#and frankly confused mycroft

[mxflowercheck]

some lil part of me wants Anthea to be somewhat close to Mycroft because she's his assistant. For many reasons, but especially for COMEDY

I mean, I'm 100 percent sure Mycroft Holmes doesn't know how to flirt properly and doesn't really know how to..casually talk to people. Or how to casually message them. He simply doesn't understand what should he write to Gregory. Communication face-to-face is easier but well, now they're in different countries.

So I just need a bit of crack with a very confused by personal relationships Mycroft and Anthea who's been watching these two like it's the best series she ever saw and well, who else can help her boss with that?

Anthea: ask him how was his day

Myc: Anthea, i already know how it was

Anthea: no, you know facts, and he will tell you his emotions

Myc: Again, I-

Anthea: Jesus Christ help me

[hot-on-my-watch]

Final Script- Sherlock S4- The Six Thatchers

I may have fallen down a new rabbit hole, and this time it's reading bits of BBC Sherlock scripts different from the episodes.

Last night on here I saw a post purporting to show a cut scene from the series, and began looking up more. Lots of fun.

However, there were still rumours of a scene about John and Mary's marriage that I not yet found, so I decided to have a look at the Six Thatchers script on the BBC website.

Delightful!

Here I should say that I know very little about how tv programmes are made, so was rather titilated to find that many of the scenes were in a different order to that in which they appear in the episode, and to have the joy of reading stage directions and whatnot.

Anyway, a few notes:

Formatting

Firstly, a lot of scenes have been moved around. Clearly season 4 goes in for a lot more visual hijinks, flashbacks and ambitious transitions between scenes than we've generally seen previously, but the script describes characters walking, running and looking between scenes almost constantly. Whether this was too ambitious to pull off practically or ultimately considered too confusing for the viewer I don't know, but to a this utter novice the transitions in the script do sound a lot harder to film!

"Love"

In the script, we don't get the codenames (Love, Porlock etc.) in the 'doctored footage' scene. The first time "love" is highlighted is when we see the torturer laying into Ajay while crying not "ammo/amo" but "I love you" and "love", and we only find out Lady Smallwood's codename when Mycroft questions her.

Personally I think this was a good change. It gives the viewer the opportunity to pick up the codename clue first (if they know a bit of latin, mind, which obviously most of us don't). I still find it a bit weird to repeat any kind of phrase over and over while torturing someone- but then I find it strange to gain entertainment from torturing someone at length at all. Mostly, I think that the original line was a bit on the nose - we get it, love hurts! People hurting and being hurt by the ones they love is everywhere in this season. And yet, I had failed to put two and two together on that before.

Sealife

I noticed an additional example of the 'whale' motif- within the greater 'ocean' theme of course, which is bloody everywhere.

In the swimming pool scene, the script describes whale sounds being heard as the father relaxes in the jacuzzi and the girl swims, then returning along with music when Sherlock and Ajay crash into a control panel during their fight. Frankly I'm terrible at noticing these kinds of things, and my attention never does very well with action scenes at the best of times, let alone now that I have severe ME/CFS! I will be rewatching the scene soon to check if the whale sounds made it in!

Just FYI the other whale references in TST: the black fish/killer whale mobile above Rosie's cot/crib, what looks like part of a whale skeleton in the beginning aquarium scene, a poster at the bus stop behind E that says "KILLER WHALE". Obviously we also have the sharks at the aquarium that SH compared to Magnussen in HLV, the scene where John and Sherlock discuss the fact that you can't arrest a jellyish, and more jellyfish behind Sherlock during the confrontation scene in the aquarium- thanks to Erik Voss for New Rockstars on Youtube for this!

Of course Vivian Norbury makes her own comparison between the sea creatures and intelligence agents, and her code name Langdale seems to come from Langdale Pike in the ACD stories. Pike, as well as being the name of a fish, was apparently a high society gossip that helped SH with cases occasionally- just like a receptionist, she knew "everything". We see what you did there, Mark Gatiss.

"M" for Mycroft

In the script, Mycroft's look to Sherlock when accused of lying about ignorance of Mary's true identity says 'Really?' I was never quite sure whether that was the case, or a look of 'worth a try', but I had decided to believe that Mycroft genuinely didn't know, and would have had a closer eye on things if he had, so was pleased to be vindicated there. Of course this also goes back to Mary working for Mycroft in Sherlock's Victorian trip trance, implying that either consciously or subconsciously Sherlock correctly suspected Mary of working for "the British Government".

The Mystery of Man Meeting DCI

Similarly, following the scene in which Lestrade converses with Hopkins the Interpol officer outside the flat about how he met Sherlock and is cut off, we get this:

Damn you Gatiss! I love it.

