: Chapter 1, "Heroic Origins" Part 1

𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓼 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽: 2493 words

********************************************

In the year of 2011 Dr John H. Watson had been evacuated from the battlefield in Afghanistan due to a dangerous injury. The fallen soldier had been transported over to London's National Home for Disabled Volunteer Soldiers, where he had stayed for a month, under the watchful eye of the best physical therapists. He had learned to walk, talk and eat again but he still lacked sleep. Nightmares had been haunting him every night, keeping him up or waking him up in cold sweat if he had managed to close his eyes for a moment.

In May of 2011 the soldier was transported yet again into a small flat in the suburbs. It wasn't much, just a small bedroom with a window and a desk, even smaller bathroom and an even smaller kitchen place. He didn't need much more than that, but he knew he would have to find himself an actual place to live soon as this wasn't a long-term solution.

You can only imagine his joy when after a nice little meet-up with an old friend, he heard the words "I know somebody who's looking for a flatmate". John wasn't an impulsive person, he was actually very hesitant when it came to meeting new people. But for this man... He was ready to risk it all.

Sherlock Holmes was the sort of man people despised. There were many reasons why but John found three sentimental truths that seemed to be the most important ones. First of all, his intellectual skills were quite mind-blowing. The man was born with an extraordinary talent to read people's whole life story just by looking at them. Second of all, he was painfully honest - which often made him seem like an utter cock. He had no boundaries and couldn't tell polite from cruel. Of course, even if he could, he still wouldn't make much use of it, or so everyone thought. And third of all, Sherlock had an intimidating aura. He was horribly attractive and knew exactly how to take advantage of that. And so he did. John wasn't sure if he was more jealous of his looks or his amazing flirting skills...

Either way, it only took them one evening to get to know each other enough for John to decide he wanted to move in with this man. He provided him with enough adrenaline and dopamine to forget about Afghanistan, about his leg, about his shoulder. Nothing else mattered.

********************************************

"Do you need anything from the store? I'm going shopping!" John called out, rushing out of the kitchen. He had checked every cupboard earlier, making sure to note everything that he would have to provide them with.

"Some biscuits, maybe? And milk" Sherlock responded with a mutter, not looking up from his laptop. To be clear - not quite his laptop. John's. Dr Watson couldn't care less, though.

"Sure. I'll be back soon. Don't start a war?" he joked, grabbing his coat. Sherlock shot him a glare, which softened as soon as he spotted the faintest smile on John's lips. He nodded, looking back down at whatever the hell he was doing, as the shorter man rolled his eyes with a chuckle, jogging down the stairs.

As he walked down the street he still wore a smile on his face. Passing all those little stores on Baker Street, kids running around the square, heading for the park - it all made his heart happy. A few months earlier he didn't believe that he would ever feel that again. Yet there it was..

He frowned as he heard shouting of a different nature - aggressive, offensive. Metal clicking - gun. Off safety.

John's instincts screamed 'check it'. No sane person would go unarmed anywhere near an attacker with a gun, but Dr Watson was nowhere near sane.

The shouting seemed to come from a darkened backstreet. John moved closer to the wall, peeking from around the corner. The attacker was a tall man with black hair. He was standing over another man, curled up on the floor, his clothes torn and dirty. Probably a homeless person. The aggressor held a gun up, pointing it at the other. Only small begs and cries were audible from the mess of a man laying on the concrete. Watson pulled out his phone and texted Detective Inspector Lestrade the name of the street.

"Hey, you! Stop it, now!" he called out, feeling his heart beat faster with anger and confidence. He stepped closer and soon regretted it - the man was so much taller than him. It didn't make him back off, though.

"Who are you?" the man looked up, raising an eyebrow. Must have been a funny view to him, see such a small, innocent looking man standing in front of him.

"I'm Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, three years in Afghanistan, a veteran of Kandahar, Helmand, and Bart's bloody Hospital and I suggest you drop this weapon and leave at once" he answered quickly, his face staying stone cold and emotionless.

The man raised his gun and pointed it at John. Dr Watson didn't flinch. He took another step forward, then another and one more - until he was standing just a few feet away from the other, the gun pressed to his forehead.

"Pull the trigger and there is no going back. The police will be here in less than a minute. And if they find me dead... Well, you know what happens, don't you?" he said calmly, tilting his head a bit. The other gulped quietly but didn't move.

One swift move of John's left elbow and the man's gun was on the ground. And with another one of those moves - so was the attacker himself.

"Watson! Watson? Are you okay?"

John turned around just to see Detective Lestrade running down the path, sirens in the distance slowly becoming louder and louder. 

********************************************

"Are you okay, sir?"

Dr Watson approached a taller man, wrapped up in an orange blanket, sitting on the ground with his head in his lap. He was clearly in shock. John couldn't help but pity him.

The man raised his head. His bloodshot eyes glistened with thankfulness. "Oh, good man you are. Thank you, oh, thank you" he choked out, shaking his head, like if he couldn't express his feelings enough.

"You're welcome. You are no longer in danger, please, try to calm down" John said, kneeling and putting a hand on the man's shoulder. "You will be alright, I guarantee you".

"Why did you help me, good sir? I'm just a crappy junkie, nobody of any importance-" he cried out, before he was silenced by John's scoff.

"No, of course not. Everybody's important. Everybody matters. I believe all of us deserve help, we're all just... People" he smiled softly, his words clearly inspiring the other man. He stared at the soldier for a moment, before blinking a few times and reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small, black box with red symbols on the lid and looked up at the other again.

"Please, take this as a form of... Gratitude. For all you've done for me today and all you will do for other people in the future" he said, his voice raspy but deeper than before.

John furrowed his brows. "I didn't do it for any kind of-"

"I know. And that's exactly why I want you to have it" he said, a smile lighting up his pale face.

John reached for the box and examined it, before reaching to open it. However, the bloke stopped him. "Open it when you're at home, alone. Please" he instructed quietly. John frowned.

John frowned. Taking a present from ‘a junkie’, which he is obligated to open in private... Sounded suspicious. Sounded risky. Sounded dangerous. He nodded slowly.

"Of course. Thank you."

"No, young man. Thank you"

********************************************

How much time? Fourteen minutes? Getting closer to fifteen. It usually took John nineteen minutes to do his shopping and get back home. Sherlock counted. Every time.

He would always stay at the flat, taking in his moments of silence, using them fully and completely, making sure they weren't wasted. Nineteen minutes of brain-clearing, slowing down and catching up with his furious thought process.

Shouting from outside. Cars screeching. A woman in her early twenties crying. Noise. "Shut up!" he called out, his eyes rolling back as he let out a loud groan of pure discomfort and annoyance.

"Sherlock, sweetheart, I never said anything- Oh! Oh God, look!" Poor Mrs. Hudson's face went pale as she peeked her head through the doorway. Her eyes went wide. Something scary, traumatic, shocking - outside the window. The detective sighed deeply and turned his head.

The sight made him jump up to his feet and grab his coat. He pulled it on, reaching for John's gun from the drawer, before leaving the flat quickly, Mrs. Hudson's cries left behind in the sitting room.

Outside the building was standing a crowd of gapers. Some had their phones out, recording, some were screaming, some were just standing there and doing nothing - gapers.

Baker Street 220, second floor, an opened window. A woman hanging from it. Crying. Her hair a mess. Her shirt loose from... Pulling? Fighting? Looking up at something inside the flat. Aggressor? Home abuse victim then. The girl - not too athletic. Won't hold on too long.

"Did anyone call the police!?" somebody yelled.

"They won't arrive on time, the approximate time for the police's arrival is seven minutes and nineteen seconds" said Sherlock, rather loudly, as he made his way through the crowd "Call the ambulance instead, she might need one".

He began analysing his way up to the woman. Through the flat? Impossible. Aggressor must have still been inside. He couldn't risk taking too much time in the flat, neutralizing the suspect. The possibility of the woman not making it was too high. He looked away. The building was tall, many balconies and windows. He could easily climb up, get the woman down the same way, then go deal with the abuser. He settled on that option.

He pulled his coat off, deciding that it would only make the hike much harder. He threw it over at the closest gawker, before jumping up and gripping one of the barriers. He pulled himself up and jumped down onto the balcony. The woman's cries were now even louder, making Sherlock's heart beat faster with adrenaline. He had to really focus on not smiling. Smiling in a situation like that was definitely not a good idea after all. 

