Challenge Two Fics: Part One
There is almost 30,000 words worth of fic here everyone. Y'all should be super proud of yourselves. *high-fives*
Remember to read all the fics in each of the five posts, then vote on your three favourites.
So without any further ado, here are the fics!
1.
Day 1
“Get this parasite OUT of me!”
Those were the first words my son heard. His mottled head was out, and five grisly minutes later the rest of him slithered into the world. He continued screaming far longer than normal. The midwife seemed relieved to plop the blaring child onto my chest.
He screamed even louder at this. It was as if he wanted everyone to know that the first three minutes of life had been horrific and that he doubted very much the rest of existence would live up to the hype.
He continued throughout the night. At four I gave up and curled up into a ball with my hands over my ears.
Day 3
I expect you think I was suffering from post-natal depression (not that we knew about that then) my husband certainly did.
“He seems quiet to me,” he shrugged. He was holding the suspiciously placid baby in an awkward fashion.
He’d even pressed the child into Mycroft’s pudgy arms, and though the baby squirmed ferociously there wasn’t the slightest hint of the devil child that had occupied my days and nights.
“The nurses hate him!” I snapped, with a tinge of desperation. “They say they’ve never seen anything like it!”
My husband lifted the baby up to eye-level, like a man guessing the weight of a fruit cake, then he handed him back to me.
“You were going to call him Sherlock, weren’t you?”
I nodded unsurely. The child looked nothing like the soft, dimpled sweetness I had been imagining for the last nine months; he was scrawny, mean eyed, and red-faced - but ‘Sherlock’ would have to do.
One minute after his father and brother were out of earshot, Sherlock started screaming again. He was doing it to spite me.
“Yell all you want!” I snapped back, “You’re stuck with me, and I don’t like it any more than you do.”
Year 6
I tried to love Sherlock, I really did. But nothing I did pleased him; he wanted nothing and he appreciated nothing. His favourite word was ‘bored’ and his favourite sentence was ‘I don’t care.’
In many ways I doted on him - full of false smiles and touches. I was desperate for some affection, some humanity…anything to prove he would turn out normal.
But he made a mockery of that desire. He followed me around like a lamb. He sat at my feet and read to me. Overnight he went from being my enemy to being my best friend.
“Mummy’s boy,” Mycroft would mutter.
I wasn’t fooled. Sherlock liked me because unlike his father and brother I had never fallen for his act.
Year 12
I began to be frightened of him.
He’d grown over the summer. One day I woke up and he was taller than me. He was learning to box, fence, and shoot. We‘d brought a psychopath into the world and now we were teaching him to kill.
“It’s perfectly healthy,” yawned my husband, “I was just the same.
Sherlock will grow out of it as soon as girls come onto the scene.”
But girls never played a part in Sherlock’s life. It was just another tiny piece of proof that I was right.
Year 18
I dreaded him going to university. At home I could keep control of his gruesome ‘experiments’. At school he had less freedom than in a high-security prison. But University amounted to us letting his emotionless world-view and terrifying intellect loose on an unsuspecting population.
I cried with worry as he headed out to the car, granite-faced as always. He stopped, turned back, and leaned down to give me an awkward, cynical embrace.
Every night afterwards I dreaded waking up in the morning to find that I was now the mother of a mass-murderer.
Year 29
There was another parasite inside my womb now, one more commonly known as cancer. I liked to imagine it was one last piece of spite from Sherlock - he had been the womb’s last occupant.
It had almost finished its work.
Mycroft was my only visitor. I lifted a wavering hand to swipe the tears from his face.
“Shall I get Sherlock?” he whispered.
I shook my head. “No. Not him. Not him.”
Mycroft frowned. “Mummy… he’s upset. I know he doesn’t show it well, but he loves you. He wants to say goodbye…”
“No!” I rasped.
I squeezed my precious, loving son’s hand. “Mycroft?”
“Yes?”
“Promise me…promise…that you’ll keep an eye on him?”
2.
“Third time’s a charm!”
Now who writes that on a wedding card? Honestly… The woman hasn’t slept in the same bed as her husband since Charles was courting Diana, and she thinks she’s fit to judge?
My first two marriages didn’t work out. So what? At least I had the courage to admit it! Jane Whitley made the same mistake I made, getting married too young-only difference is, she’s still living with hers!
I married Kenneth at 19. My friends all thought he was a catch, and who was I to argue? I was sick of living at home, and determined not to end up a spinster like my older sister Martha. (She wasn’t quite 30 then. I suppose you wouldn’t call her a spinster these days, would you?)
Anyway, Kenny was a sailor, and handsome as a movie star. Fun, charming-what more could I ask for?
Turns out, I should have asked for less. You know the saying: a girl in every port.
Now my second marriage…that was a shame. I really thought Robert was going to be the one. He was so full of promise-a salesman on his way up the ladder. I didn’t want to need a man to take care of me, but I was still young then. Here was a man with a good job and a bright future who wanted a proper wife to stay at home!
I suppose I should have seen the drinking was a problem long before I did, but what did I know about it? In those days, a man could have a Bloody Mary for breakfast, a three martini lunch, stop ‘round the pub for a few pints after work, and finish off the day with half a bottle of cognac before bed, and no one would bat an eye-so long as he managed to roll himself out of bed in the morning to do it all again. It wasn’t until he stopped doing even that I realized it was time to cut my losses.
Now, I wouldn’t say it quite so smugly as Jane would, but I do think this third marriage is charmed! Howard and I have so much in common, and he’s the most thoughtful man I’ve ever met. I could hardly wait to marry him and move into that beautiful flat on Baker Street. He owns the entire building! We’re going to rent out the other flats, seeing that we don’t need so much space ourselves-it’s just the two of us, after all, and we’re a bit old to be starting a family. Not that I was ever particularly keen on that anyway. No, I’d far rather take care of lodgers than babies!
I’ve taken out an ad for tenants, and I’ll start answering replies once we get back from our honeymoon trip. He’s taking me to Florida! I’ve never been to America before, and it’s been ages since I’ve had a proper seaside holiday. Apparently, Howard has some business acquaintances out there. It is a pity he’ll have to work on our trip, but he has promised to take me to Disney World so we can get our pictures taken in front of Cinderella’s castle. How romantic!
I suppose I should finish writing these thank you notes before I go. Jane Whitley’s a ridiculous gossip-I remember she went on for ages after Susan Claymore’s daughter’s note thanking her for that unbelievably ugly baby blanket got lost in the post. And did she apologize after it turned up in her letterbox after all, having been sent on to Wales by mistake?
Well, she’ll not get fodder for gossip out of me! I’ll pop ‘round this afternoon and put the note into her hand myself!
Dearest Jane,
Thank you so much for your kind wishes, and for the very lovely candy dish. You must have known I would like it, as it looks just like the one I gave you for your anniversary last year! What a thoughtful memory you have.
Howard and I are off on our honeymoon now. Florida! Oh, I’m so excited-you’ll have to help me pick out a new shade of lipstick once I come back with a tan. Will you and James be visiting his family in Inverness again this year?
Well, I must run! There’s just so much I have to do before we leave-I still haven’t bought a new bathing costume! Busy, busy.
Kindest Regards,
The new Mrs. Harold Hudson.
3.
It’s just that he’s so plain. I don’t understand why Sherlock likes him so much. But I see them touching at every opportunity, and it really burns me.
After all, I was here in the beginning. I’ll be here in the end.
Him? I don’t see him lasting. Sherlock needs more color. Needs someone who can equal him.
I know that perhaps this makes me elitist. A snob. But I am the finest that one can have. I have protected Sherlock in ways that most people cannot imagine.
Just a coat? I am a companion. His signature. (I suppose you could say the scarf adds to his image, but she is only necessary in the coldest of months. I am here even in midsummer, shading Sherlock’s pale skin as best I can.)
