From Which Love Grows 4: A Visitor
Title: From Which Loves Grows 4: A Visitor
Author: red_chapel
Word Count: 1190
Rating: G
Characters: Sherlock, Mrs Hudson
Sherlock returned to unpacking three days later. On one of his frenetic flights up or down the stairs during that time, Mrs Hudson had called out something about getting the place in order, and he’d noticed some of the more obvious items-books, mostly-set in their rightful places. A few hours work and the rest was sorted.
He sat himself in the grey chair near the fireplace and surveyed his new domain. Several things had struck him during the unpacking.
First, he had no food. Generally not an issue as he wasn’t a big eater and take-away was more convenient than cooking. However, the economy he’d promised himself on moving in included, he knew, doing the shopping and preparing meals on his own. There were, of course, those Grateful Clients in the restaurant business, but even a carefully-planned circuit designed to spread free meals over the lot of them would ultimately end in some feelings of abuse. Even Angelo would eventually object, and pasta wasn’t exactly expensive.
Next, there was the matter of his clothes. He had plenty, although more than half of his closet was filled with the costume components sometimes necessary for his work. His favoured suits were beginning to show some wear, due no doubt to there being only a few, worn repeatedly and not always gently. He would dearly love to replenish his wardrobe, but the mild Mr Jenkins, a tailor who had happily repaid Sherlock for the recovery of an antique darning needle with exquisitely fashioned menswear, had suffered a stroke just two months ago. ‘Old Jenkins won’t be doing much sewing from the bed of a nursing home. Don’t suppose you’re any good with a needle?’ he queried the skull.
As he spoke, the street door below thudded shut, followed shortly by a slow, measured step on the stairs. A step Sherlock knew too well, despite the distance he had tried to keep between it and himself. Jaw clenched in fury, he stood and crossed quickly to the door, throwing it open as the rising figure reached the landing half-way up.
‘What are you doing here?’ he barked out. Really must remember to warn Mrs Hudson against letting in certain types. In full kit, too, the smug git. Mycroft wore evening dress. His fine suit needed no repair, nor did the soft woollen coat draped over his arm. Stopping off on his way to some ridiculous political function just to harass me and show off his finery. Bastard.
‘And good evening to you, Sherlock’, Mycroft replied, smiling serenely up at his younger brother. He continued his steady pace, punctuated by the click of his umbrella’s tip on every other riser. He came to a stop on the landing before Sherlock, took in everything he needed to know of his brother in one swift, amused glance, then attempted to move past Sherlock and into the sitting room.
‘Don’t even think of it’, Sherlock warned.
Mycroft tilted his head, raised an eyebrow, and slipped sideways through the kitchen door.
‘Out!’ Sherlock swung around within the flat to intercept the intruder, but Mycroft was already standing in the archway between kitchen and lounge, his eyes lightly skimming the details of his brother’s new home.
‘Well, this is much more pleasant than your last lair.’ He began a leisurely circuit around the kitchen. Sherlock fought with himself over whether to glare at him or to look pointedly away. Concern for what those hands might take up or leave behind won out, and he stared angrily the length of Mycroft’s path.
‘Are you unfamiliar with the meaning of the word “out”?’ Sherlock asked in taut tones, his body sharp and ready.
‘Quite familiar, I assure you.’ Mycroft flashed a wicked and patronizing smile as he opened cupboard doors and drew a finger across the counter top. ‘You seem rather well-acquainted with it as well. Out of funds’-a glance into the refrigerator-‘out of food.’ His long, prim strides aimed him to the sitting room. Sherlock nearly pounced into his favoured chair lest his brother occupy it; Mycroft placed his coat over the back of the plump armchair opposite and relaxed into the seat. ‘I would say out of friends, too, but you never really seemed to have any of those to be out of.’ He watched his hand twirl his umbrella beside the chair a moment, then returned his gaze to his brother. ‘Fortunately, you still have family.’
‘None that have ever done me any good’, Sherlock responded lowly, envisioning a knife pricking into the flesh just above Mycroft’s crisp shirt collar.
‘I know you considered the drug rehabilitation program evil, but tuition, room, and board at university-’
‘It was only tuition.’
‘You refused the room and board.’
‘You refused to make it anywhere but your flat.’ Other brothers would have been shouting by now, but not the Holmeses. Each word was spoken in careful, quiet tones.