Another swift jump with a pull-up and he was already on the second floor. He could see the woman clearly, feel her fear, hear every single cry coming out of her mouth. The visible and audible panic that needed to be calmed down - or else she would not make it. 

"Hey, don't worry, I'm here now" he said, turning her attention to him. Her eyes widened - panic, but relief. Pupils dilated. Sherlock gave her a warm, soothing smile. "What's your name?"

"Oh God, please help me, please-" she cried out, kicking her legs in the air. She screeched as her hand slipped away, then grabbed onto the window yet again.

"I will, I need you to tell me your name first" he said slowly, reaching out his hand, like if he wanted to say 'stop'.

"Anthea- Please, help me!".

"Okay, Anthea. I need you to stop crying. Calm down, I want you to concentrate all of your strength in your arms. I'm gonna ask you to move closer to me so I can get you down" he instructed her, staring at her with a caring but concerned look in his eyes.

She looked down and squealed, "No, I can't-". 

"Yes, you can, Anthea! I need you to believe me. You can!" he said quickly. "Move closer to me, just a bit. I will help you". 

Anthea gulped, looking up again. She managed to move her fragile hand closer to the right edge of the window. She held onto it tightly, series of small squeals escaping her swollen lips. "Shit- Oh, oh God..."

"Good, come on... Just a little bit closer, you can do it. Look at you, look at how brave you are" Sherlock said softly, giving her another friendly smile. She glanced at him and nodded weakly, trying to move even closer. "Just another inch, come on, Anthea. Just another inch...".

And there it was. The girl managed to pull herself up and to the right again. It was Sherlock's turn to react. He quickly jumped over the barrier, one of his legs staying on the balcony, as he reached out both of his hands. If he grabbed her too slow, they would both fall, his leg wouldn't be able to block such weight. If he did it fast enough, they would both get back onto the balcony. He took a deep breath and counted to three. He wrapped his arms around the girl's waist and gripped her, before pulling back onto the balcony. With a groan from him and a shriek from her, they landed safely on the wooden tiles - Sherlock on his back, Anthea curled up on top of him. Both of them stayed like that, panting.

“It’s all right now... I’ve got you...”.

After less than a minute they both heard sirens - so somebody really called the police...

********************************************

"Anthea Brown. Twenty three. Lives here with her boyfriend. Now, obviously, I don't think that will be the case anymore" Sally Donovan handed the notepad over to Sherlock, eying him carefully. She wasn't too fond of working with him. Clearly.

"Right. Great" he nodded, looking over at the woman, wondering if he should tell Sergeant that he had already known all of that... "Arrest the man, let her stay here - would make sense, don't you think?"

"I know what to do, freak. This is not my first case like this" she scoffed, turning on her heel and walking back to the police car. To write down a report? Most likely.

Sherlock sighed and soon turned around. The crowd was still there, most of them were now focused on him instead of the girl herself. He quickly spotted the man holding his coat and headed over to get it back.

"Congratulations, that was so... Heroic" said the bloke, his eyes glistening with admiration.

"I did what had to be done" Sherlock answered absent-mindedly and grabbed his coat, hanging it over his shoulder as he made his way back to his flat.

As he walked inside, he furrowed his brows. The coffee table, where previously was only his own cup of tea and John's laptop, was now empty - except for a small black box with red, ancient symbols on the lid and a card glued to the side:

'Open when alone and ready. -Master Fu'

[sj-thefan]

Spectacularly Ignorant (Sherlock Holmes x reader)

Hi Everyone! My last story got a lot of hits so I thought I would post this one here too, although it’s a different character so it may not be to your liking. No worries, feel free to check out any of my other stories on Wattpad, here. Still waiting for some feedback although I know everyone is busy and sometimes you can’t find the right words. Have a great day everyone!

Masterlist

John had settled into 221B Baker Street quite nicely with his new flatmate over a year ago. Sherlock Holmes was a strange guy, not in a bad way, it was just odd that he could figure out specific things with just a look. John found himself in awe a lot more often than in previous times.

He also had a new job of sorts. Sherlock was a self-proclaimed consulting detective and often asked him to be his partner or assistant on cases. John remembered when Mycroft told him he missed the war. He didn't want to admit it but the way he felt while on a case with Sherlock, left no confusion, he loved battle. War, fights, constant analyzing, it was all so thrilling.

Sherlock had been such a big help to him, whether he knew it or not. It had been him who got him out of his post-war funk, even if it did involve getting him addicted to detective work. He had also been responsible for getting rid of his psychosomatic limp by proving he didn't need his cane. 

They had been sitting at Angelo's restaurant. John was trying to learn more about the mysterious man in front of him. They talked about reality and how Sherlock seemed out of touch with it. When asked about a girlfriend, he responded: "Not really my area." John followed it up by asking about a boyfriend but he didn't seem to have any romantic relationships. Despite their awkward conversation, they spotted the killer and were soon off on a chase. Only once they reached home did John realize that he had left his cane at the restaurant and had run all the way home.

They settled into a routine. Catching a case, solving it and then John writing a blog post about it. The times when they didn't have a case to work on, the breaks in the routine, were dangerous times. Sherlock would become bored out of his mind taking to performing strange and unusual experiments or doing random, sometimes dangerous activities, such as shooting the wall or spray painting a smiley face on it.

John was relieved when a new person would arrive claiming to have an unsolvable case that needed their attention. Most of the times, Sherlock would turn them away, claiming the case wasn't worth his time, but every now and then, they would get a case that was really stimulating for him. Mrs. Hudson always made sure to let potential clients in, even if they weren't home. She would set them up in the living room with a cup of tea, on the chair Sherlock reserved for clients - he was very particular on his chair being sat in by only himself.

John wasn't shocked when he came home from getting groceries to find a woman in the flat, she had to be a client.

She was standing near the fireplace, admiring some a book. When John placed the heavy bags on the counter, she jerked her head up at the sudden loud noise.

"Oh, I am so sorry," she apologized. "You're probably wondering why a strange woman is standing in your flat." She smiled sweetly at him, placing the book she had been holding back onto the shelf.

"No," he replied. "I'm pretty sure I know why you're here."

"Yes." She sighed. "I'm Y/n." She walked up to him, holding her hand out.

He shook it. "John Watson, but don't start all the formalities just yet. Sherlock is the mastermind so he'll need to hear your story too. You don't want to have to repeat it."

She raised her eyebrows, then she nodded slowly as if she had figured out a puzzle and took a seat in Sherlock's chair. "Don't worry, Dr. Watson. I know all about you and Sherlock's detective business, and I've read your blog."

"Ah, so you're a fan." Watson began putting away all the groceries he had bought.

"You could say that." She stood up and moved across the room running her hand over the desk until she reached the opposite wall. She studied the bullet holes, placing her fingertips over them. "Have a lot of gunfights, Dr. Watson?"

He turned to look at her but found the chairs empty. He stepped out of the kitchen, shocked to find her standing next to the opposite wall, watching him. She was much more forward than their other clients. None of them ever moved around the flat. They would sit stiffly on the chair, letting their tea get cold.

Y/n had done everything differently. She didn't sit in the client's chair, in fact, John didn't even see the chair in the middle of the room like it always was for clients. Instead, it was put away under the table they used as a desk. She wasn't awkward or nervous like everyone before, instead, she was very confident, strutting all around the room as if she owned it. John wondered what Sherlock would have to say about her. He would have a field day.

"No," he answered her previous question. "Sherlock gets bored."

"Ah," she sighed as if she understood.

John was about to ask her about her response but was interrupted by the downstairs door slamming shut. Sherlock must be home.

He turned back around to finish putting away the groceries, knowing that Sherlock would probably sense her in the room meaning he didn't need to introduce her.

It was abnormally quiet while he put everything away, especially considering he was certain Sherlock was in the flat given the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. As soon as he was done, he reentered the living area to find the two just staring at each other. It was malicious or threatening, in fact, he wasn't sure what sort of look they were sharing.

He cleared his throat, drawing both sets of eyes. "John," Sherlock greeted. "I see you did the shopping. Did you get milk? I believe it was milk we were missing."

"It was," Y/n replied for him. "I had to make my tea without it."