He has a signature too I suppose. That dreadful jumper. The beige one. I know I am a neutral color, but black is a fashion statement. Beige is a non-entity that says only that he doesn’t care about his image. Sherlock understands the necessity of some drama. John-John is so exceedingly simple that it pains me to see Sherlock infatuated.
It’s too bad Moriarty is such an ass. He at least understands dressing appropriately for the situation.
*
Then the pool happens. I am not there, but neither is that dreadful piece of clothing either. We spend a lot of time talking. Sherlock and John do not return for some time.
I begin to understand John, much to my chagrin. The jumper is quite sincere, really. Comforting.
No.
This will not do.
But then they come back, and for a while Sherlock is on his own. (He insists it is so John can focus on his career. I don’t think it’s that simple.)
John leaves the sweater. I ignore when Sherlock puts it on the first time. It’s short in the sleeves and too big in the chest. It isn’t as itchy as I thought it would be. In fact it’s quite-
No.
I will not do this. I am a well-made coat. My buttons were hand sewn in London. I come from the finest wool. I-
I like a plain beige jumper purchased at Asda.
No.
I love a plain beige jumper purchased at Asda. It pains me to say, that it may be the best thing that’s happened to me.
*
John comes back because he forgot the jumper. He says he’s missed it, but his eyes say more.
Sherlock hands him the jumper, saying it’s been a great comfort to him.
John blinks, as he always does, and bunches the jumper in his hands.
When he falls into Sherlock’s arms, murmuring how he’s missed it, I contain my glee.
After all, I can’t let on just how much it would have hurt to let them go.
I do have some pride.
*
Beige is a rather nice neutral don’t you think? It compliments many colors. Plus, it really does hide tea stains very well. And polyester is such an underrated material, in my own humble opinion. After all, it does do so many things…
4.
Hands
His lover’s hands scrabble and fist in the sheets.
“Yes, God, yes, there…”
He laughs and catches John’s mouth with a kiss.
Fingers clutch at his hair as he presses deeper and feels his lover clench and curse before driving him on, on, on…
They have been lovers for thirty-six days, twelve hours and ten minutes.
Sherlock pauses to suck at the palm of John’s hand, running his tongue along the fingers, taking them into his mouth and sucking hard. Until John’s frantic thrusts become too much, and he begins again, rocking his body deeper, tighter, closer.
John’s knees are drawn up to his chest. Sherlock feels John’s feet flex as he comes, the toes curling tight with pleasure. He lightly plants a kiss on the upturned sole before thrusting in deeper, deeper…
…until all separation is lost and they are one.
Feet
The first thing that struck her about her husband, God rest his soul, was his feet. She was on her hands and knees, cleaning the floor of the Palace Hotel, so absorbed in her work that she didn’t even notice him come in. And then there they were: a pair of shiny black shoes, far more expensive than anything belonging to the Palace’s usual clientele.
She scrambled up, apologising, but he made a joke and helped her to her feet. He was graceful as a dancer and handsome as the devil and she thought to herself, “My, but aren’t you a catch?“
They went dancing at the Empire ballroom and drank sparkling wine which might have been champagne. When he proposed, she said yes without a second thought.
Funny, how things work out.
She knew he had secrets but didn’t realise what kind. The first time she found blood on his suit, she idly wondered if he’d cut himself shaving. But there was far too much, and when it happened for the fifth time, she realised that she couldn’t keep on pretending.
Right was right, after all, even though he was her husband.
She was glad, on the whole, but sometimes missed the girl she had been back then. That foolish girl who’d had her head turned by a pair of shiny shoes and dancer’s feet.
Head
Lestrade likes to think of himself as a level-headed sort of bloke. Not one for flowers and fancy gestures. Fortunately his partner is the same: down-to-earth and unfazed by the late nights, early mornings and unpredictable hours of the case.
When they find out that Lestrade’s gay, most people think he must fancy Sherlock. He and Jack have a good laugh together about this - and it’s another reason to be grateful for his partner’s steady heart and calm, unflustered head.
Their love might not have the whistles and bells you see in films but it is no less profound for all that. It grew quietly and comfortably from the first time they met and it warms them now as they sit, side by side, watching television.
Later, they will wash up in companionable silence and go to bed. He will rest his head on Jack’s shoulder and be lulled to sleep to the sound of his lover’s heart.
Heart
His heart lifts as he leaves the office. Soon, soon he will see her again. Ridiculous, perhaps, this reaction after so many years together but he will allow himself this one moment of weakness, the counterpoint to the relentless drive of his days.
Sometimes he stops the car on the way home to call at a select boutique for those biscuits that she loves so much. She will look quizzically at him, as if to say, “What, again?” before accepting with every sign of delight.
If he is working late, he will occasionally ask Anthea to collect her and bring her to his office. No-one else is trusted with this task.
She is a tabby with white paws and is the best protected cat in London, possibly the world. He supervises her security detail personally and when she goes out hunting, a silent army of watchers in unmarked vans track the red dot of her chip across their screens.
When he gets home, she weaves between his legs in an ecstatic figure of eight. He makes himself a drink and settles down in his armchair to read reports on China. She lightly leaps into his lap and gently touches his nose with her own. Satisfied that all is well, she curls her tail around her paws and goes to sleep.
5.
I’ve been putting this off writing this. I can’t do it justice. This will be my last post. I wouldn’t be writing this at all, except the gossip sites are...
Well they’re wrong, that’s all. The internet is full of people prepared to call him a freak, a wierdo, a nutcase. Even the people he helped turned on him in the end. I just wanted to say my piece.
I’d been living with Sarah for a while by then - Sherlock never quite forgave me for leaving 221b. Mrs Hudson never will. He was...low in those days. He would do stupid things because he was depressed, because he was bored. But when he had a case he was higher than high. He would burn with manic energy.
He broke in one night as I was working late: climbed the fire escape and scrambled through the half-open sash. He was in a state - looked like he’d been through a hedge backwards. He made me promise to come away with him.
“Where?”
“Anywhere. Don’t argue, John, this is important. Come to St Pancras with me now. We’ll get on the Eurostar. Just...say you will?”
I was suspicious straight away. Not because of the sudden, inexplicable demand that I drop everything and do as I was bid - I was used to that. But In all the time I’d known him he’d never once gone on holiday.
“It’s gone midnight, Sherlock. The last trains will have gone I’m sure. Stay tonight - we’ll go first thing.”
“I can’t stay here. Sarah would skin you.” As he said that I noticed that the skin on three of his knuckles was gone, and there was a large, swollen bruise by his temple. “Meet me at the station, first thing. I mean it John. The first train.”
And he was gone. Five minutes later, an email landed in my inbox. From “Anthea”. Reservations for the first train to Brussels in the morning.
I sat in my seat and fidgeted. I’m not a patient traveller and I had no idea where I was supposed to meet Sherlock. The train pulled away, the seat beside me still empty. Even my mean intellect could work this one out. And if he hadn’t made it to the train then... Moriarty.
My heart sank.
A dour, French-accented voice came from the end of the carriage.
“Please be careful, ladies and gentlemen. Attention, mesdames, messieurs. Excusez-moi, Madame.”
I looked up to see a steward pushing a trolley towards me. I knew in an instant it was him. Our eyes met. He passed me a napkin with the coffee I’d requested (a rare occurrence, him making me coffee) and inside it were my instructions.
I’ll leave out the details of those weeks in Europe: now evading, now pursuing Moriarty and his gang. It was only when we got to Switzerland that Sherlock finally seemed to relax. We were walking in the Alps when I received a text. “If you are a medical Doctor, please to the hotel return. An English guest is most ill.“ I made my apologies to Sherlock and hurried back.
That was the last time I saw him.
When I got to the hotel no-one had a clue what the supposed emergency was. My heart sank. I turned on data roaming to try to find the number for the local hospital, certain that this would be where I would find Sherlock. Instead I received the following email.