'Miss Me?' Post

There were a couple more things explained in the script that didn't make their way into the episode. Firstly, SH deduces that the post containing Mary's "miss me?" DVD seemed to have come from a lawyer who had two dogs in the office (always with the dogs!) Personally I never took issue with The DVDs from Beyond the Grave as this is the kind of thing solicitors and friends can actually do for you, but I know it irritated some fans.

"There's somewhere she goes."

Secondly, there's a brief scene in which someone at the MI6 office explains to Sherlock that "she" i.e. Norbury always goes somewhere i.e. the aquarium on Friday nights and that they keep it open late for her. I have been a bit confused in the episode when suddenly we're headed back to the aquarium, probably when it's closed, and Sherlock's commenting about her having nothing better to do on Friday nights. This explains it, and that Sherlock didn't expect Norbury to be carrying a gun. Edit: on rewatch, a voiceover announces that it's "five minutes til closing time" at the aquarium and Sherlock greets Norbury with "your office said I'd find you here." So really it was just my tricky brain misfiring! Of course in the UK we don't typically expect people to be carrying guns and certainly not little old ladies anyway. And, this continues the "whale" motif of something considered serene and unthreatening but is more powerful and dangerous to us than is usually perceived.

Missing Scene: Curry and Fears

There's also an extra scene between John and Mary, which is what I was looking for. They're in an Indian restaurant, their first time out without Rosie, and worrying about her the whole time even though babysitter Hudders assures them that she's fine. I see why they cut this as it adds nothing to the plot. However, there are a couple of interesting bits here.

John talks about not wanting to paper Rosie's room with clown wallpaper, because clowns are scary. We've already had the hyperbolic blog post The Inexplicable Matchbox which mentions John's utter delight at Sherlock dressing up as a clown for a case as well, as Mrs Hudson being pushed put of a helicopter. Now we're about to get a scary clown in The Final Problem during the "pantomime" that John helped design. So John has now developed a fear of clowns. Mary, however, isn't afraid of clowns, but of the sea:

This comes back later in the episode when the trio (let's face it, that's what they are now) are on the plan heading back to London; the sea is visible from the window, whereas in the finished episode we get an image of E superimposed onto it. Perhaps the showrunners thought at this point that there were quite enough references to THE BLOODY SEA. It also comes back in The Final Problem when we see "the girl on the plane" flying in an unpiloted aeroplane over the sea- and Mycroft announces that they will have to get her to crash it there.

Anyway, as someone who was never that invested in John and Mary's marriage (knowing that she was going to die shortly) but wasn't against it either, I do like this conversation in the restaurant as a waypoint between the couple's classic bickering, banter and Mary's statement that the danger was the fun part, and her rather contradictory claim as she dies that her life as Mrs Watson was the only one worth living.

John, on the other hand, is not necessarily checking on Rosie or even Sherlock when they both compulsively ("surreptitiously" in the script) check their phones, even after Mary's declaration. Oh dear.

Mrs Hudson, meanwhile, is busy with her knitting, sudoku AND a Fifty Shades DVD, according to the script. She not only tells Mary this, but begins to talk about when her husband brought some blindfolds home. Is she purposely bringing these things up to get rid of people at this point?

Childhood Flashback

Something else notably changed is the flashback from Sherlock's childhood: the script describes it containing three children all along, as well as a dog. Something must have changed here - delaying the Eurus reveal or deciding they were making it too obvious, perhaps.

I had wondered if the flashback we do see was part of Sherlock's recurring dream that the therapist refers to near the end of the episode, and here it is shown again just before she asks about it, so I take that as confirmation too.

"We tried!"

Conversely, there are however a couple of bits that made it into the final episode that I didn't clock in the script. Firstly, there's no sign of the brief scene in which John jokes about trying to arrest a jellyfish. I'm aware that people have since said that's (one of/) the only bit of their usual banter we get in this episode, perhaps even this season, and I'm glad it was included.

"If you want the rattle..."

I didn't see the best scene of the episode in the script either: the one where Sherlock gives he famous "you see, but you do not observe, Watson" speech, and gets hit in the face with a rattle. Obviously. I'm in favour of virtually any scene having been cut in favour of this, and especially the ones listed above! There is a part in the script where Sherlock says he's doing his best but it (dealing with babies) is not really his area, and I'm glad the writers seem to have gone for Sherlock being a little more interactive with Rosie in the end.