John stared in shock at the two who seemed too comfortable together. "Ah, yes," he said as he focused back on Sherlock to find him staring at him in question. "Why don't you sit down?" He turned his attention back to their client, hoping this case would be good enough for them. He didn't want to be stuck with bored Sherlock any longer.

"With pleasure." She moved back to Sherlock's chair, sitting down. "Could I get some tea? Now that you have milk, it'll taste even better."

John was extremely shocked when Sherlock was the one to respond. He moved to the kitchen, putting the kettle on. Something he never would do, even if he was home alone, he would always get Mrs. Hudson or John to do things for him. This was definitely odd behaviour.

"Um, you can start telling us why you're here now." John sat down in his chair, focusing on Y/n and grabbing his notepad to start taking notes.

He wrote her name at the top of the page and glanced up, waiting for her to start.

"I'm here to see you, John." He crinkled his eyes at her. "Well, you and Sherlock." She glanced up as the tall man approached with her tea. "Thank you."

"What do you want with us?" John asked.

"Oh for goodness sakes, John," Sherlock snapped. "Can't you read any of the signs?"

 John looked up, shocked. He gaped, opening and closing his mouth without forming coherent words.

Sherlock groaned.

"Don't worry, John dear. It's not blatantly obvious, thanks to Sherlock." Y/n rolled her eyes at the man standing beside her. "He refuses to wear his ring. It doesn't help that he barely ever mentions me in normal conversation. Mrs. Hudson didn't know I existed until she answered your phone for you."

John looked from Sherlock to Y/n and then down to her hand. A simple silver ring wrapped around her ring finger on her left hand.

"You - you're - but -"

"Yes, John," Sherlock finished for him. "Y/n is my wife."

"What - That's not possible."

"What do you mean, not possible?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Is it so unbelievable, that I am married, John?"

John looked back and forth at the two people in front of him. "Well, quite honestly, yes. I have known you for a year and you have never once mentioned her or even the idea of there being a her. I asked you if you had a partner before, you said no-"

"-You did not ask if I had a partner, you asked about a girlfriend. She's my wife, not my girlfriend."

John sighed and Y/n giggled. "Sherl, that's a bit over concise, even for you."

"It's the answer to the question. Do I have a girlfriend? No. Do I have a wife? Yes. I don't see the problem here." He spoke quick and fast as he defended himself. "He didn't ask the right question."

"The right question? For goodness sakes - You have a wife and you don't think that's something you should tell your roommate? Why on earth wouldn't you tell me that?" He turned to Y/n. "And why don't you live here, with him?"

"We like different things," Sherlock answered for her.

"What Sherlock is trying to say," she said with a playful glare at the man, "is that I prefer the quiet. London is too loud and dirty for me. But it's perfect for Sherlock, lot's of cases for him to focus on, although apparently," she gestured to the wall with bullet holes, "there hasn't been enough of those. It helps that we both enjoy being alone. He visits a lot, though. I'm surprised you haven't noticed his absence."

"He doesn't notice when I leave and I've learned enough this past year to not ask questions." He paused, looking back over at Sherlock who had retreated to his room and returned with a ring on his finger. "Why didn't you think to tell me this?"

"It wasn't relevant." He held up his left hand to Y/n, wiggling his ring finger. "Is this better?"

She smiled, looking down at the ground with a roll of her eyes. "Not the time, Sherlock." She paused, the smile fading from her face. "I do need to talk to you." She glanced between John and Sherlock. "Alone, if possible."

Sherlock gestured to his room, letting Y/n rise and lead the way. He started following her when John spoke.

"Is this really happening?" He was talking more to himself than Sherlock but he felt like responding anyways.

"Sometimes John," he turned, sending John a smirk, " you can be spectacularly ignorant."

[anchored-in-high-tide]

Evermore

Rating: General Audience

Fandom/Pairing: Sherlock (TV)/Johnlock

Chapters: 1/1

Words: 2068

Tags: Fluff, Post-Canon, Sherlock x Disney, Beauty and the Beast (2017), Oblivious John, Pining Sherlock, Parentlock, Rosie wants to be a princess, Sherlock sings, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers

Inspired by the song: Evermore from Beauty and the Beast (2017)

He will tell him today, John decides as he carries the groceries back to their flat. Rosie will start school in a couple of weeks. It’s high time she gets her own room, to invite friends, to do homework, to have a place she doesn’t have to share with her father. Sherlock will surely understand that, won’t he? Yes, John will tell him today that he and Rosie will move out.

Maybe Sherlock already figured it out by himself. He has been a little quieter lately, has even declined some of Lestrade’s—according to Sherlock, absolutely boring—cases to spend more time with Rosie. Maybe he already knows and is just waiting for my final verdict.

That this arrangement had even worked for the past five years was a miracle, after all; Working on murder cases with a toddler on one’s arm was—a challenge, to say the least. In all those years following John and Rosie’s rather rash return to 221B Baker Street, neither John nor Sherlock have dared to talk about its implications for the future. They have simply enjoyed each other’s company, watched Rosie grow into a brilliant, funny girl, lived in the moment—because both know that those bits of happiness vanish faster than you can blink. You need to hold on to them as long as you can. The future will arrive soon enough and spoil all your plans.

And things have been fine, great really. Sherlock adores Rosie and the little girl, in return, is obsessed with her “Sher” that lets her ride on his shoulders and teaches her about bees and stars and disembowelment (if John doesn’t watch him very carefully).

John’s lips hurt a little as he smiles melancholically. Yes, they have had five good years. But even good things have to end sooner or later. Probably, Sherlock will even be glad to finally have his flat back, to experiment in the kitchen again and play the violin at all times of the night.

John just has to get it over with. It won’t be that bad. It’s not like they won’t spend time together anymore. He’ll make sure to find a place as close by as possible so that Sherlock can see Rosie whenever he pleases. He can’t separate them, not after everything Sherlock has done for them.

It has taken John longer than he cares to admit adjusting to his life as a widower, to cope with all the traumas and terror he has lived through. He couldn’t have done it without Sherlock—his help with Rosie, his friendship, his companionship. By now, he is factually Rosie’s second parent. John doesn’t want to break their bond. It would devastate all three of them.

But they can’t keep on living in denial about the lack of space for a rapidly growing child. They have to find a new place, to move on. They can make that work. They always have.

As he unlocks the front door and steps into the familiar hall, John can already hear the music floating down the staircase from their flat. He tries to remember the last time it has been quiet when he came home. Will there still be music in their new flat? Will the songs still sound the same without Sherlock?

John shakes his head determinedly, hoping that his painful thoughts would just fall off. He isn’t prone to sentimentality but having to leave Sherlock for a second time is bound to be an emotional train wreck, at least for him. Who knows what’s going on in that funny head of Sherlock’s? He wouldn't care, now, would he?

Following the soaring melody, John climbs up the stairs, trying to identify the tune. It’s either something from Frozen or Beauty and the Beast, probably.

Rosie is in the middle of her princess phase, ever since she has seen her first Disney movie. For the past weeks and months, she has barely talked about anything else than her favourites—Belle, Elsa, Moana, Cinderella, … She insists on watching the same films over and over again whenever John and Sherlock allow her some telly-time. The rest of her days, she spends reenacting her favourite scenes, soundtrack included. John can (more or less proudly) claim to know the lyrics to Let It Go even in his sleep by now.

At first, John was utterly horrified when his daughter for the first time expressed interest for something as far removed from science as possible, especially fearing that Sherlock might make some snarky comments about romantized and outdated gender roles, but, to John’s surprise and amusement, he has supported Rosie in her royal extravaganza with as much enthusiasm and diligence as he usually displays on a crime scene. He even convinced Mycroft to buy her a yellow gown—“Just like Belle’s! Thank you, Uncle Myc”—for her birthday. John has never seen anything funnier than Mycroft Holmes, the personification of the British Government, bowing to her majesty Rosie the First and graciously accepting her invitation to tea.

As he is half-way up the stairs, the music ebbs away and he hears Rosie’s high, demanding voice: “Now sing your song, Sher!” Her talent for bossing people around would do a real princess honour.

“As you wish, your majesty,” responds Sherlock’s silky baritone. He has never been one for strict parenting, John thinks as another melody begins. He would spoil Rosie rotten if John didn’t interfere, his heart being simply unable to deny her anything.