Mycroft sighed and considered his fingernails. ‘Tedious. The same childish arguments every time.’
‘If you find me tedious, I wonder that you keep haunting me.’
‘The living don’t haunt, Sherlock’, Mycroft stated as if explaining to a schoolboy. ‘Only the dead do.’
‘You’re enough like him you might as well be his ghost’, Sherlock accused.
Mycroft straightened in the chair. ‘If by that you mean that I am sensible enough to take advantage of the opportunities presented to me: thank you.’
‘“Take advantage”-yes, he was good at that, wasn’t he? Take, use, cast aside what remained, and on to the next “opportunity”.’
Mycroft blinked slowly, gave his umbrella one soft tap against the floorboards. Round one over.
‘I came to offer you employment.’
‘Sure you want to get back to the tedium so quickly? Don’t want to take a break and discuss something else? How’s the diet?’ Sherlock grinned.
‘Fine’, Mycroft assured him with a hand settling on his waist. ‘It’s not a permanent position-nothing so mundane as regular hours and pay. Just a little investigation I’m sure you could handle.’
‘Not interested.’
‘I haven’t even told you what it is.’
‘Nothing that you offer could ever interest me. Now get out.’
Mycroft levelled a hard look at Sherlock, then stood. ‘Perhaps’, he said, taking up his coat and turning to the door, ‘you will someday realize how useless it is to blame me for another man’s sins.’
‘Perhaps someday you’ll realize your own sins’, Sherlock hissed as Mycroft crossed to the open door.
‘He was my father-our father. Growing up in his household can hardly be considered a sin.’
‘And breaking Mother’s heart?’
‘I didn’t think matters of the heart affected you.’ Mycroft assumed a curious look.
‘They affected her.’ Mycroft did not speak the words he had only once been foolish enough to utter in his brother’s presence-That was her weakness.-but they rang still in Sherlock’s ears.
Sherlock closed his eyes, steepled his fingers under his chin. Did not see the pity on Mycroft’s face as he turned and left. When the street door had once again thudded shut, Sherlock rose, took up his violin, and gave full voice to his anger.
Master Post 3: The Place 5: The Flower
Author: red_chapel
Word Count: 1190
Rating: G
Characters: Sherlock, Mrs Hudson
Sherlock returned to unpacking three days later. On one of his frenetic flights up or down the stairs during that time, Mrs Hudson had called out something about getting the place in order, and he’d noticed some of the more obvious items-books, mostly-set in their rightful places. A few hours work and the rest was sorted.
He sat himself in the grey chair near the fireplace and surveyed his new domain. Several things had struck him during the unpacking.
First, he had no food. Generally not an issue as he wasn’t a big eater and take-away was more convenient than cooking. However, the economy he’d promised himself on moving in included, he knew, doing the shopping and preparing meals on his own. There were, of course, those Grateful Clients in the restaurant business, but even a carefully-planned circuit designed to spread free meals over the lot of them would ultimately end in some feelings of abuse. Even Angelo would eventually object, and pasta wasn’t exactly expensive.
Next, there was the matter of his clothes. He had plenty, although more than half of his closet was filled with the costume components sometimes necessary for his work. His favoured suits were beginning to show some wear, due no doubt to there being only a few, worn repeatedly and not always gently. He would dearly love to replenish his wardrobe, but the mild Mr Jenkins, a tailor who had happily repaid Sherlock for the recovery of an antique darning needle with exquisitely fashioned menswear, had suffered a stroke just two months ago. ‘Old Jenkins won’t be doing much sewing from the bed of a nursing home. Don’t suppose you’re any good with a needle?’ he queried the skull.
As he spoke, the street door below thudded shut, followed shortly by a slow, measured step on the stairs. A step Sherlock knew too well, despite the distance he had tried to keep between it and himself. Jaw clenched in fury, he stood and crossed quickly to the door, throwing it open as the rising figure reached the landing half-way up.
‘What are you doing here?’ he barked out. Really must remember to warn Mrs Hudson against letting in certain types. In full kit, too, the smug git. Mycroft wore evening dress. His fine suit needed no repair, nor did the soft woollen coat draped over his arm. Stopping off on his way to some ridiculous political function just to harass me and show off his finery. Bastard.