John's JPEG

Finally, I don't think there was any mention in the script of John typing into his blog. It seems that was added as they were moving scenes around, perhaps explaining the minor fiasco of the nonsensical JPEG. Personally I think that was a gaffe and the repetition in BBC Sherlock canon of a Six Thatchers case similarly a cock-up. It's a real shame because the blogs are otherwise fantastic, and I would have liked them to continue through season 4 where reasonable. I am fascinated by the various theories that season 4 was not meant to be taken at face value (blog, trance, Sherlock's dying brain etc.), but am yet to be convinced by any of them. Still, if anyone thinks they can change my mind, I'd be open to letting them try!

My Overall Impression

Of course this delve into a whole new set of texts has made me want to read ALL the scripts, but I do feel my limited energy should be spent doing something useful sooner or later. So we'll see! But surely they can't all be THIS different from the finished episodes and thus drive me to Tumblr? Can they?

To be continued...

[hinge]

Hinge presents an anthology of love stories almost never told. Read more on https://no-ordinary-love.co

[mrhyde-mrseek]

SCIENCE MOST SINISTER: VOLUME II - PART FOUR

The most accurate descriptor for what ensued after Watson woke the other five House members would be uproarious bafflement, perhaps bordering on frantic chaos. Either way, there was rather a bit of shouting involved.

In all the confusion, Gwen ended up being quite forgotten, as she had no one to reunite with. (Actually, now that she felt safe enough to go on brief archeological adventures, having freed herself from her curse, she had seen Newt only a couple of weeks ago while supervising a mummy unwrapping party—but I digress. The point is, her past had already caught up with her.) So she stood off to the side and observed.

Some of the reactions of the House members and the newcomers had been positive; Holmes had appeared uncharacteristically shocked to see his brother, but not unhappy, and Victor had nearly been tackled to the floor by—well, Gwen had not caught his name, but he was the only one of the surprise visitors with his hair tied back.

On the other hand, several of the reactions had been distinctly unpleasant. The Time Traveller had looked downright guilty upon coming face-to-face with the man in the green coat, while Hyde avoided making eye contact with, if she was remembering his story correctly, whom Gwen assumed to be Mr. Utterson and Mr. Poole.

Griffin and the redheaded man were by far the loudest. They were currently engaged in a heated argument, and though Gwen couldn’t see his face, she could tell by his voice that Griffin was seconds away from striking the other man.

She decided then to interfere before the situation escalated. Weaving through the crowd, she climbed up onto the sofa nearest to her, put two fingers to her mouth, and let out a piercing whistle. “SHUT UP, ALL OF YOU!” she shouted at the top of her lungs.

The study became deathly silent. She stepped down from the sofa and stood with her hands on her hips. “If somebody would be so kind as to give us an explanation, we would be grateful,” she said.

The man she thought might be Utterson cleared his throat. “My apologies,” he said; and then paused, as though waiting to hear her name.

“Dr. Guinevere Crowley.”

“Thank you, Dr. Crowley. In short, we—the Society of Themis—was founded on the hope that, one day, we may discover what really happened to all of you, if anything. Most of you disappeared without explanation, and left behind more questions than answers.

“That being said, now that we know that all of you are alive, we would like an explanation as to how you managed it. Mr. Hyde has already told us his story.”

Unsure of what to do, the House members looked at each other, each of them waiting for the other to speak first. Finally, Holmes sighed resignedly and hung his head.

“I suppose you deserve to know the truth,” he said. “After I returned from where I had been laying low after my apparent death, Watson and I were approached by Van Helsing. He told us about the House, stating that having a private detective and a doctor as two of its members could be beneficial. I . . . was so intrigued by his offer that I wasn’t thinking of the consequences of my actions.” He raised his head to meet his brother’s eyes. “I am deeply sorry, Mycroft.”

“As am I,” said Watson, guilt painted clear across his face.

Mycroft’s mouth hardened into a thin line. Then, his expression softened. “Frankly, I am still angry with you, Sherlock. But I forgive you,” he added, making Holmes’s eyes brighten.

One by one, each of the House members told the truth of how they had found themselves on the House’s doorstep. Griffin, while Kemp had gone to fetch a doctor to heal his wounds inflicted by the mob that attacked him, had escaped town and sent a letter to Van Helsing, his old college professor, asking for help. The manor belonging to the House had been bought, and Griffin had been given enough provisions to last him several months.

Victor came next. As soon as Walton’s ship docked in London and the captain had turned his back, Victor had slipped away, fearful of accidentally hurting another by getting close to him. In an illness-induced daze, he eventually ran into Van Helsing, who had taken him to live with Griffin.

After Victor came Jekyll and Hyde, and then the Time Traveller joined. Griffin had overheard Edmund and several of their friends discussing the time machine in hushed tones at a restaurant, and immediately went off to find the Time Traveller. It took a surprisingly little amount of convincing to persuade him to join the House, and the next day, he and his time machine were on their way to the ancient manor.