The lump in his throat grows with every step, the grocery bag weighing him down as if it were filled with lead instead of apples, toast, and beans. He will miss all of this. But what other choice is there really?

In the sitting room, only a few meters away now, Sherlock’s voice begins to sing a song John recognizes from Beauty and the Beast, the live-action version which Rosie has been only allowed to watch a couple of nights ago. She was a little scared of the howling wolves but the Beast won a special place in her heart right away. John must admit that he, too, enjoyed that particular film. Well, they can still have movie nights at their new place.

He mounts the last few steps, stopping on the landing to listen to Sherlock, the words now easily distinguishable:

“I was the one who had it all, I was the master of my fate. I never needed anybody in my life. I learned the truth too late.”

The fervency he lays into the lyrics makes John’s insides tingle. He has heard Sherlock sing to Rosie before but nothing has come close to this level of… honesty? The words drip from his tongue as fresh and true as spring water and make John hold his breath almost devoutly, a clandestine listener to a secret symphony.

With utmost caution as to not disturb them, John opens the door to the sitting room and peaks inside. The scene before his eyes is one to thaw even the coldest of hearts: Rosie, a head full of golden locks and mischief, is standing on the couch, her light blue dress playing around her bare feet as she bounces up and down in excitement. Sherlock’s slender figure is towering over her, the blanket the three of them cuddle under on cold nights draped around his shoulders as a makeshift cape. With melodramatic gestures and skillful vibrato in his honey-like voice, he entertains the little girl:

“I'll never shake away the pain. I close my eyes but he's still there. I let him steal into my melancholy heart; It's more than I can bear.”

John stops short in the doorway. He? Him? That can’t be right. As far as he remembers, the Beast sings this song about Belle. Why would he use male pronouns? Or has he misheard?

He eyes Sherlock carefully but the singing detective doesn’t show any signs of flustering, nor does Rosie correct him. Surely, John has misheard then. When it comes to reciting Disney songs, Rosie is more than unforgiving when someone makes a mistake. Unfortunately, she has picked up Sherlock’s habit to correct everyone on everything, although not with the same air of smugness as her godfather.

“Now I know he'll never leave me. Even as he runs away. He will still torment me, Calm me, hurt me, Move me, come what may.”

There it is again. He! John is sure he has heard it right this time. The syllable rings in his ears, echoes in his chest, lets every sinew in his body vibrate with alarming anticipation. He can’t move. Glued to the spot, he just keeps watching the two most important people in his life, both completely immersed in their little show. Rosie giggles satisfied as Sherlock kneels down in front of the sofa in an overly dramatic fashion, clutching his heart with one hand.

“Wasting in my lonely tower, Waiting by an open door, I'll fool myself, he'll walk right in And be with me for evermore.”

The deep note makes goosebumps spread all over John’s body. Deep inside his bones, something is shifting, falling into place, but he can’t quite put his finger on it. Why does this performance move him so much? It is heartwarming to watch, sure, but there’s something more, something significant going on. His breathing speeds up a notch without him being able to do anything about it. His whole body has become oddly rigid, no longer accepting orders from his mind. The bag full of groceries slips from his hand and lands on the floor with a thunk that makes Sherlock, at last, aware of his existence.

For a split second, their eyes meet and the hint of a coy smile tugs at Sherlock’s mouth but it vanishes so quickly that John is not quite sure if he has seen it at all. Rosie wins back his attention at once. Sherlock rises and swoops her off the sofa in one smooth movement, whirling her around in a pirouette that makes her squeal with laughter.

“I rage against the trials of love. I curse the fading of the light. Though he's already flown so far beyond my reach he's never out of sight.”

Rosie wraps her legs and arms around his body like a little spider monkey, Sherlock securing her with strong arms as he keeps spinning them around. He lets his head fall back and sings at full volume as they twirl on the worn-out carpet, his voice saturating the air with its enchanting timbre. Every single word hits John like a wrecking ball.

“Now I know he'll never leave me, Even as he fades from view. He will still inspire me, Be a part of everything I do. Wasting in my lonely tower Waiting by an open door—”

Sherlock’s eager eyes fix on John and a hint of sadness and something apologetic flit across his face as he halts in the middle of the sitting room, the few steps between them, the safe distance they had kept all these years, this unsurmountable abyss finally being bridged by a delicate construct of wavering words.

John burns up under his gaze and is yet unable to divert his own eyes from the face of the man he shares his life with. Why would he ever give this up? Why would he ever let anything as mundane as a missing bedroom rip Sherlock from his side again? He can’t leave him, he doesn’t want to, he has never wanted to, since the first day they met. The realization crushes him like an avalanche, breaking bones and convictions like brittle twigs.

“I'll fool myself, he'll walk right in. And as the long, long nights begin, I'll think of all that might have been—”

Sherlock knows. How could he not? Sherlock knows how John feels about him. And if the pleading look he gives John and the confession he has woven into the song are any indicators, he feels the same. It couldn’t be clearer. John lets out a disbelieving puff of air—half laughter, half sigh. Why has it taken him so long to see it?

“Waiting here for evermore.”

The last note of the song hangs unfinished under the ceiling of their home as John crosses the sitting room with three swift steps, takes Sherlock’s face in his hands, and shuts him up with a long overdue kiss.

@itsalwaysyou-jw @drunk-rambles @barbsiebabe @blueeyesbitch @bugzy-boiz

[mxsinistir]

Advisee (Sherlock x Reader)

Requested by Soverignoblivious

Summary: Don’t remember the details of this request all that well, but it’s Valentine’s Day and Sherlock gets his s/o a plushie. Honestly, I’m not great at writing fluffy one-shots so idk if this is actually any good. 

Genre: Plotless Fluff

Word Count: 

Sherlock Holmes despised Valentine’s Day. For you, though, he’d make an exception. 

But he was new to this relationship thing; and for the first time in the genius’ life, he was absolutely and admittedly confused. 

His plan was to ask everyone he knew about his dilemma and then find the common denominators amongst their answers. He was blindsided by the differing opinions on how he should treat you on February fourteenth. 

John - his first opinion - said that dinner would do. He planned a reservation. 

Lestrade, on the flip side, insisted that someone as intelligent as you would see that as shallow. 

He hoped Molly would give some definite answer. After all, she was a romantic girl who probably daydreamed about romantic gifts of this such. According to her, chocolate was the way to go. He’d cancelled the reservation and had instead decided to walk to the store down the street for one of those heart-shaped boxes that he’d seen on obnoxious display. 

On the way, he received a text. Valentine’s dinner? -IA He wanted to ignore Irene, but she would offer some much-needed advice. 

Maybe, but not with you. He responded. Any advice for [y/n]?

-SH

Whoever said chocolate is lying to you. 

-IA

They’ll be mad. They’ll eat them and think they're fat

-IA

She had a point. Sherlock told her that. 

What do you recommend?

-SH

Something expensive

-IA

I’m not rich

-SH

Mycroft is

-IA

Fair point. Happy Valentine’s day

-SH

He took a seat on the nearest bench, putting the tips of his fingers to his lips in deep thought. He only had about two hours to figure out a solution before you came back to the flat to find him empty handed. 

His hands left his face, drifting to the phone he’d sat beside him. He scrolled through his recent contacts.

“Sherlock?” That familiar, traumatic Irish voice drifted over the line. “Didn’t expect a call from you. Need a date?” “I have one. What do I get for them?” He sighed. 

“Hmm, is this the final problem that you can’t solve?” “Shut it, Moriarty.” He hissed, “John’s no help. No one is.” Surely - absolutely, without a doubt - if anybody could come up with a gift for his lover, it was somebody just as intelligent as himself. 

“Fine. They like stuffed animals.” “What?”

“Stuffed animals. I got one for Seb this morning.” He sighed, and Sherlock could practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Actually, I got him a stuffed animal and an Armalite AR-50. But I don’t take [y/n] as that type.” 

“Where can you get them?” The detective asked, “The stuffed animals. I’ll get her that, and I’ll get her a card.”

“The Final Problem has been solved,” The consultant criminal laughed, “Whatever store that’s selling chocolate will have a sock monkey and a card. Good luck.” “I’m starting to understand why people consult you,” Sherlock mused. It was his way of saying goodbye, “Happy Valentines’.” He joked before switching off his cellphone and running into the store with a few bills wedged between his fingers. 

