prompting part XXIII
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Prompts from this post can be filled on the Overflow Post
IMPORTANT! Spoilers for aired episodes are now being allowed on this area of the meme, without warning. If you do not want to encounter spoilers, please prompt at our Spoiler-Free Prompt Post.
( Read more... )
He's surprised, then, when he comes home the next day to Sherlock sitting in the middle of the hall, tearing the sheets Mycroft had stapled together for him that morning into tiny pieces. He's red around the eyes, biting at his lip hard enough to leave a mark, and very overtly not crying.
"Sherlock, you're making a mess."
"Don't care." Sherlock snaps, and twists paper scraps violently between his fingers. "I hate it."
"Stop it and pick that up," Mycroft says. Sherlock shakes his head.
"You're not in charge of me."
"I said pick it up. Now." Mycroft keeps his voice steady but drops the pitch just a fraction. Sherlock's tiny fist clench, but he does it, gathering the bits together and shoving them in to Mycroft's hands without looking at him.
"Very good." Mycroft says, then takes his hand and leads him to living room, up to the fireplace. It's lit, crackling cheerfully. He gives the paper back. "This is neater."
*
They solve the case, but Mycroft still doesn't call back. John watches, day by day, as the tightness at the corner of Sherlock's eyes and mouth gets worse, as he talks more often at John and far less too him. Sometimes he catches him pulling his phone out, tapping at the corner of the case then slipping it back in his pocket, all without looking at it. He doesn't even seem aware he's doing it.
Finally, John has had enough. He sorts through his contacts and sends a bunch of texts to possibly-but-not-always-Anthea. When he doesn't get a reply, he rings her as well as searching out the public numbers of Mycroft's "minor" government office, and calls them too.
They're all disconnected.
"I tried that," Sherlock says, leaning in the doorway, and makes John jump. "I tried all of the numbers. Just to see." He seems defensive. "I told you he's sulking."
"This is a bit extreme for sulking, Sherlock." John says, even as he mentally factors in that this is a Holmes brother they're talking about. "Has he done this before?"
Sherlock shakes his head. "When he brought you Irene's file, what did he say?"
John hesitates. "I - well, he told me to bring it to you, and that she got herself on a-"
"Yes, yes, I know that," Sherlock waves one hand impatiently, narrows his eyes. "Gave you two stories to pick from and you picked the soft one. Obvious. But what else did he say?"
Of course he bloody knows, he always bloody knows. John's not sure if he's mad at himself for believing otherwise, or at Sherlock for being so completely insufferable. But Sherlock still has that worried look around the edges of his eyes. John decides they can have an argument about Irene Adler later.
"He talked about you. Nothing specific, I think he was just, you know, musing."
"What did he say?"
"I don't remember."
Sherlock's lips press together. "Fine. How did he sound?"
John shrugs. "Like Mycroft, what- I don't know. Distant. A bit fond." He takes a not-insignificant amount of pleasure in how that makes Sherlock twitch in annoyance. "He sounded fond."
"I'm sure he did. He must love having you to perform for." Sherlock sneers. "Useless. Precision, John. If not what, then how. Preci-"
"Precision! I know!" John snaps. What does he want, poetry? "It sounded like it was a happy memory, and because of that it was making him sad, and don't tell me that makes no sense beca- oh." John's eyes widen a little. "Ha! I do remember. He was talking about when you were a kid, how you wanted to be a pirate. I can just see that... Sherlock? Sherlock!"
Sherlock is already gone.
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Thank you so much! :3 Yes, poor Mycroft's not going ot have a good time of it, I fear. All I can promise is that Sherlock will ~try
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Awww, thank you! That means so much, especially since your fill is so excellent ♥
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Sherlock is seven and Mycroft is fifteen, and Sherlock is burning his homework. Mycroft takes a pair of wrought-iron tongs and kneels to push a stray piece back into the flames, where it curls to ash. Like this he's almost face level with Sherlock, who is still standing there silently. "Done," Mycroft says. He knows better than to ask, or at least, knows better than to ask out loud.
