Fill: Bound in Gold 1cpennin_inkFebruary 26 2011, 06:37:25 UTC
“Come back, Sherlock. You’ve gotten lost in your brain again.” Mycroft chided. Sherlock dragged his attention back to his brother and the fitting room.
Mycroft smiled, much the way a fox does when greeting a house full of hens. “I’ll expect you at dinner in one hour, Sherlock. Mummy will be so pleased to see you wearing that.”
Sherlock’s protests of lost appetite died on his lips. The warning was soft, but genuine. It was clear he would not get away with slinking off to avoid dinner and tearing the bracelet from his wrist at the first opportunity. First rule of being a Holmes son: Thou shalt not break mummy’s heart. It was as close to gospel as Sherlock would ever acknowledge. With one last, bone-weary sigh, he let his whole body sag and nodded his head. He’d be there. Jingles and all.
Mycroft’s voice was a predatory grin. “Good. So glad we understand each other. Now get changed. We wouldn’t want you ruining that lovely suit, would we? Not when mummy put so much effort into picking it out.”
Another nod, and Sherlock refused to look up. Hate and anger and the faintest tingles of fear all frothed and boiled in his stomach until he thought he’d be sick. He’d been a fool to think he could escape this. That his abrasive personality and complete lack of social graces could possibly dissuade his mother from pursuing England’s oldest and most revered tradition. He’d enjoyed a longer period of freedom than most men and women of his stature, and he’d foolishly allowed himself to get comfortable in the lifestyle. But all of that was over now. Now he would be putting his life into the hands of a complete stranger, all for the sake of a romanticised past and a shamelessly manipulative government.
If Sherlock were the sort to believe in fairness, he would curse his situation’s lack of it. But he knew better. Nothing was fair. Everything was cause and effect, and there was nothing Sherlock could do to change that.
Mycroft smiled, much the way a fox does when greeting a house full of hens. “I’ll expect you at dinner in one hour, Sherlock. Mummy will be so pleased to see you wearing that.”
Sherlock’s protests of lost appetite died on his lips. The warning was soft, but genuine. It was clear he would not get away with slinking off to avoid dinner and tearing the bracelet from his wrist at the first opportunity. First rule of being a Holmes son: Thou shalt not break mummy’s heart. It was as close to gospel as Sherlock would ever acknowledge. With one last, bone-weary sigh, he let his whole body sag and nodded his head. He’d be there. Jingles and all.
Mycroft’s voice was a predatory grin. “Good. So glad we understand each other. Now get changed. We wouldn’t want you ruining that lovely suit, would we? Not when mummy put so much effort into picking it out.”
Another nod, and Sherlock refused to look up. Hate and anger and the faintest tingles of fear all frothed and boiled in his stomach until he thought he’d be sick. He’d been a fool to think he could escape this. That his abrasive personality and complete lack of social graces could possibly dissuade his mother from pursuing England’s oldest and most revered tradition. He’d enjoyed a longer period of freedom than most men and women of his stature, and he’d foolishly allowed himself to get comfortable in the lifestyle. But all of that was over now. Now he would be putting his life into the hands of a complete stranger, all for the sake of a romanticised past and a shamelessly manipulative government.
If Sherlock were the sort to believe in fairness, he would curse his situation’s lack of it. But he knew better. Nothing was fair. Everything was cause and effect, and there was nothing Sherlock could do to change that.
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