The roses were at the front, of course. And if there was anything he knew you would love, it was the bouquet of crimson red blossoms. 

He found a witty card next, matching it with an envelope and clutching it tightly as he wandered through the surrounding aisles of chocolate and toys. He found one labelled ‘sock monkey’, which was what Moriarty described. As simple as it was, he was sort of underwhelmed. 

However, he did remember that you mentioned a certain love for the mammal, meaning that he was on the right track at the very least. 

Then he saw it. A little purple monkey that matched the colour of his chosen card and envelope. He picked it up, observing its massive eyes and large cutesy heart clutched beneath no fingertips. 

And best of all, it was cheap. It was the thought that countered right? And you would want him to be logical, even on Valentines’. He justified his purchase - if you could even call it that - and ran to a taxi. 

He waited outside the flat for about seven minutes. He planned to meet you outside, romantically holding his gift and neat envelope. He figured your cab had been caught in traffic because you were four minutes later than average. That wouldn’t have bothered him if snow hadn’t started to come down in heaps from the heavens. 

His numbly blue fingers quivered, and he thought he would lose his grip on his gifts. Inside, John sat by the fireplace and urged him just to meet you whenever you came inside. Stubbornly, the detective held strong, biting his colourless lip and trying to warm himself up with his scarf and overcoat. 

When you arrived, he forced himself to wait like a gentleman as you hustled out of the cab and into his warm, outstretched arms. Politely, he set the card and the plush into your mittens. 

“Sherl,” You huffed, white breath smoking into the frozen air. “Thank you.” Part of you expected your boyfriend to forget the “capitalist holiday” altogether. You sniffled; you’d wallowed in the thought on the entire car ride back to your flat. You hadn’t expected such a gesture from him in your wildest dreams. “I can’t believe you did this. You didn’t have to.” 

“Well, I did.” His sarcastic tone was not matched by the blue smile he wore. “Now, kiss me quickly-” His arms flashed around your waist and tucked your mouth into his; your warm lips nothing short of a sanctuary to his frozen ones. “-And let’s go celebrate Valentines’ where it’s warmer.”

[skydiving-without-a-parachute]

Release Day

Enjoy this rambling of a fanfic with the most hurried and inspire-lost ending ever.

Pairing: Johnlock (Sherlock Holmes x John Watson) | Genre: Angst, fluff, explicit smut! | Word count: 2254 words | Warnings: Talk about rape, mention of suicide

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

It had been the day John had been totally, completely, undeniably sure would never ever come. Sherlock had broken some laws in the name of a case, and this time neither Mycroft nor Lestrade had been able to save him. Six months in prison. Four for his minor crimes and two for mouthing off at his hearings. What a dumbass, John had thought. So brilliant, and yet, a complete dumbass.

It had been the longest six months in his life though; A life without Sherlock was hard to keep going. John had not even bothered to get out of bed the days he was off from the clinic. His off days were absolute agony. No cases, no taking care of Sherlock... God, he would have killed even for a good fight with Sherlock!

But here he now was, at the gates of the prison, finally seeing Sherlock walking out in his sharp suit he had been wearing when arrested. Six months had not only been long, because John was bored, but because it had given him time to actually think about things. He wasn't constantly going after Sherlock, he was just... By himself. And in those six months he had realized things.

Sherlock looked around and soon spotted John, his face lighting up a little. Clearly he had not expected John to be there when he would finally be released. The detective strode over to his doctor, who grabbed him in a tight hug. It felt good. John felt Sherlock's dark, smooth curls and breathed in his fresh scent. Sherlock had showered and shaved, and judging by the short strands of hair on his shoulders, he had gotten a hair cut as well. He looked exactly the same as the day Lestrade had cuffed him. John was sure half the department had volunteered as the arresting officer, but due to their history and Lestrade's undeniable fondess for Sherlock, Greg had handled the arresting himself.

They sat in silence, both in their chairs, as they were meant to. John had been studying Sherlock the entire evening, not being able to find any symptoms of having suffered a trauma in Sherlock. After another thirty minutes, Sherlock grew annoyed. "What is it, John?" His voice was sharp, as he lowered his book. "Huh? Oh, I... Nothing", John responded, trying to seem genuine, but obviously the detective was having none of it. The world's most successful detective in the history of mankind wouldn't fall for any of John's lies, ever, and the doctor should have been aware of it. Sherlock's stare was drilling holes through John's skull. "You seemed to survive jail well", John finally told him. For a fraction of a second Sherlock seemed confused, before his lips parted and he looked down, realizing, what John meant. "I was. Repeatedly", he admitted silently, biting his teeth together. John could see Sherlock's facial muscles tense up. "Oh my god, Sherlock... I'm so sorry."

The silence built up again. John was deep in his thoughts while Sherlock was still reading his book. One could practically hear the dust settling in the room. "How did you...", John abruptly broke the silence, not daring to finish his sentence. Not that he needed to, Sherlock had known the sentence since John uttered the first word. "My mind palace, John", he replied, eyes focused on the pages, but he stopped reading. "I went to my mind palace. Thought of some unsolved cases and... And you."

John's head snapped up and he looked at Sherlock like a deer in the headlights. Had Sherlock just said that he had gotten through rape by thinking about him? John's head was reeling. "It's okay", the detective continued. John wanted to tell Sherlock to stop talking, but this was probably Sherlock's way of conciously or subconciously tell him, that he needed to talk to someone about it, so John kept his mouth shut. "I have never enjoyed sex. It's dull, a boring need. Like eating and sleeping. Absolutely meaningless."

The good doctor felt sorry for Sherlock. He had never experienced a good shag? He had felt like rape was just another time he was having bad sex? John got up from his chair, took a few determined steps towards Sherlock, and sat down in his lap, knees on both sides of Sherlock. "Sherlock, I am going to kiss you. If you don't like it, tell me to stop", he told the detective, and proceeded to bring his lips down on Sherlock's, cupping his face with his rough hands. John started slow and gentle, but got more passionate, when Sherlock's lips parted. Their tongues tangoed, as John pressed closer to Sherlock's body. The detective wrapped his long arms around John, as his book fell to the floor with a thud.

John's breath was ragged, his pulse off the charts and he could almost feel his dilated pupils. Sherlock wasn't in a much better condition; His breath was hot and heavy on John's skin and his eyes had gone dark. It only fueled John's fire. "All good?" he felt the need to ask. This was for once about Sherlock. John wanted him to feel loved and understand just how amazing sex could be. Much to his relief, Sherlock nodded, "it feels... good, John." The doctor lost himself in another kiss, before realizing, that Sherlock might not be comfortable in the chair. "Want to move to the bedroom?" "I think that could be a good idea", Sherlock let out a little laugh, that made John smile wide.

Sherlock always did look good in purple, but John wasn't gonna dwell over that as he started to unbutton said color shirt. He had already discarded his jumper and Sherlock's jacket on the floor. The detective looked absolutely delicious laying on his back on the bed, looking up at John with lustful eyes. Never mind John "Three Continents" Watson, this was a real achievement - Sherlock Holmes, not having a single good shag in his life, lusting for the doctor.

John let out a moan, as Sherlock removed his trousers and pants, and grabbed John's erect cock. "Oh god... You have... You have lube?" John was out of breath, more than he should have been at this point. He could've cum all over Sherlock's toned stomach just by looking at the detective underneath him. Sherlock was so fucking gorgeous, his skin milky white and bones almost pressing through. John trailed one of Sherlock's collar bones through his skin, before reaching for the lube Sherlock promised would be in the top drawer of the nightstand.

John squeezed some lube on his hand, warmed it up and slowly started working Sherlock's cock, drawing the most sinful moan out of the detective's mouth. God, John was going to be wanking to that moan for ages. "Condoms?" "I- I wasn't prepared for that, but you won't be needing one. It's okay, we're both clean", Sherlock struggled to talk, arching his back slightly at the pleasant feeling John was causing.

Being a doctor was a privilege, to be able to help so many people, but every once in a while John found it to be an advantage in his personal life; This was one of those times. John slicked a finger and after massaging around Sherlock's hole for a minute, he pushed it in. He could hear Sherlock hiss at the feeling, so he gave him a moment to adjust, before starting to look for his prostate. The walnut-sized gland was easy to find with said medical training, and John didn't hesitate to use every single trick in his book on it. Before he even knew it, Sherlock was rocking himself onto John's finger, moaning and wanting more.