"They laughed at me," Sherlock whispers, finally. "We read them out in class, and I told them how I'm going to be a pirate, and they laughed at me. Even though I looked it all up."
Mycroft can feel a headache building, pressing against the back of his eyes. "You should get used to that," he tells Sherlock, placidly, "the world is full of small, unimpressive minds who can only cope with small, unimpressive dreams."
Sherlock sniffles and sniggers all at once, then composes himself and wipes his nose on his sleeve in a determined manner. "Don't tell Mummy about it," he instructs. "I don't want to talk about it ever again."
"Alright."
"Don't tell anyone ever." Sherlock continues, regaining a little of his usual imperiousness. "Never ever until the day you die."
Mycroft resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Until the day I die," he echoes, with suitable gravitas. "I shall not breathe a word of it. Now go run a bath, you're a mess. Mummy is having guests."
*
John is well-acquainted with Sherlock's disregard for any rule or convention, any authority that gets in the way of him doing what it is he's decided is the most effective course of action. He's accustomed to his utter indifference, if not for the law itself then for the people and institutions who create and enforce the law (the only exceptions, it seems, being those who can be indifferent right back at him; Lestrade, who has the patience of a saint, and Mycroft, who has the patience of cobra waiting to strike). It's a part of Sherlock, as much as the violin tuning at 3am and the fingers in the freezer and the way can smile with only his eyes and his voice. Sherlock has nothing but disdain for, to put it melodramatically, 'the system'.
It's just, until now, John's never seen him actually try to tear it apart.
John is there with him when he threatens, blackmails and breaks in, when he tracks down people John can't work out any link between, slams them in to walls and demands they tell him where Mycroft is. He's there when they can't find Anthea, and when Sherlock barges in to a Minister's office and picks apart his recent history with certain establishments in the less reputable parts of London, right there in the middle of a meeting, hissing that he'll stop when he's told what happened to his brother.
Then there are the parts where Sherlock disappears for a few hours, doesn't give John a chance to follow, and all he and Mrs Hudson can do is wait and worry, watch the news and worry, knit and worry. He comes back with a cut on his cheek and a flash drive in his palm, and spends the next half hour shredding firewalls put up by the Ministry of Defence.
"Sherlock, " John says, sometime around four in the morning, "Lestrade's been calling me. Someone is having police surveillance put on you. Someone anonymous from high up."
Sherlock doesn't even look up from the screen. "He thinks it's Mycroft? Of course he does. Modus operandi, chip off the same block." Which isn't helpful in the least.
"It always was before," John tries, and reaches for Sherlock's shoulder before stopping himself. "Are you sure it isn't?"
It's a stupid thing to ask. Sherlock is Sherlock. Sherlock is always sure. But instead of ignoring it, he freezes up. "Mycroft never- it all means something else, always. Do you understand? His words, he makes them work hard. Saves time. Private. He wouldn't." It's likes he's talking to himself, but that's normal. The way he can't seem to finish a sentence, that isn't. "He wouldn't say that, not if he didn't mean it. And they're covering it up."
A small aside about Sherlock's childhood, John thought. That's all. "Mean what, exactly?"
"Goodbye."
That's when Sherlock's phone starts ringing. John and Sherlock's eyes meet, then very slowly Sherlock lays the phone on the table between his seat and where John is standing, and puts it on speaker.
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"This is all too delicious," the caller starts, a delighted nasal purr that sends John right back to fury and fear and helplessness in an empty swimming pool, red dots dancing. "You should have warned me. I could have bought popcorn."
Sherlock's lip curls.
"I don't know if I can let you go on playing me for too long," Moriarty continues, the edge of a whine to it. "It's a copyright thing. And you're far too good at it, you know I hate competition."
Sherlock nods at John, who reaches for the phone, only to be interrupted by "Not so quick, Doctor," growled out several octaves harsher, before flipping back to wheedling in the blink of an eye. All John can think is for fuck's sake, not again. "A little bird tells me you're looking for something, Sherlock. And you know, for you, I might even be persuaded to play delivery boy."