‘And good evening to you, Sherlock’, Mycroft replied, smiling serenely up at his younger brother. He continued his steady pace, punctuated by the click of his umbrella’s tip on every other riser. He came to a stop on the landing before Sherlock, took in everything he needed to know of his brother in one swift, amused glance, then attempted to move past Sherlock and into the sitting room.
‘Don’t even think of it’, Sherlock warned.
Mycroft tilted his head, raised an eyebrow, and slipped sideways through the kitchen door.
‘Out!’ Sherlock swung around within the flat to intercept the intruder, but Mycroft was already standing in the archway between kitchen and lounge, his eyes lightly skimming the details of his brother’s new home.
‘Well, this is much more pleasant than your last lair.’ He began a leisurely circuit around the kitchen. Sherlock fought with himself over whether to glare at him or to look pointedly away. Concern for what those hands might take up or leave behind won out, and he stared angrily the length of Mycroft’s path.
‘Are you unfamiliar with the meaning of the word “out”?’ Sherlock asked in taut tones, his body sharp and ready.
‘Quite familiar, I assure you.’ Mycroft flashed a wicked and patronizing smile as he opened cupboard doors and drew a finger across the counter top. ‘You seem rather well-acquainted with it as well. Out of funds’-a glance into the refrigerator-‘out of food.’ His long, prim strides aimed him to the sitting room. Sherlock nearly pounced into his favoured chair lest his brother occupy it; Mycroft placed his coat over the back of the plump armchair opposite and relaxed into the seat. ‘I would say out of friends, too, but you never really seemed to have any of those to be out of.’ He watched his hand twirl his umbrella beside the chair a moment, then returned his gaze to his brother. ‘Fortunately, you still have family.’
‘None that have ever done me any good’, Sherlock responded lowly, envisioning a knife pricking into the flesh just above Mycroft’s crisp shirt collar.
‘I know you considered the drug rehabilitation program evil, but tuition, room, and board at university-’
‘It was only tuition.’
‘You refused the room and board.’
‘You refused to make it anywhere but your flat.’ Other brothers would have been shouting by now, but not the Holmeses. Each word was spoken in careful, quiet tones.
Mycroft sighed and considered his fingernails. ‘Tedious. The same childish arguments every time.’
‘If you find me tedious, I wonder that you keep haunting me.’
‘The living don’t haunt, Sherlock’, Mycroft stated as if explaining to a schoolboy. ‘Only the dead do.’
‘You’re enough like him you might as well be his ghost’, Sherlock accused.
Mycroft straightened in the chair. ‘If by that you mean that I am sensible enough to take advantage of the opportunities presented to me: thank you.’
‘“Take advantage”-yes, he was good at that, wasn’t he? Take, use, cast aside what remained, and on to the next “opportunity”.’
Mycroft blinked slowly, gave his umbrella one soft tap against the floorboards. Round one over.
‘I came to offer you employment.’
‘Sure you want to get back to the tedium so quickly? Don’t want to take a break and discuss something else? How’s the diet?’ Sherlock grinned.
‘Fine’, Mycroft assured him with a hand settling on his waist. ‘It’s not a permanent position-nothing so mundane as regular hours and pay. Just a little investigation I’m sure you could handle.’
‘Not interested.’
‘I haven’t even told you what it is.’
‘Nothing that you offer could ever interest me. Now get out.’
Mycroft levelled a hard look at Sherlock, then stood. ‘Perhaps’, he said, taking up his coat and turning to the door, ‘you will someday realize how useless it is to blame me for another man’s sins.’
‘Perhaps someday you’ll realize your own sins’, Sherlock hissed as Mycroft crossed to the open door.
‘He was my father-our father. Growing up in his household can hardly be considered a sin.’
‘And breaking Mother’s heart?’
‘I didn’t think matters of the heart affected you.’ Mycroft assumed a curious look.
‘They affected her.’ Mycroft did not speak the words he had only once been foolish enough to utter in his brother’s presence-That was her weakness.-but they rang still in Sherlock’s ears.
Sherlock closed his eyes, steepled his fingers under his chin. Did not see the pity on Mycroft’s face as he turned and left. When the street door had once again thudded shut, Sherlock rose, took up his violin, and gave full voice to his anger.
Master Post 3: The Place 5: The Flower