John drew his finger out, earning a displeased whimper, but soon pushed back in, this time two fingers, and headed back to Sherlock's prostate. John felt a burning need to pull out his fingers and fuck Sherlock utterly senseless. This is about Sherlock, he reminded himself. This is about giving him for once in his life a good experience that's all about him. All about someone loving and wanting to please him. The thought was almost as good as getting to fuck Sherlock, so he rolled with it. This seemed to please Sherlock the most, so John would keep it up at any cost.

"Good god, John!" Sherlock's body was tensing up and he felt a heat building in his stomach, pushing him to worm against John's fingers even more desperately. John knew Sherlock was chasing his climax, so he added just a little more pressure in massaging, and wrapped his other hand around Sherlock's twitching cock. A few strokes did it, and Sherlock came undone with a cry.

God, he looked so beautiful, absolutely wrecked with pleasure. Judging from the lube, Sherlock did please himself every once in a while, but John was sure he had never experienced something this good. Sherlock's ivory skin was covered in a thin sheet of sweat, riddled with hormones that made an intoxicating scent. His dark hair was messy and his plump lips parted, as he breathed heavily after John had guided him through his orgasm. The doctor completely ignored his own touch-starved erection, and just kneeled between Sherlock's long legs and watched the beautiful view in front of him. Sherlock opened finally his eyes as the corners of his mouth tugged upwards. "That was... good. I apologize for my lack of a better word."

John let Sherlock just enjoy his bliss and wrapped a hand around his own cock, when he felt Sherlock gently grab his wrist. "Just... Wait just a second, alright? You deserve some reward of your own", Sherlock promised, apparently feeling like he owed John to let him fuck him. "Oh no, Sherlock, this is... This is not something you keep score of", John told him. "This has nothing to do with me. This was all about you, Sherlock. About you having one good shag even if it would be the end of me", he explained, feeling a little sting in his heart. He wanted to be more than one good shag, he wanted to be Sherlock's everything the way Sherlock was his everything. He wanted to stop sleeping upstairs and move into Sherlock's room, to make gentle love in the morning sunlight and to cure Sherlock's overthinking with a good pounding, when he was getting lost in a difficult case.

"I want to." John felt his heart stop for a second, as he looked into Sherlock's silvery blue eyes. Sherlock actually wanted to have sex with John. It couldn't have all been the effect of one good orgasm, could it? "But you just climaxed", John protested. "I recover fast, doctor", Sherlock smirked at him. John shook his head, slightly amused at Sherlock's reply. "You sure?" he confirmed, and got an eager nod in response.

It was better than John could have ever imagined. After prepping Sherlock properly and lubing himself generously, John aligned himself with Sherlock, and pushed in. A soft cry left his lips as he slowly pushed all the way in, letting Sherlock adjust and find a comfortable position. Oh my god, Sherlock was so tight and hot. John was already moaning like a freight train when he slowly pulled away, almost to the end, and pushed back in. He started building up a pace and tried to angle his thrusts so he brushed Sherlock's prostate every single time. And good god, when Sherlock started to beg for John to absolutely wreck him... "Harder, John, please!" He gave Sherlock everything he had, until he reached his release, crying out in ecstacy.

Sherlock helped himself into his second climax while John was panting and half out of it. Apparently it had been a while since he had gotten laid properly. The detective held his doctor close and closed his eyes, just enjoying the moment. He felt thorougly spent, but thoroughly loved. It hadn't been a coincidence, that he had thought about John while getting raped in prison; John was his everything. John was the reason Sherlock made it ouf of prison alive. While Sherlock was the master at manipulating and managing his feelings, being in prison, where his tall and thin frame - and especially that cute bottom and curly hair of his - had been very appreciated, could have gotten the best of him. Even if he hadn't killed himself, he wouldn't have been the same man that went in. Sure, he wasn't the same man in this scenario either, but with John by his side, he would be able to recover.

"They said it was the only thing this pretty mouth of mine was good for", Sherlock quietly said later that evening, laying in bed with John. They had showered and had dinner, before crawling back into Sherlock's bed together. But as he saw the horror on John's face, he realized, that he shouldn't have said that. "I'm sorry, John, that was very insensitive of me-" "No, Sherlock. If you need to talk about it, talk about it. I'm here, I'll listen, day or night. Don't you once think you have to keep this inside." John was almost defensive, sounding nearly... Angry? Had Sherlock angered him? "You are the world's most brilliant, most successful detective. Your mouth tells the rest of us what's going through your head, and it's bloody brillint. The most beautiful thing I have ever witnessed", the doctor kept talking, looking at Sherlock with a serious look. "Don't ever think they were right." "Thank you, John."

[thebeethathums]

Home - 2

Pairings: John Watson x HolmesTwin!Reader

Warnings: The reader in this fic is a TWIN to Sherlock Holmes and as such shares some physical features to him. Please read at your own discretion with this in mind.

A/N: Bolded text indicates John’s Blog Posts.

Update  

You would think that with a Holmes living in the flat again I’d have loads to talk about, but it’s honestly like she’s not even here. I’m actually beginning to worry as, from what I can tell, she hasn’t left that room in four days. Every time I try to check on her the door clicks locked so at least I know she's alive, but she needs to eat and things. I suppose it was too much to hope she wouldn’t be as difficult as the rest of her family.

Two more days.

Two more days and Mrs. Hudson will be home from holiday. (F/n) lived here with Sherlock before so she’ll know what to do.

It turned out John didn’t have to wait that long. He came home from a shift at the clinic the next day and you were sitting at the living room table eating a cup of instant noodles while you watched a Doctor Who rerun on the telly.

You didn’t acknowledge him come in, so he took the moment to look you over carefully. He hadn’t gotten the best look at you when you arrived but he could tell you were much paler than before, your face was gaunt, and you were no longer wearing the sling. Your long dark curls were disheveled and sticking out at odd angles as they tumbled down your back and your blue eyes lacked the spark that he’d seen in them before. The way you sat, clad in Sherlock’s pajamas and dressing gown, eating your noodles with a fork, was so casual it was surreal.

“You should eat something better than that,” he offered, pulling off his coat.

You just continued eating your noodles as if he hadn’t said a thing and he sighed, at least you were eating something at all.

Sitting down in his chair, he just watched you, trying to think of what Sherlock would deduce in order to figure out what to do or what the man would do in this situation so that he could at least have an idea of what you might do next.

The episode ended just as you finished your noodles and you silently slid out of the chair to shuffle towards the kitchen. You stopped short when the noodle cup involuntarily slid out of your hand and to the floor, hissing at the mess and then giving your arm a disapproving glare as if it had betrayed you.

John realized that perhaps it had as you tried to flex your hand unsuccessfully and then let out a resigned sigh, scooping up the cup from the floor with your other hand and continuing to the kitchen. You came back quickly with a towel and dropped to your knees to clean the mess, keeping your injured arm tucked against you tightly. He was about to say something, offer to take a look at your shoulder, try to get you to eat something better, anything, when you finished, got up, and went back into Sherlock’s room, shutting the door behind you.

He ran a hand down his face and then ruffled his hair, silently cursing Mycroft for making him responsible for you since now all he could do was worry for both you and himself- if he failed to keep you at least somewhat healthy then Mycroft would surely have his head. One day more and Mrs. Hudson would be back. Just 24 hours longer.

She’s alive  

She actually came out of the room today. Shocking, I know. I came back from the clinic and there she was eating instant noodles and watching telly as if she hadn’t just spent four days locked in his room. Now, I think it is important to note that seeing her and interacting with her are two very different things. She didn’t actually acknowledge my existence what so ever. Not a glance. Not a nod. Nothing. Just silence, noodles, and an old episode of Doctor Who.  Sherlock would have been yelling at the telly over all the inaccuracies he perceived but she was just quiet. I can’t say all that surprised me though and, while instant noodles certainly aren’t the best thing for her, at least I know she’s eaten something. I can put my mind at ease over that even if it's only one thing in a pile of mounting issues, better than nothing if you ask me.