“My dear John, Moriarty’s been civil enough to let me send you a message. The time has come for he and I to part company with the rest of society. The world will be better without him in it, and not the much worse without me. You’re the only one likely disagree, and for that I'm sorry. You didn’t let me down - I sent you away. The text was from me. Tell Lestrade to look at my laptop - there’s some stuff filed under “Moriarty” that he needs. My password is laughably easy to guess. It’s your middle name.
“Mycroft will take care of the arrangements. It was good while it lasted.
“SH”
You know the rest - the trial and imprisonment of the gang. The inevitable rise to celebrity status of Moriarty and Moran. The backlash against Sherlock.
But I don’t care what you think. He was the best and the wisest man I’ve ever known.
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6.
There are many different kinds of love: lust, obsession, romantic love, the love one has for a sibling, for a friend.
Anderson is the last person one would ever expect to be into weird kinks. But if you happened to stumble into his private room at home then the amount of dinosaur related items would be freak out anyone.
Sherlock Holmes is not just another person to Jim, he’s the reason he puts on his Westwood in the morning. This game with the great detective is more than something to occupy time, it’s an obsession, it’s a thing that consumes his every action. One day Jim will kill Sherlock, but not until he himself is on the brink of death so that the obsession can die with them both.
Clara was in the middle of Selfridges yelling at the cashier because he was refusing to give her a refund on a pair of shoes the first time Harry saw her. She had grabbed a scarf from the rack next to her and quickly stepped into line behind the shouting blonde. When Clara turned to lean on the counter as the boy finally went off to find a manager she gave Harry an apologetic smile and commented on the awful service she was getting. Harriet had grinned and started up a conversation, all the while willing herself not to blurt out what she was thinking: “Perfect beautiful wonderful fuck me marry me have my children”. Ten years later on their anniversary Harry wraps up the scarf she brought to have an excuse to talk to Clara and then hands it to her as an apology.
For Sherlock and Mycroft loving each other was never going to be easy. Most siblings show affection through conventional gestures: birthday gifts and favours and the unspoken knowledge that one would probably give the other a kidney if needs be. For the Holmes brothers it is very different. Neither would ever buy the other a gift, but Mycroft will always be there to catch him when he falls and Sherlock will always be quietly grateful.
When John finds himself strapped into a jacket loaded with explosives he considers just how much he loves Sherlock Holmes. He thinks back to all the times Sherlock has patronised him, taken him for granted, insulted him, hurt him. It’s a lot of times, he realises. But then he considers how much Sherlock has done for him. How he dragged him out of the nightmares and the darkness and into this crazy world of adventures. He thinks about all the things Sherlock does for him, like not leaving fingers in the breadbin or buying a particular type of jam he knows John likes. That one conversation when Sherlock told him he would kill for him… So when John finds himself facing his friend and speaking Moriarty’s words it kills him to see the pain and disbelief on his face. And when Sherlock is pointing a gun at the explosives he finds the situation a little easier to except because he has his best friend next to him.
7
Warning: Child sex abuse, incest
When
“Just what did Mycroft do to make you hate him so much?” John asked Sherlock peevishly, after another tense visit involving altogether too much staring, umbrella-posturing, and violin abuse.
“I don't hate him for anything he did,” Sherlock replied.
***
When Sherlock was three, he knew he was amazing.
When Mycroft came home from school for holiday, Sherlock showed him all the amazing things he could do now. His brother smiled and laughed and was so proud. He said one day Sherlock might even be as amazing as Mycroft himself. Sherlock had no doubt of it.
When Mummy said it was time for nap, Sherlock was reluctant to go. Usually he didn't mind nap time because it provided an opportunity for thinking his amazing thoughts. But today Mycroft had to promise to come read to him before he would consent to go to his room. Not that he needed someone to read to him - he had been reading on his own half his life now - but having his brother to himself was lovely.
After Sherlock picked out the book for Mycroft to read, he undressed and lay down on his bed. Whilst waiting for his brother's arrival he played with himself idly - another amazing thing he learned recently. He had shown Mummy but she had just said, “Yes, dear, but it's improper to show other people or talk about it.” Sherlock was certain Mycroft would appreciate it for how amazing it was.
Mycroft did.
Throughout the holiday and all the ones that followed, Mycroft continued to show Sherlock even more amazing things.
When Sherlock was six, some of the things Mycroft was showing him seemed not so wonderful any more. Uncomfortable, even. At school adults talked about bodies being “private” and “not for sharing”. But Mycroft explained, “We're special, as you know, you and I. Amazing. More amazing than anyone else.” Sherlock nodded. He had noticed how different everyone else was, how slow. Boring. Even Mummy and Daddy, sometimes. Only Mycroft could still amaze him. “We're unique,” his brother continued. “Rules for others do not apply to us. We have a special relationship because there will never be any one else like us.” Mycroft smiled and held Sherlock closer. “You are my brother - my amazing brother - and I will always love you.”
When Sherlock was nine, he made a friend. Trevor was also nine, and about as slow as everyone else. But somehow not as boring. Certainly, he appreciated how amazing Sherlock himself was. That was the word the boy used, too, over and over: “amazing”. Sherlock smiled every time he heard it. Since Mycroft was away at school, Sherlock spent all his spare time with his new friend. He thought Trevor might enjoy the special activities Sherlock had learned from Mycroft. “Oh yeah,” his friend said, “playing doctor. I've done that, but my mum don't like it when I do.” This was much more than playing doctor, Sherlock explained, and showed him. He wasn't sure how much Trevor liked it, though. The boy didn't say to stop, but he never said amazing either.
When he rang up his friend's house the next day, the mum said her son wouldn't be able to play with Sherlock anymore.
When Mycroft next came home, Sherlock told him about Trevor. His brother gave him a pitying look. “Sherlock, did I not explain to you that this was for us alone? Your friend was an ordinary boy. A very nice boy, I'm sure, but ordinary. Don't try to share the special parts of yourself with people who will not understand.” Sherlock looked away. He had been lonely without his friend. “Come here,” said Mycroft. “I understand. Do you not realize it is the same for me? But we are lucky, remember, because we will always have each other.” Mycroft held him tight and told him over and over, “I love you. I will always love you.”
When Sherlock was eleven, Mycroft no longer came to his room.
When Sherlock asked him why, Mycroft gave him a small, pitying smile and said, “I have put away childish things.”
***
Sherlock did not hate Mycroft for anything he'd done.
He hated him because he'd stopped.
8.
Mycroft should almost expect the sight as he steps into the living room of 211b, Sherlock sprawled across the sofa, a forearm cast over his eyes and skin faintly flushed from the cigarette balanced precariously between full lips. And on some level, he does.
Mycroft merely tuts softly and shakes his head, staring down at Sherlock who makes no move to acknowledge his presence.
“Smoking’s such a filthy habit.”
Sherlock’s pale eyes swivel to gaze coolly at Mycroft while pianist fingers deftly remove the cigarette. “Bugger off,” he replies. Mycroft can’t help but roll his eyes.
“Move,” he says, tucking Sherlock’s legs up to seat himself besides the man. And despite the close proximity and the surprising contact, Sherlock complies, inhaling a large drag from the cigarette and blowing it in the direction of his brother.
Mycroft wrinkles his nose and bats the smoke away, the pink box of chocolates his brought with him rattling slightly in his lap. Sherlock eyes it with amusement.
“Chocolate dear brother?” he snorts, poking the box with a socked foot. “Ah I knew the diet was off.”
“They’re not mine,” Mycroft replies, ignoring the comment. “They were given to me by my assistant who received them from an unwanted admirer.” Mycroft opens the decorative box carefully. “And upon such a topic, where is Dr. Watson?”
Sherlock says nothing and merely takes another quick drag of the cigarette. A moment passes in complete silence and Mycroft is trying to select which chocolate to try. However something suddenly softens and Mycroft can feel Sherlock’s sigh reverberate through his body.
“He’s gone out.”
Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Having a sexual identity crisis are we?” He selects a lemon truffle and pops it into his mouth. Sherlock sits up on his elbows, cigarette balanced between his fingers, ash spilling onto the carpet.
“To some extent,” Sherlock replies. “I kissed him.”
“I know.”
“I know you know.” Sherlock glares at him.
Mycroft smiles. “That’s good. Chocolate?”
Sherlock eyes them dubiously before snatching a hazelnut truffle and flopping back down, popping it between his lips. There is another mild silence and Mycroft’s eyes soften as he watches his brother’s cheeks flush, the sad glint in his eye trying desperately to erase itself. They may not be able to get along at the best of times but it does not mean that they are without a care for one another.
Mycroft gently kneads Sherlock’s calf with one hand, the box of chocolate rattling slightly with the movement.
“He’ll come back,” he murmurs, dark eyes watching Sherlock intently. The other continues to stare blankly at the ceiling, the slow rise in his gaunt chest the only tell tale sign of life. Silently, his lips part and he lets out a soft breath of air.
“I don’t need your pity,” Sherlock states quietly, defiantly. But they both know it’s not pity.
“I don’t pity you.” And Mycroft stares pointedly at him. “I’m merely being honest. John will come back.” He accentuates his point with a playful pinch to Sherlock’s knee.
“Stop saying that!” Sherlock hisses angrily. “How could you know?!”
He’s shaking, trembling softly and it’s sweet to see such helplessness from his brother. To see such emotion radiate from him. Mycroft can see Sherlock’s heart throbbing, cracking with fear and love and it makes him smile.
Why?
Because it proves that Sherlock is human. That he’s capable of loving. That he’ll be alright. John will come back and when he does Sherlock will be fine. Happy even.
And his breaking heart at the moment proves it.
Mycroft reaches down and plucks the cigarette from between Sherlock’s fingers, ignoring the protesting glare, and places it between his own lips, taking a long drag. It’s been a while but the sweet burn in the back of his throat is like a welcoming kiss from an old lover. Sherlock stares at him in question.
At that very moment, the door opens, footsteps coming to a halt as John Watson stands in the doorway, his cheeks flushed and chest heaving with the onslaught of a well deserved epiphany. He blinks at Mycroft in surprise before gazing at Sherlock. And the softening of John’s eyes and the small upward twitch of his lips is all Mycroft needs to see to know that he was right all along. Sherlock and John will be just fine.
So he smiles and holds the box of chocolates up in one hand, the cigarette balanced in the other.
“Chocolate?”
9.
deus ex Mycroft
It had started as a joke. “Deus ex machina,” she’d said to Mycroft after he’d stepped in, yet again, to rescue that brother of his. It had been echoed back a few days later by Peter, the other PA (garbled, of course, and he’d been sacked for incompetence shortly thereafter; such misunderstanding of basic syntax wasn’t the first sin he’d committed in Mycroft’s book, but it had been the last. If it had surprised Peter that was only more proof that he was ill-suited for the position): “Deus ex Mycroft.”
Just because it was syntactically wrong didn’t mean it wasn’t fundamentally correct, and she had no qualms about telling him so.
Deus ex Mycroft. It does suit. We minor gods do your bidding.
And it did: god from Mycroft, and they his putti. The image of him as Venus, dispatching her as Cupid to ensnare and beguile and manipulate on his behalf.
It had been enough to bring down Carthage, after all. Not a bad trick, for the British government.
He started calling her Anthea shortly after that. One of the Graces, goddess of the spring, and it changed by the season; the point was less who she was than what: a goddess, and always the correct goddess, the one most suited to the occasion.
And she did his bidding. As she was doing now, waiting in the car for Mycroft to finish placing the call to the doctor. John, she reminded herself.
Her phone buzzed. Number masked, as expected, but always signed, from him. (It wasn’t true that he never texted-of course he did-though he enjoyed keeping his brother on his toes and would always call him if given the opportunity.)
Time. Fly, Cupid. MH
She gave the signal and the car pulled into traffic. It only had a block or two to go; Mycroft had predicted the doctor’s reaction well.
You’re thinking of Iris. And our Dido’s not dead yet.
The phone buzzed again as the car pulled up to the kerb.
Better if we can end without the city in flames. And you’re jumping ahead; there’s safe harbour to ensure first. MH
Pushing open the door there was the doctor and yes, it would be better to keep the city intact, but she could see immediately how rootless this man was.
He has no kingdom to burn.
That’s what we’re here to give him. MH
***
“You’re very loyal, very quickly.” It was an accusation, and a challenge.
And will you give them a rainstorm, too?
It would make him smile, later, when he saw the message, in the same way it made her smile to hear his jibe about a happy announcement, addressed to John but directed at her in the shadows.
Does not my right hand given to you in promise deter you? It, too, was a challenge, and if Mycroft inspected John’s left, it only made sense; it was the hand with which he held his gun, and thus the instrument of the pledge that would keep them in orbit around one another.
John had turned to leave, his face set into stubborn lines, and Mycroft did not call him back again.
No need. I suspect the storm will find them of its own accord. MH
A cave then? Your brother will destroy him when he leaves.
He may try. But this one understands duty. The trick is making him understand that the surest way to stay is to follow. MH
Any point in asking where I’m going?
None at all, John.
It hadn’t fazed him. He might be able to keep his kingdom and his soul, then, if he could build the former on the fluid foundation that was Sherlock, and keep the latter safely away from the hunters’ arrows. It might not have to end in flames after all.
There was more wandering for him to do, yet, but when she relayed the message it was a promise: “I’m to take you home.”
10.
Love was not something that the Holmes dynasty was blessed with. Or cursed with, some others might say.
Genius, ambition, and insanity were to be found in abundance, but an overflow of softer emotions was absent.
None of them were particularly lucky in love and none of them particularly minded.
In the Holmes family, contact with each other without any sort of destruction-political, economical, or social; death was so outré-was as much proof of fond sentiments as a spoken declaration.
Everyone always agreed that Mycroft and Sherlock were the closest of brothers.
---
John Watson learned about love from his parents.
There was no need to guard it jealously, because love that is good and true will not run dry. But that didn’t mean that he should throw it away without care as to who received it.
He chose who and what to love and loved as best he could, as unconditionally as he was able.
It was harder when his heart chose unwisely and when the people he cherished were taken from him or left, but he soldiered on.
John loved Harry, but when it was obvious that she didn’t love him enough, didn’t love Clara enough to care about their well-being he trained himself to not get hurt.
John learned to love from his parents.
Harry taught him that he could still love someone while letting them go.
---
For Lestrade, love was demonstrated. Saying the words didn’t make them true.
Love was his sisters badgering him about working too hard and when was he going to start to date again? His brother’s love was in his efforts to curtail his sisters’ efforts at matchmaking and filling his cupboards with non-perishables, his freezer with casseroles, and his fridge with beer. Danny was the best little brother a man could ask for.
It was his nieces and nephews still lighting up whenever he could make it to family functions and swarming about him to demand hugs and play. He’d have to start bribing them with sweets and toys soon.
Love was in the little things-a smile for encouragement, a coffee just because, a shared feeling that built a connection.
A love that lasted was made of such things.
---
Donovan had been in love before.
She didn’t like it.
It made her too dependent on someone else, stole away her good sense, and robbed her of her control.
She wasn’t looking for love and she hoped dearly that it wouldn’t come looking for her.
---
Mrs. Hudson knew what it was to love impossible men.
She thinks she’d like to find a quiet sort of love.
She’s never had that before.
---
Molly wonders why love always seems to fly past her without ever touching her.
Desire, obsession, lust, silly little crushes-all of these are familiar to her.
She searches desperately for love but cannot find it.
Molly thinks it’s because it takes more than one person to create the sort of love she’s looking for; to start a sympathetic loop of affection that feeds on itself and grows stronger.
She’s tried but she can’t find a second person to test her hypothesis with.
---
Anderson still doesn’t know how to separate sex and love.