John sits. Sherlock is on his feet. "This isn't you." He insists, scornful, in the direction of the phone's blinking light. "It hasn't got any... style."
A prolonged giggle, fading to a sharp, angry "Weren't you listening?" Moriarty breathes in and out, then continues. "Of course not. I was just an appreciative audience. Until I thought, the only thing more fun might be being able to call a favour from my very, very favourite detective. One time offer, Sherlock. Five, four-"
"Yes." Sherlock says, face blank. John thinks even Moriarty is taken aback that they didn't make it to two. Then;
"Ding dong!" he sings, and as the call ends, the doorbell rings.
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The tid-bit into Mycroft and Sherlock's childhood was sweet, Sherlock was adorable and so was Mycroft, being a good big bro as ever.
I like how that is how Sherlock worked out something really was wrong and it just seems like something Mycroft would do, a nice private goodbye. Really touching (or at least I think so. Perhaps I'm odd)
I also like how Sherlock's not messing about this time and excepts the deal immediately. It's good to see that he's taking it seriously.
Can't wait to see what happens next of course, you really are doing spectacularly.
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seriously though, I'm really really glad you like the tying-in with the pirate thing, I just thought the little face Mycroft pulled after he said it was so cute and wistful and heartbreaking ♥
More will be up soon!
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"This isn't my room," he says roughly, accusingly.
"It is not," Mycroft agrees. "It is also a great deal cleaner, larger and more secure. I trust it will be comfortable for the duration of your treatment."
Even in this condition, he doesn't need to wait for Sherlock to catch on. "You wouldn't dare," he says, "you have no right!", and when Mycroft says nothing in response Sherlock punches him square on the jaw.
It's not very hard. Sherlock hasn't a lot of strength left. But what force it has is born of fury, and it does land at the corner of Mycroft's mouth, and as a result Mycroft can taste a little blood. He catches Sherlock's wrist when he swings a second time, catches both his wrists and holds him at arms length impassively. His brother gets one for free, that's all.
"Mummy won't let you," Sherlock hisses. Mycroft feels a familiar headache building.
"Sherlock, she co-signed the commitment papers."
"Liar," Sherlock barks instinctively, then pulls away. "She's here?" The edge of hope in it is pitifully badly hidden. Mycroft's silence is an answer, and Sherlock turns to stare at the wall.
As he does he sees the case, the worn and well-loved violin case, "S HOLMES" scrawled on it in black felt-tip. He sneers. "She made you bring me that, I suppose?"
"Yes, she did," Mycroft lies, and leaves Sherlock and his needle marks and his angry chords, because he can only take so much.
*
John is a soldier, John will always be a soldier, so he reaches the door with gun already drawn. Finger on the trigger, he steps out in to the dark and looks in every direction for some trace of Moriarty, determined to turn the tables this time.
But he is a doctor first (dreads the day that proves he isn't, knowing alongside Sherlock that may well come) so when he sees the figure slumped on the doorstep, all else is forgotten. There's blood, on his hands from where he reaching out and touching, on his shirt and his jeans as he cradles the limp figure's head. Discretely elegant suit ruined beyond recognition, and the face, battered yet defiantly, terribly familiar. And the blood. He keeps coming back to the blood.
Sherlock runs past him, seeming a towering figure to John, on his knees feeling for a pulse. He runs past them, down the street, following John's earlier instinct. John lets him. Anything to put off Sherlock seeing, really seeing, his brother.
"Mycroft," John says. "Talk to me. Say something."
There is a pulse. There isn't an answer.
"Sherlock," John calls. He's stepped outside of himself, is ignoring the panic and disbelief. He has to get Sherlock to help him move Mycroft inside, though moving him at all is something of a gamble. He suspects broken ribs, hopes the spine is unaffected. As steady as they can, not to make anything worse, not to start him bleeding freely again.
"Jo-" Sherlock stops, entirely; John doesn't know how else to describe it. He stops moving in every conceivable way, utterly still. John doesn't dare say a word for fear the brittle sheen of composure will crumble.
"Is he-" It's barely audible.
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