Speaking of issues, there is something wrong with her arm, likely why she was discharged from the service in the first place. I know this because she lost control of her hand and dropped the empty noodle cup. It looks as though she was shot in the shoulder and she was wearing a sling when she made her initial appearance. I wonder what was damaged to cause her hand to do that. Honestly, it could be a number of things… may even by psychosomatic like I was with my leg when I first got back. From her reaction, I’d say it probably wasn’t the first time that’s happened either.

She was quick to retreat back into his room after that. I can only wonder what she’s thinking. Here’s hoping that when Mrs. Hudson returns tomorrow, we can have some actual contact.

He didn’t see you again before he went to pick up Mrs. Hudson at the train station. She knew something was wrong as soon as she caught sight of John and he quickly told her of the situation.  She just frowned and got in the cab. It was quiet for a few minutes and then she shook her head, “Poor dear. She and Sherlock were very close. I can’t even imagine coming home to news like that.”

John just nodded and the rest of the cab ride was silent. Once at the flat, he nearly dropped his keys in shock when the door swung open and he heard a familiar violin melody wafting down the stairs. Sherlock had played that song often, always looking deep in thought and almost sad when he did. Mrs. Hudson’s hand covered her mouth as her lips trembled and then looked to the floor, a tear rolling down her cheek, “That was their song. Sherlock always played it when he was missing her.”

John was suddenly angry- how dare you make them relive the memories like that, how dare you make Mrs. Hudson cry- and he stormed up the stairs with Mrs. Hudson in tow, bursting through the apartment door only to stop dead in his tracks.

You were standing in the window wearing one of Sherlock’s shirts with the sleeves rolled up tucked into a pair of jeans that looked to be yours, your feet bare and your hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. You cradled the violin very carefully as you gracefully pulled the bow across its strings and even over the distance he could see a few tears rolling down your face.

Your hand faltered just as it had the night before and you barely managed to catch the falling bow before it tumbled to the ground. You wanted to scream but held it in, calmly placing the violin and the bow down on the end table exactly as they had been before.

“(F/n)?”

You spun at the sound of the familiar voice and before John could blink you were giving Mrs. Hudson a large hug, offering in a voice just above a whisper, “I’m so sorry. I should have been here. If I had been… maybe I could have-“

“Hush dear. You can’t blame yourself.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t.” You responded flatly, pulling away from her rather quickly to go back to the window.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” she offered, going to the kitchen as she stated, “It was nice to hear music coming from the flat again. I didn’t know you played the violin.”

“My form was never as good as Sherlock’s. He always tried to teach me, but in the end, I stuck with the piano.”

John was watching you carefully, noting that even though your voice was even you were barely holding in the tears as you gazed out the window.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to bring it back up to the flat then.”

“The piano? I assumed Sher- I assumed he got rid of it.”

“Of course not dear. We just moved it to the flat downstairs when John moved in. Your brother even had it tuned every three months like clockwork.”

Your lip trembled and you reached to wipe away some unshed tears as she came and gave you a cup of tea, handing one to John as she went by, “We’ll get it moved up right away- won’t we, John?”

He quickly offered, “Of course,” hoping that maybe it would at least get you out of the room more often, and she stood beside you for a moment as you softly asked, “What am I supposed to do now?”

Mrs. Hudson linked her arm with yours, giving it a squeeze, “You cry and then slowly you keep on living.”

You forced a smile in her direction, “Right.”

“See, there you go dear. It gets easier. I promise.” She said, giving you a pat on the cheek, and then moved towards the door.

When she was gone you turned to face John, “I believe I owe you an apology. I haven’t been the most corrigible… nor did I ever really introduce myself, though Mycroft probably corrected that for me. (F/n). (F/n) Holmes.”

He stepped forward and took the hand you’d extended with an understanding smile, “John Watson. It’s a pleasure to properly meet you, (F/n)."

[lastoftheconsultingwizards]

Soldiers Today.

Oh, God. Not Molly, anyone but Molly…

It would be torture, John thought, not just for Molly, but for Sherlock also. Sherlock who he knew regarded Molly with quiet admiration for her contributions in cases and in the scientific field. Sherlock who he knew wouldn't recognise love for another person from his own perspective. Sherlock who he knew was barely scratching the surface of love for another human being in any sense of the word.

Molly who, despite her best efforts still had feelings for his idiotic friend. Molly who had put up with Sherlock's total bullshit for far longer than he had. Molly who didn't deserve to admit something painfully true. Something she wouldn't want to admit.

He hoped to God that Sherlock would be gentle with this and not opt for something direct and to the point.

Mary hadn't been gone long, in the grand scheme of things, that had broken Sherlock. Imagining a world in which Molly Hooper, the Consulting Detective's beloved pathologist, was dead was easy enough. Molly was, as far as he was aware one of Sherlock's oldest colleagues, his world would shatter. It was a haunting image of the future. Rosie, without her godmother, having just lost her mother. He without a close friend whom he relied upon dearly and trusted with his life.

I'm sure that even Mycroft would miss her. John thought to himself, watching in desperation, on the balls of his toes as the clock counted further down. It rang out.

“Hi, this is Molly. At the dead centre of town!... Leave a message.”

Things started to slow, Sherlock remained, laser focused on only one thing, his pathologist. All else in the room, his best friend and his brother were background noise and they knew it. Even the British Government beside him was silent. Sherlock was wired, back sprung tight, coiled and ready to take flight.

Please…

Mycroft was staring at Sherlock alone, Eurus’ looming face was ignored.

Pick up pick up pick up. John chanted the mantra in his head, hoping that somehow, over hundreds of miles of distance she would sense his desperation telepathically and answer.

She did.

The air in the room changed as the three men released breaths they didn't realise they were holding.

“Molly, I need you to do something for me…”

Shit.

“Say these words.”

“What words?” She gave half a smile, a weak laugh edged her voice.

She was having a bad day. He wondered briefly if Rosie was being difficult, she was currently teething and had had him up all night. But he felt selfish for thinking about his daughter when one of the lives of his closest friends was at stake. There were no comments from the youngest Holmes, barely anything to indicate that this was anything other than an incredibly private phone call between two people who, John was rapidly realising, probably did in fact love each other.

Part of him felt cruel, so cruel for witnessing this woman admitting that she did, in fact, love Sherlock. Watching her crumble at the edges was nigh on impossible, and for a split second he saw the Molly he knew years ago. Until-

“You say it.” And she was back, the no-bullshit-molly-hooper with a new hardness in her voice. She had put up with so much from Sherlock, more than he could probably guess.

“Say it like you mean it.”

Everyone in the room knew Sherlock to be a good actor, the man could slip, so easily into a bumbling French waiter or a Glaswegian prison officer but this was different. This was his heart, caged in a glass that was peppered with hairline cracks, cracks that were widening further with the ordeal of Eurus and memory of long buried trauma.

John resisted, strongly the urge to shout out to Molly, this was their fight. Sherlock's fight, but, retrospectively, it would probably turn out in victory. Mary's departure had softened him and John hoped he could play out some true part of himself that did love the doctor. She looked so small against the vast countertop, huddled into that rainbow jumper that on anyone else would look hideous but Molly somehow managed to pull it off.

“I- I love you.”

John's thoughts stopped, frozen.

And he said it again, it was different. He exchanged a look with Mycroft, who was less surprised and gloating that John expected.

Sherlock was tense, ready to take flight.

He loves her. He loves her. Not Irene Adler. Her.

Molly was less wired, and, as if she were exposing her darkest secret. She responded, blissfully with seconds to spare.

John's brain was screaming, in any other situation he would have probably punched the man in the face but they were soldiers today. All three of them.

It was Mycroft who tried to speak first -

“I won, I saved Molly Hooper.”

When Eurus started to explain that she hadn't needed saving and began to almost mock Sherlock for “all those complicated little emotions” John felt ready to lose it. Instead, calmly, with pause, he motioned Mycroft that they should move on. He felt dirty, having encroached on a moment that was so forced, so deeply private. It was a moment that should have happened face to face, voice to voice, soul to soul. He was seething, for Sherlock, who he was sure lacked to emotional intelligence to control and comprehend whatever was now surging through his veins.

When this is over, he resolved, he would make the two of them sit in a room and sort it out.

He'd send them to couples therapy if he had too.

Although Sherlock was struggling to put a valve on the unstoppable barrage of emotions that were trying to drag him under in a tsunami wave his breathing was clearly wracked with something resembling panic.