Part Two: Entries 11 - 20 >>
Remember to read all the fics in each of the five posts, then vote on your three favourites.
So without any further ado, here are the fics!
1.
Day 1
“Get this parasite OUT of me!”
Those were the first words my son heard. His mottled head was out, and five grisly minutes later the rest of him slithered into the world. He continued screaming far longer than normal. The midwife seemed relieved to plop the blaring child onto my chest.
He screamed even louder at this. It was as if he wanted everyone to know that the first three minutes of life had been horrific and that he doubted very much the rest of existence would live up to the hype.
He continued throughout the night. At four I gave up and curled up into a ball with my hands over my ears.
Day 3
I expect you think I was suffering from post-natal depression (not that we knew about that then) my husband certainly did.
“He seems quiet to me,” he shrugged. He was holding the suspiciously placid baby in an awkward fashion.
He’d even pressed the child into Mycroft’s pudgy arms, and though the baby squirmed ferociously there wasn’t the slightest hint of the devil child that had occupied my days and nights.
“The nurses hate him!” I snapped, with a tinge of desperation. “They say they’ve never seen anything like it!”
My husband lifted the baby up to eye-level, like a man guessing the weight of a fruit cake, then he handed him back to me.
“You were going to call him Sherlock, weren’t you?”
I nodded unsurely. The child looked nothing like the soft, dimpled sweetness I had been imagining for the last nine months; he was scrawny, mean eyed, and red-faced - but ‘Sherlock’ would have to do.
One minute after his father and brother were out of earshot, Sherlock started screaming again. He was doing it to spite me.
“Yell all you want!” I snapped back, “You’re stuck with me, and I don’t like it any more than you do.”
Year 6
I tried to love Sherlock, I really did. But nothing I did pleased him; he wanted nothing and he appreciated nothing. His favourite word was ‘bored’ and his favourite sentence was ‘I don’t care.’
In many ways I doted on him - full of false smiles and touches. I was desperate for some affection, some humanity…anything to prove he would turn out normal.
But he made a mockery of that desire. He followed me around like a lamb. He sat at my feet and read to me. Overnight he went from being my enemy to being my best friend.
“Mummy’s boy,” Mycroft would mutter.
I wasn’t fooled. Sherlock liked me because unlike his father and brother I had never fallen for his act.
Year 12
I began to be frightened of him.
He’d grown over the summer. One day I woke up and he was taller than me. He was learning to box, fence, and shoot. We‘d brought a psychopath into the world and now we were teaching him to kill.
“It’s perfectly healthy,” yawned my husband, “I was just the same.
Sherlock will grow out of it as soon as girls come onto the scene.”
But girls never played a part in Sherlock’s life. It was just another tiny piece of proof that I was right.
Year 18
I dreaded him going to university. At home I could keep control of his gruesome ‘experiments’. At school he had less freedom than in a high-security prison. But University amounted to us letting his emotionless world-view and terrifying intellect loose on an unsuspecting population.
I cried with worry as he headed out to the car, granite-faced as always. He stopped, turned back, and leaned down to give me an awkward, cynical embrace.
Every night afterwards I dreaded waking up in the morning to find that I was now the mother of a mass-murderer.
Year 29
There was another parasite inside my womb now, one more commonly known as cancer. I liked to imagine it was one last piece of spite from Sherlock - he had been the womb’s last occupant.
It had almost finished its work.
Mycroft was my only visitor. I lifted a wavering hand to swipe the tears from his face.
“Shall I get Sherlock?” he whispered.
I shook my head. “No. Not him. Not him.”
Mycroft frowned. “Mummy… he’s upset. I know he doesn’t show it well, but he loves you. He wants to say goodbye…”
“No!” I rasped.
I squeezed my precious, loving son’s hand. “Mycroft?”
“Yes?”
“Promise me…promise…that you’ll keep an eye on him?”
2.
“Third time’s a charm!”
Now who writes that on a wedding card? Honestly… The woman hasn’t slept in the same bed as her husband since Charles was courting Diana, and she thinks she’s fit to judge?
My first two marriages didn’t work out. So what? At least I had the courage to admit it! Jane Whitley made the same mistake I made, getting married too young-only difference is, she’s still living with hers!
I married Kenneth at 19. My friends all thought he was a catch, and who was I to argue? I was sick of living at home, and determined not to end up a spinster like my older sister Martha. (She wasn’t quite 30 then. I suppose you wouldn’t call her a spinster these days, would you?)
Anyway, Kenny was a sailor, and handsome as a movie star. Fun, charming-what more could I ask for?
Turns out, I should have asked for less. You know the saying: a girl in every port.
Now my second marriage…that was a shame. I really thought Robert was going to be the one. He was so full of promise-a salesman on his way up the ladder. I didn’t want to need a man to take care of me, but I was still young then. Here was a man with a good job and a bright future who wanted a proper wife to stay at home!
I suppose I should have seen the drinking was a problem long before I did, but what did I know about it? In those days, a man could have a Bloody Mary for breakfast, a three martini lunch, stop ‘round the pub for a few pints after work, and finish off the day with half a bottle of cognac before bed, and no one would bat an eye-so long as he managed to roll himself out of bed in the morning to do it all again. It wasn’t until he stopped doing even that I realized it was time to cut my losses.
Now, I wouldn’t say it quite so smugly as Jane would, but I do think this third marriage is charmed! Howard and I have so much in common, and he’s the most thoughtful man I’ve ever met. I could hardly wait to marry him and move into that beautiful flat on Baker Street. He owns the entire building! We’re going to rent out the other flats, seeing that we don’t need so much space ourselves-it’s just the two of us, after all, and we’re a bit old to be starting a family. Not that I was ever particularly keen on that anyway. No, I’d far rather take care of lodgers than babies!
I’ve taken out an ad for tenants, and I’ll start answering replies once we get back from our honeymoon trip. He’s taking me to Florida! I’ve never been to America before, and it’s been ages since I’ve had a proper seaside holiday. Apparently, Howard has some business acquaintances out there. It is a pity he’ll have to work on our trip, but he has promised to take me to Disney World so we can get our pictures taken in front of Cinderella’s castle. How romantic!
I suppose I should finish writing these thank you notes before I go. Jane Whitley’s a ridiculous gossip-I remember she went on for ages after Susan Claymore’s daughter’s note thanking her for that unbelievably ugly baby blanket got lost in the post. And did she apologize after it turned up in her letterbox after all, having been sent on to Wales by mistake?
Well, she’ll not get fodder for gossip out of me! I’ll pop ‘round this afternoon and put the note into her hand myself!
Dearest Jane,
Thank you so much for your kind wishes, and for the very lovely candy dish. You must have known I would like it, as it looks just like the one I gave you for your anniversary last year! What a thoughtful memory you have.
Howard and I are off on our honeymoon now. Florida! Oh, I’m so excited-you’ll have to help me pick out a new shade of lipstick once I come back with a tan. Will you and James be visiting his family in Inverness again this year?
Well, I must run! There’s just so much I have to do before we leave-I still haven’t bought a new bathing costume! Busy, busy.
Kindest Regards,
The new Mrs. Harold Hudson.
3.
It’s just that he’s so plain. I don’t understand why Sherlock likes him so much. But I see them touching at every opportunity, and it really burns me.
After all, I was here in the beginning. I’ll be here in the end.
Him? I don’t see him lasting. Sherlock needs more color. Needs someone who can equal him.
I know that perhaps this makes me elitist. A snob. But I am the finest that one can have. I have protected Sherlock in ways that most people cannot imagine.
Just a coat? I am a companion. His signature. (I suppose you could say the scarf adds to his image, but she is only necessary in the coldest of months. I am here even in midsummer, shading Sherlock’s pale skin as best I can.)
He has a signature too I suppose. That dreadful jumper. The beige one. I know I am a neutral color, but black is a fashion statement. Beige is a non-entity that says only that he doesn’t care about his image. Sherlock understands the necessity of some drama. John-John is so exceedingly simple that it pains me to see Sherlock infatuated.
It’s too bad Moriarty is such an ass. He at least understands dressing appropriately for the situation.
*
Then the pool happens. I am not there, but neither is that dreadful piece of clothing either. We spend a lot of time talking. Sherlock and John do not return for some time.
I begin to understand John, much to my chagrin. The jumper is quite sincere, really. Comforting.
No.
This will not do.
But then they come back, and for a while Sherlock is on his own. (He insists it is so John can focus on his career. I don’t think it’s that simple.)
John leaves the sweater. I ignore when Sherlock puts it on the first time. It’s short in the sleeves and too big in the chest. It isn’t as itchy as I thought it would be. In fact it’s quite-
No.
I will not do this. I am a well-made coat. My buttons were hand sewn in London. I come from the finest wool. I-
I like a plain beige jumper purchased at Asda.
No.
I love a plain beige jumper purchased at Asda. It pains me to say, that it may be the best thing that’s happened to me.
*
John comes back because he forgot the jumper. He says he’s missed it, but his eyes say more.
Sherlock hands him the jumper, saying it’s been a great comfort to him.
John blinks, as he always does, and bunches the jumper in his hands.
When he falls into Sherlock’s arms, murmuring how he’s missed it, I contain my glee.
After all, I can’t let on just how much it would have hurt to let them go.
I do have some pride.
*
Beige is a rather nice neutral don’t you think? It compliments many colors. Plus, it really does hide tea stains very well. And polyester is such an underrated material, in my own humble opinion. After all, it does do so many things…
4.
Hands
His lover’s hands scrabble and fist in the sheets.
“Yes, God, yes, there…”
He laughs and catches John’s mouth with a kiss.
Fingers clutch at his hair as he presses deeper and feels his lover clench and curse before driving him on, on, on…
They have been lovers for thirty-six days, twelve hours and ten minutes.
Sherlock pauses to suck at the palm of John’s hand, running his tongue along the fingers, taking them into his mouth and sucking hard. Until John’s frantic thrusts become too much, and he begins again, rocking his body deeper, tighter, closer.
John’s knees are drawn up to his chest. Sherlock feels John’s feet flex as he comes, the toes curling tight with pleasure. He lightly plants a kiss on the upturned sole before thrusting in deeper, deeper…
…until all separation is lost and they are one.
Feet
The first thing that struck her about her husband, God rest his soul, was his feet. She was on her hands and knees, cleaning the floor of the Palace Hotel, so absorbed in her work that she didn’t even notice him come in. And then there they were: a pair of shiny black shoes, far more expensive than anything belonging to the Palace’s usual clientele.
She scrambled up, apologising, but he made a joke and helped her to her feet. He was graceful as a dancer and handsome as the devil and she thought to herself, “My, but aren’t you a catch?“
They went dancing at the Empire ballroom and drank sparkling wine which might have been champagne. When he proposed, she said yes without a second thought.
Funny, how things work out.
She knew he had secrets but didn’t realise what kind. The first time she found blood on his suit, she idly wondered if he’d cut himself shaving. But there was far too much, and when it happened for the fifth time, she realised that she couldn’t keep on pretending.
Right was right, after all, even though he was her husband.
She was glad, on the whole, but sometimes missed the girl she had been back then. That foolish girl who’d had her head turned by a pair of shiny shoes and dancer’s feet.
Head
Lestrade likes to think of himself as a level-headed sort of bloke. Not one for flowers and fancy gestures. Fortunately his partner is the same: down-to-earth and unfazed by the late nights, early mornings and unpredictable hours of the case.
When they find out that Lestrade’s gay, most people think he must fancy Sherlock. He and Jack have a good laugh together about this - and it’s another reason to be grateful for his partner’s steady heart and calm, unflustered head.
Their love might not have the whistles and bells you see in films but it is no less profound for all that. It grew quietly and comfortably from the first time they met and it warms them now as they sit, side by side, watching television.
Later, they will wash up in companionable silence and go to bed. He will rest his head on Jack’s shoulder and be lulled to sleep to the sound of his lover’s heart.
Heart
His heart lifts as he leaves the office. Soon, soon he will see her again. Ridiculous, perhaps, this reaction after so many years together but he will allow himself this one moment of weakness, the counterpoint to the relentless drive of his days.
Sometimes he stops the car on the way home to call at a select boutique for those biscuits that she loves so much. She will look quizzically at him, as if to say, “What, again?” before accepting with every sign of delight.
If he is working late, he will occasionally ask Anthea to collect her and bring her to his office. No-one else is trusted with this task.
She is a tabby with white paws and is the best protected cat in London, possibly the world. He supervises her security detail personally and when she goes out hunting, a silent army of watchers in unmarked vans track the red dot of her chip across their screens.
When he gets home, she weaves between his legs in an ecstatic figure of eight. He makes himself a drink and settles down in his armchair to read reports on China. She lightly leaps into his lap and gently touches his nose with her own. Satisfied that all is well, she curls her tail around her paws and goes to sleep.
5.
I’ve been putting this off writing this. I can’t do it justice. This will be my last post. I wouldn’t be writing this at all, except the gossip sites are...
Well they’re wrong, that’s all. The internet is full of people prepared to call him a freak, a wierdo, a nutcase. Even the people he helped turned on him in the end. I just wanted to say my piece.
I’d been living with Sarah for a while by then - Sherlock never quite forgave me for leaving 221b. Mrs Hudson never will. He was...low in those days. He would do stupid things because he was depressed, because he was bored. But when he had a case he was higher than high. He would burn with manic energy.
He broke in one night as I was working late: climbed the fire escape and scrambled through the half-open sash. He was in a state - looked like he’d been through a hedge backwards. He made me promise to come away with him.
“Where?”
“Anywhere. Don’t argue, John, this is important. Come to St Pancras with me now. We’ll get on the Eurostar. Just...say you will?”
I was suspicious straight away. Not because of the sudden, inexplicable demand that I drop everything and do as I was bid - I was used to that. But In all the time I’d known him he’d never once gone on holiday.
“It’s gone midnight, Sherlock. The last trains will have gone I’m sure. Stay tonight - we’ll go first thing.”
“I can’t stay here. Sarah would skin you.” As he said that I noticed that the skin on three of his knuckles was gone, and there was a large, swollen bruise by his temple. “Meet me at the station, first thing. I mean it John. The first train.”
And he was gone. Five minutes later, an email landed in my inbox. From “Anthea”. Reservations for the first train to Brussels in the morning.
I sat in my seat and fidgeted. I’m not a patient traveller and I had no idea where I was supposed to meet Sherlock. The train pulled away, the seat beside me still empty. Even my mean intellect could work this one out. And if he hadn’t made it to the train then... Moriarty.
My heart sank.
A dour, French-accented voice came from the end of the carriage.
“Please be careful, ladies and gentlemen. Attention, mesdames, messieurs. Excusez-moi, Madame.”
I looked up to see a steward pushing a trolley towards me. I knew in an instant it was him. Our eyes met. He passed me a napkin with the coffee I’d requested (a rare occurrence, him making me coffee) and inside it were my instructions.
I’ll leave out the details of those weeks in Europe: now evading, now pursuing Moriarty and his gang. It was only when we got to Switzerland that Sherlock finally seemed to relax. We were walking in the Alps when I received a text. “If you are a medical Doctor, please to the hotel return. An English guest is most ill.“ I made my apologies to Sherlock and hurried back.
That was the last time I saw him.
When I got to the hotel no-one had a clue what the supposed emergency was. My heart sank. I turned on data roaming to try to find the number for the local hospital, certain that this would be where I would find Sherlock. Instead I received the following email.