Soldiers today. It was a mantra. And although it didn't fix anything permanently, nothing would be fixed the same way after today, it soothed Sherlock's seething. He'd tired himself out physically and emotionally.

How could Mycroft look on with such little reaction?

They moved on. For the moment.

Soldiers today...

***

Look!! I posted a fic!! I also put it up on A03 because I'm trying to be a #techsavvyteenager and fit the stereotype but I'm a grandpa :// anyway it's the ILY scene from John's POV kinda. I hope I did his character justice? Anyway yea I hope you liked it and thanks.

[littlebitoffanfic]

Bored

Fandom: Sherlock Character: Mycroft Relationship: Mycroft/reader Request: do you/would you do a Mycroft/reader The door to Mycrofts office was often closed and there was normally not a lot of noise from inside. Walking up with a cup of coffee in one hand and 3 newspaper in the other, you couldn’t knock so you just pushed open the door with your hip and walked in. Your entrance was not unnoticed by Mycroft himself, who sat in an armchair by the large fire in the corner. It was later and he had papers on his lap. His suit jacket was long discarded over his desk on the other side of the room. He must have moved to the luxurious armchair for comfort a while ago. “I think I found something.” You smiled as you placed the coffee down on the table beside him. “These papers report on aspects of the crime that no one outside of the police should know because that information hasn’t been given yet. Either you have a mole whos going to the press or its someone in the press who needs a juicy story. Maybe to keep their job.” You push the papers onto Mycrofts lap as he raises an eyebrow at you but quickly reads over the columns you had circled. The issues were far enough apart that it would arise suspicion and the details were minuscule, like the victim being found beside a unlocked briefcase (which wasn’t mentioned in the press conference). “Your talents are wasted as my secretary.” Mycroft mumbled as he reached for his phone and tapping a message. Probably to Sherlock or John. You smiled, enjoying the praise. You had worked for Mycroft for many, many years now. He depended on you far more than anyone knew, apart from Sherlock who took great joy in smirking at Mycroft whenever you entered the room. But that didn’t stop you from becoming as close to a friend he had. He didn’t keep friends, but you were different. You had a very high IQ and many would consider you on the same intelligent level as Mycroft and Sherlock. This meant you weren’t considered a ‘goldfish’, a term you detested them using. But it was nice. You found you enjoyed Mycrofts company and he seemed to enjoy yours. It was easy and relaxed and some might think of the two of you as more than just employer and employee. You never left Mycroft because of this. It didn’t matter how many people bored you with their dull conversations because you had someone who you could connect with unlike anyone you had ever met before. His dry wit and humour made him a joy to be around for you. And maybe you had fallen into more of a ‘wife’ role over the years but it had been easy. Mycroft often invited you to galas and events as his plus one, even if you had your own invitation. In fact, most just addressed their invited to the both of you nowadays. You stood up straight and walked to sit in the other armchair that sat by the fire. It wasn’t nearly as grand as Mycrofts but it was comfy and you could crawl up easily in it. “A rather dull case.” You mumbled, closing your eyes. “How so, my dear?” you heard the papers being placed on the table that now sat in the middle of the two of you as Mycroft spoke. “im not quite sure. In theory, it should have been thrilling but I found it rather dull and tedious.” You opened your eyes, shrugging your shoulders as little as you spoke. “Perhaps because you were working with my brother and not with me.” Mycroft smirked at you from across the table, leaning back in his chair. It was true, he had sent you out with Sherlock to do some digging while he had to attend to other matters. Normally, the two of you worked together so perhaps what was missing was him. “Perhaps.” You shrugged again, not giving him the satisfaction of admitting that. In truth, you adored him, but you could never say anything. Again, his phone buzzed and he glanced at it, rolling his eyes straight away. “Sherlock?” You asked, raising an eyebrow. “Of course.” Mycroft picked up his phone. “he has gotten it into his mind that we are far more than colleagues.” “Well, technically, we’re not.” You pointed out, seeing his eyes dart up to meet yours, his face unreadable. “I mean, you employ me.” You saw him either relax or slouch, you couldn’t tell. “Exactly.” Was all he said, as he quickly text back and placed his phone back on the table. “I wonder where he got that notion from?” You mused, looking ot the roaring fire as if to find an answer. You didn’t heard Mycroft swallow as he stared at you, his mouth opening as if about to say something then closing. “I haven’t the faintest clue.” He smiles, looking away from you for just a moment. You closed your eyes over once again, enjoying the warmth coming off the fire. “That seems to be a common misconception.” You opened your eyes again, seeing Mycroft was looking at you as you spoke. “What?” He asks. “Us.” You raise your hand and gesture between the two of you as if you signalling what you meant. “Go on.” Mycroft instructs, obviously not fully understanding what you were trying to say. “Well, whenever we attend galas together, I always get asked where my husband is. And I sometimes get called Mrs Holmes. Its almost like people assume theres no way we couldn’t be together after, what, 15 year working together.” You smiled as you speak. “That and you insist on buying me jewellery.” You giggled, your fingers playing with the earrings in your ears. It was true, Mycroft would always give you small gifts like jewellery and necklaces for no apparent reason. At first you had tried to reject the gifts but now you were thrilled to accept them, smiling as he helped you put on your new necklace or asking how your earrings looked. You lived in the height of luxury now. Your job was very well paid and you were able to afford things you could never have dreamed of when you were a child in poverty. In fact, if you hadn’t met Mycroft, you probably wouldn’t have done anything with your life. Everything seemed to bore you eventually and you would move onto the next thing before becoming bored. But not Mycroft. You never bored of him. “Likewise. I often hear similar things.” Myrcoft couldn’t help but smiles as he thinks of the number of times you had hooked your arm in his as you attended a gala in a stunning dress. How proud he felt to have you at his arm. “And your thoughts on the topic?” He suddenly asks. Your eyes go wide at the sudden questions, your cheeks flaring bright red as your mouth opens slightly. You just hadn’t expected such a question from him. Not that it was specifically asking for your feelings for him, but you were almost sure this conversation would be over. Mycroft didn’t like talking about things like this. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to offend you.” Mycroft suddenly raises from his seat and turns his back to you to walk over to his desk. Offend? Nothing about your body language said you were offended, you were just taken aback. What was more astonishing was that he was wrong. Mycroft prided himself on being better than his brother, and even Sherlock would see how your blush spread across your cheeks like a fire, how you seemed to smile whenever Mycroft addressed you. How you took extra care when doing any sort of work for him or how you gaze always found him and followed him. How you stood closer to him than you ever did anyone else. How much you loved him. Standing, you still couldn’t speak as you tried to decide what to do when Mycrofts phone buzzed. You glanced download saw it was a text from Sherlock. “Just tell her you love her, you goldfish!” So you might be wrong as well. Looking up to Mycroft who still stood with his back to you as he looked out the window by his desk, you couldn’t help but be released you were wrong. Maybe he did have feelings for you after all. “Im not offended.” You finally say as you walk up behind him. “Just startled, is all.” Mycroft didn’t respond and you couldn’t see his face, although you assumed it was in the same emotionless expression that he always used when he was upset or surprised. So you decided to continue. “In truth, ive given the subject a lot of thought. It would certainly make life a little easier because I wouldn’t have to keep hiding how much I adore you.” Your words caught him off guard as he turns to look at you, staring in your eyes for a moment. But you took a chance. Stepping forward to close the gap between you both, you pressed your lips to his in a sweet kiss. Your hands rested on his chest, feeling the fabric of his shirt under your palms as you willed him to kiss you back, to prove you wrong for once! Sure enough, his arms wrapped around you securely as he kissed you back. Your knees were weak from relief and pleasure as your hands slid up to the back of his neck. His hands slid up your sides and down your spin, leaving shivers of pleasure in their wake. Your body had never reacted like this to someone. This kiss could bring you to your knees easily as you desperately tried to cling to reality. “Tell me im wrong.” Mycroft practically begged as you pulled back for air. “Tell me im wrong about the way you feel for me.” “You’re so wrong.” You couldn’t help but giggle. “As long as you feel the same way?” “Always, my dear.” Mycroft smiled warmly at you. “Good. But now you have to swallow you pride even more.” You see Mycroft raise an eyebrow at you as you smirked. “You have to tell Sherlock he was right.”