“My dear John, Moriarty’s been civil enough to let me send you a message. The time has come for he and I to part company with the rest of society. The world will be better without him in it, and not the much worse without me. You’re the only one likely disagree, and for that I'm sorry. You didn’t let me down - I sent you away. The text was from me. Tell Lestrade to look at my laptop - there’s some stuff filed under “Moriarty” that he needs. My password is laughably easy to guess. It’s your middle name.
“Mycroft will take care of the arrangements. It was good while it lasted.
“SH”
You know the rest - the trial and imprisonment of the gang. The inevitable rise to celebrity status of Moriarty and Moran. The backlash against Sherlock.
But I don’t care what you think. He was the best and the wisest man I’ve ever known.
Comments for this entry are switched off
6.
There are many different kinds of love: lust, obsession, romantic love, the love one has for a sibling, for a friend.
Anderson is the last person one would ever expect to be into weird kinks. But if you happened to stumble into his private room at home then the amount of dinosaur related items would be freak out anyone.
Sherlock Holmes is not just another person to Jim, he’s the reason he puts on his Westwood in the morning. This game with the great detective is more than something to occupy time, it’s an obsession, it’s a thing that consumes his every action. One day Jim will kill Sherlock, but not until he himself is on the brink of death so that the obsession can die with them both.
Clara was in the middle of Selfridges yelling at the cashier because he was refusing to give her a refund on a pair of shoes the first time Harry saw her. She had grabbed a scarf from the rack next to her and quickly stepped into line behind the shouting blonde. When Clara turned to lean on the counter as the boy finally went off to find a manager she gave Harry an apologetic smile and commented on the awful service she was getting. Harriet had grinned and started up a conversation, all the while willing herself not to blurt out what she was thinking: “Perfect beautiful wonderful fuck me marry me have my children”. Ten years later on their anniversary Harry wraps up the scarf she brought to have an excuse to talk to Clara and then hands it to her as an apology.
For Sherlock and Mycroft loving each other was never going to be easy. Most siblings show affection through conventional gestures: birthday gifts and favours and the unspoken knowledge that one would probably give the other a kidney if needs be. For the Holmes brothers it is very different. Neither would ever buy the other a gift, but Mycroft will always be there to catch him when he falls and Sherlock will always be quietly grateful.
When John finds himself strapped into a jacket loaded with explosives he considers just how much he loves Sherlock Holmes. He thinks back to all the times Sherlock has patronised him, taken him for granted, insulted him, hurt him. It’s a lot of times, he realises. But then he considers how much Sherlock has done for him. How he dragged him out of the nightmares and the darkness and into this crazy world of adventures. He thinks about all the things Sherlock does for him, like not leaving fingers in the breadbin or buying a particular type of jam he knows John likes. That one conversation when Sherlock told him he would kill for him… So when John finds himself facing his friend and speaking Moriarty’s words it kills him to see the pain and disbelief on his face. And when Sherlock is pointing a gun at the explosives he finds the situation a little easier to except because he has his best friend next to him.
7
Warning: Child sex abuse, incest
When
“Just what did Mycroft do to make you hate him so much?” John asked Sherlock peevishly, after another tense visit involving altogether too much staring, umbrella-posturing, and violin abuse.
“I don't hate him for anything he did,” Sherlock replied.
***
When Sherlock was three, he knew he was amazing.
When Mycroft came home from school for holiday, Sherlock showed him all the amazing things he could do now. His brother smiled and laughed and was so proud. He said one day Sherlock might even be as amazing as Mycroft himself. Sherlock had no doubt of it.
When Mummy said it was time for nap, Sherlock was reluctant to go. Usually he didn't mind nap time because it provided an opportunity for thinking his amazing thoughts. But today Mycroft had to promise to come read to him before he would consent to go to his room. Not that he needed someone to read to him - he had been reading on his own half his life now - but having his brother to himself was lovely.
After Sherlock picked out the book for Mycroft to read, he undressed and lay down on his bed. Whilst waiting for his brother's arrival he played with himself idly - another amazing thing he learned recently. He had shown Mummy but she had just said, “Yes, dear, but it's improper to show other people or talk about it.” Sherlock was certain Mycroft would appreciate it for how amazing it was.
Mycroft did.
Throughout the holiday and all the ones that followed, Mycroft continued to show Sherlock even more amazing things.
When Sherlock was six, some of the things Mycroft was showing him seemed not so wonderful any more. Uncomfortable, even. At school adults talked about bodies being “private” and “not for sharing”. But Mycroft explained, “We're special, as you know, you and I. Amazing. More amazing than anyone else.” Sherlock nodded. He had noticed how different everyone else was, how slow. Boring. Even Mummy and Daddy, sometimes. Only Mycroft could still amaze him. “We're unique,” his brother continued. “Rules for others do not apply to us. We have a special relationship because there will never be any one else like us.” Mycroft smiled and held Sherlock closer. “You are my brother - my amazing brother - and I will always love you.”
When Sherlock was nine, he made a friend. Trevor was also nine, and about as slow as everyone else. But somehow not as boring. Certainly, he appreciated how amazing Sherlock himself was. That was the word the boy used, too, over and over: “amazing”. Sherlock smiled every time he heard it. Since Mycroft was away at school, Sherlock spent all his spare time with his new friend. He thought Trevor might enjoy the special activities Sherlock had learned from Mycroft. “Oh yeah,” his friend said, “playing doctor. I've done that, but my mum don't like it when I do.” This was much more than playing doctor, Sherlock explained, and showed him. He wasn't sure how much Trevor liked it, though. The boy didn't say to stop, but he never said amazing either.
When he rang up his friend's house the next day, the mum said her son wouldn't be able to play with Sherlock anymore.
When Mycroft next came home, Sherlock told him about Trevor. His brother gave him a pitying look. “Sherlock, did I not explain to you that this was for us alone? Your friend was an ordinary boy. A very nice boy, I'm sure, but ordinary. Don't try to share the special parts of yourself with people who will not understand.” Sherlock looked away. He had been lonely without his friend. “Come here,” said Mycroft. “I understand. Do you not realize it is the same for me? But we are lucky, remember, because we will always have each other.” Mycroft held him tight and told him over and over, “I love you. I will always love you.”
When Sherlock was eleven, Mycroft no longer came to his room.
When Sherlock asked him why, Mycroft gave him a small, pitying smile and said, “I have put away childish things.”
***
Sherlock did not hate Mycroft for anything he'd done.
He hated him because he'd stopped.
8.
Mycroft should almost expect the sight as he steps into the living room of 211b, Sherlock sprawled across the sofa, a forearm cast over his eyes and skin faintly flushed from the cigarette balanced precariously between full lips. And on some level, he does.
Mycroft merely tuts softly and shakes his head, staring down at Sherlock who makes no move to acknowledge his presence.
“Smoking’s such a filthy habit.”
Sherlock’s pale eyes swivel to gaze coolly at Mycroft while pianist fingers deftly remove the cigarette. “Bugger off,” he replies. Mycroft can’t help but roll his eyes.
“Move,” he says, tucking Sherlock’s legs up to seat himself besides the man. And despite the close proximity and the surprising contact, Sherlock complies, inhaling a large drag from the cigarette and blowing it in the direction of his brother.
Mycroft wrinkles his nose and bats the smoke away, the pink box of chocolates his brought with him rattling slightly in his lap. Sherlock eyes it with amusement.
“Chocolate dear brother?” he snorts, poking the box with a socked foot. “Ah I knew the diet was off.”
“They’re not mine,” Mycroft replies, ignoring the comment. “They were given to me by my assistant who received them from an unwanted admirer.” Mycroft opens the decorative box carefully. “And upon such a topic, where is Dr. Watson?”
Sherlock says nothing and merely takes another quick drag of the cigarette. A moment passes in complete silence and Mycroft is trying to select which chocolate to try. However something suddenly softens and Mycroft can feel Sherlock’s sigh reverberate through his body.
“He’s gone out.”
Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Having a sexual identity crisis are we?” He selects a lemon truffle and pops it into his mouth. Sherlock sits up on his elbows, cigarette balanced between his fingers, ash spilling onto the carpet.
“To some extent,” Sherlock replies. “I kissed him.”
“I know.”
“I know you know.” Sherlock glares at him.
Mycroft smiles. “That’s good. Chocolate?”
Sherlock eyes them dubiously before snatching a hazelnut truffle and flopping back down, popping it between his lips. There is another mild silence and Mycroft’s eyes soften as he watches his brother’s cheeks flush, the sad glint in his eye trying desperately to erase itself. They may not be able to get along at the best of times but it does not mean that they are without a care for one another.
Mycroft gently kneads Sherlock’s calf with one hand, the box of chocolate rattling slightly with the movement.
“He’ll come back,” he murmurs, dark eyes watching Sherlock intently. The other continues to stare blankly at the ceiling, the slow rise in his gaunt chest the only tell tale sign of life. Silently, his lips part and he lets out a soft breath of air.
“I don’t need your pity,” Sherlock states quietly, defiantly. But they both know it’s not pity.
“I don’t pity you.” And Mycroft stares pointedly at him. “I’m merely being honest. John will come back.” He accentuates his point with a playful pinch to Sherlock’s knee.
“Stop saying that!” Sherlock hisses angrily. “How could you know?!”
He’s shaking, trembling softly and it’s sweet to see such helplessness from his brother. To see such emotion radiate from him. Mycroft can see Sherlock’s heart throbbing, cracking with fear and love and it makes him smile.
Why?
Because it proves that Sherlock is human. That he’s capable of loving. That he’ll be alright. John will come back and when he does Sherlock will be fine. Happy even.
And his breaking heart at the moment proves it.
Mycroft reaches down and plucks the cigarette from between Sherlock’s fingers, ignoring the protesting glare, and places it between his own lips, taking a long drag. It’s been a while but the sweet burn in the back of his throat is like a welcoming kiss from an old lover. Sherlock stares at him in question.
At that very moment, the door opens, footsteps coming to a halt as John Watson stands in the doorway, his cheeks flushed and chest heaving with the onslaught of a well deserved epiphany. He blinks at Mycroft in surprise before gazing at Sherlock. And the softening of John’s eyes and the small upward twitch of his lips is all Mycroft needs to see to know that he was right all along. Sherlock and John will be just fine.
So he smiles and holds the box of chocolates up in one hand, the cigarette balanced in the other.
“Chocolate?”
9.
deus ex Mycroft
It had started as a joke. “Deus ex machina,” she’d said to Mycroft after he’d stepped in, yet again, to rescue that brother of his. It had been echoed back a few days later by Peter, the other PA (garbled, of course, and he’d been sacked for incompetence shortly thereafter; such misunderstanding of basic syntax wasn’t the first sin he’d committed in Mycroft’s book, but it had been the last. If it had surprised Peter that was only more proof that he was ill-suited for the position): “Deus ex Mycroft.”
Just because it was syntactically wrong didn’t mean it wasn’t fundamentally correct, and she had no qualms about telling him so.
Deus ex Mycroft. It does suit. We minor gods do your bidding.
And it did: god from Mycroft, and they his putti. The image of him as Venus, dispatching her as Cupid to ensnare and beguile and manipulate on his behalf.
It had been enough to bring down Carthage, after all. Not a bad trick, for the British government.
He started calling her Anthea shortly after that. One of the Graces, goddess of the spring, and it changed by the season; the point was less who she was than what: a goddess, and always the correct goddess, the one most suited to the occasion.
And she did his bidding. As she was doing now, waiting in the car for Mycroft to finish placing the call to the doctor. John, she reminded herself.
Her phone buzzed. Number masked, as expected, but always signed, from him. (It wasn’t true that he never texted-of course he did-though he enjoyed keeping his brother on his toes and would always call him if given the opportunity.)
Time. Fly, Cupid. MH
She gave the signal and the car pulled into traffic. It only had a block or two to go; Mycroft had predicted the doctor’s reaction well.
You’re thinking of Iris. And our Dido’s not dead yet.
The phone buzzed again as the car pulled up to the kerb.
Better if we can end without the city in flames. And you’re jumping ahead; there’s safe harbour to ensure first. MH
Pushing open the door there was the doctor and yes, it would be better to keep the city intact, but she could see immediately how rootless this man was.
He has no kingdom to burn.
That’s what we’re here to give him. MH
***
“You’re very loyal, very quickly.” It was an accusation, and a challenge.
And will you give them a rainstorm, too?
It would make him smile, later, when he saw the message, in the same way it made her smile to hear his jibe about a happy announcement, addressed to John but directed at her in the shadows.
Does not my right hand given to you in promise deter you? It, too, was a challenge, and if Mycroft inspected John’s left, it only made sense; it was the hand with which he held his gun, and thus the instrument of the pledge that would keep them in orbit around one another.
John had turned to leave, his face set into stubborn lines, and Mycroft did not call him back again.
No need. I suspect the storm will find them of its own accord. MH
A cave then? Your brother will destroy him when he leaves.
He may try. But this one understands duty. The trick is making him understand that the surest way to stay is to follow. MH
Any point in asking where I’m going?
None at all, John.
It hadn’t fazed him. He might be able to keep his kingdom and his soul, then, if he could build the former on the fluid foundation that was Sherlock, and keep the latter safely away from the hunters’ arrows. It might not have to end in flames after all.
There was more wandering for him to do, yet, but when she relayed the message it was a promise: “I’m to take you home.”
10.
Love was not something that the Holmes dynasty was blessed with. Or cursed with, some others might say.
Genius, ambition, and insanity were to be found in abundance, but an overflow of softer emotions was absent.
None of them were particularly lucky in love and none of them particularly minded.
In the Holmes family, contact with each other without any sort of destruction-political, economical, or social; death was so outré-was as much proof of fond sentiments as a spoken declaration.
Everyone always agreed that Mycroft and Sherlock were the closest of brothers.
---
John Watson learned about love from his parents.
There was no need to guard it jealously, because love that is good and true will not run dry. But that didn’t mean that he should throw it away without care as to who received it.
He chose who and what to love and loved as best he could, as unconditionally as he was able.
It was harder when his heart chose unwisely and when the people he cherished were taken from him or left, but he soldiered on.
John loved Harry, but when it was obvious that she didn’t love him enough, didn’t love Clara enough to care about their well-being he trained himself to not get hurt.
John learned to love from his parents.
Harry taught him that he could still love someone while letting them go.
---
For Lestrade, love was demonstrated. Saying the words didn’t make them true.
Love was his sisters badgering him about working too hard and when was he going to start to date again? His brother’s love was in his efforts to curtail his sisters’ efforts at matchmaking and filling his cupboards with non-perishables, his freezer with casseroles, and his fridge with beer. Danny was the best little brother a man could ask for.
It was his nieces and nephews still lighting up whenever he could make it to family functions and swarming about him to demand hugs and play. He’d have to start bribing them with sweets and toys soon.
Love was in the little things-a smile for encouragement, a coffee just because, a shared feeling that built a connection.
A love that lasted was made of such things.
---
Donovan had been in love before.
She didn’t like it.
It made her too dependent on someone else, stole away her good sense, and robbed her of her control.
She wasn’t looking for love and she hoped dearly that it wouldn’t come looking for her.
---
Mrs. Hudson knew what it was to love impossible men.
She thinks she’d like to find a quiet sort of love.
She’s never had that before.
---
Molly wonders why love always seems to fly past her without ever touching her.
Desire, obsession, lust, silly little crushes-all of these are familiar to her.
She searches desperately for love but cannot find it.
Molly thinks it’s because it takes more than one person to create the sort of love she’s looking for; to start a sympathetic loop of affection that feeds on itself and grows stronger.
She’s tried but she can’t find a second person to test her hypothesis with.
---
Anderson still doesn’t know how to separate sex and love.
Part Two: Entries 11 - 20 >>