Once the Time Traveller had finished, Walton turned to Gwen and asked, “What about you?”

She blinked. “You wish to hear my story? But—but it isn’t very relevant to your mission. Why?”

He smiled. “Pure curiosity.”

She sucked in a breath. “Alright. Er, well, I used to live in the United States before coming to England. Van Helsing found me struggling to pay rent in Cambridge, secured me a position in the archeology business—I am an archeologist and Egyptologist—and allowed me to join the House and live here,” she stated simply. There was no point in disclosing any more than she needed to.

Walton looked like he wished to ask more, but Griffin interrupted him. “Have our answers satisfied you all?” he asked snappishly.

There was a pause. “They have . . .” Kemp said, speaking carefully, in the same manner one would when talking to a wild animal with its hackles raised. “But I confess, we had an ulterior motive for seeking you out.”

Griffin barked out a laugh that made Gwen startle. “HA! I knew it! You would never look for me on completely innocent terms, Kemp. Not after what you did to me.”

Kemp glared at him. “Would you listen to me instead of leaping to conclusions?”

“Well, go on, then. What is it you want? My and Hyde’s arrests? To spill the House’s secrets to the public?” Griffin continued, obviously not listening.

“Here!” Kemp fumbled a folded newspaper page from his pocket and thrust it at the empty air where Griffin’s voice emitted from. “Read this, and see if you can figure out why we have come here!”

The House crowded around the newspaper. Griffin unfolded it, revealing the front page, which bore the shocking headline for all to see: Invisible Menace at Large: Constabulary Left Baffled

The study fell so quiet, one could have heard a pen drop. Gwen’s eyes darted across the headline, lingering on each word to make sure she was reading them correctly.

When Griffin spoke again, his voice was quiet. “Kemp,” he whispered, “I haven’t left this house in almost a year. This . . . this is not me.”

[mimisempai]

A long overdue gratitude

Summary

A conversation with his brother leaves Mycroft confused and Greg arrives in time to help him sort out his emotions.

Notes

Mystrade Monday 2.0  #99 “You were always good to me.”

@mystradepromptsandscenarios

On Ao3

Rating G - 1057 words

Greg was about to open the door to the apartment when he heard voices inside and suddenly the door opened to Sherlock who stopped when he saw Greg.

"Detective! Good day."

He looked back, "Take care of him, I think I shocked him a bit."

Greg didn't have time to reply as Sherlock was already racing down the stairs.

He entered a little confused, closed the door behind him and called, "Mycroft?"

"In the living room!" came the immediate reply.

Greg hung up his coat and went straight to the living room. There he found Mycroft sitting on the couch, a rather strange expression on his face, a mixture of surprise and melancholy.

He asked quietly as he approached his lover, "Mycroft, are you all right?"

Mycroft turned his head towards him, smiled and replied, "Yes...I think so."

Greg sat down next to him and asked, "Do you think or are you sure?"

Mycroft replied softly, "I've just had a strange conversation with my brother, to say the least."

Greg chuckled, "Frankly, when you two talk, I often feel that your conversations are strange."

Mycroft shook his head in amusement, "Not strange in that sense. But strange compared to the way we usually talk. My brother was surprisingly honest and didn't use any subtleties when talking to me."

Greg nodded, "I see. And you would like to talk to me about what he told you?"

Mycroft replied, "Yes, perhaps you will be able to help me sort it out."

Greg turned to him, took his hand and said softly, "I'm listening."

Mycroft shook his head in disbelief, as if he could hardly believe what he was about to say, and recounted the conversation he had just had with Sherlock.

Mycroft had been surprised to see Sherlock on his doorstep and even more surprised to see the hesitant look on his face when he had said, "I have something to tell you brother."

Mycroft had poured them a cup of tea and they had sat down in the living room. There began the most surprising conversation he had ever had with his brother. Or rather, the most surprising monologue his brother had ever given.

He had never seen Sherlock so unsure. His brother cupped his mug in his hands and said quietly, "What we went through in Sherrinford and what happened with Eurus has given me a lot to think about. We were all quick to blame you, me, John, our parents, but one thing we forgot was that you were just a teenager, an older brother trying to handle a situation that was more than he could handle. Did you make the right choices? I don't know. But you did your best, Mycroft. After all that, I realized I had a lot of people to thank, constant presences at my side, like Molly, Greg, Mrs. Hudson, and you. Always you. Watching over me. Always good to me. So... thank you, Mycroft. Thank you."

For the first time in a long time, Mycroft had nothing to say. He had carried the guilt of what he had done to his sister for so many years, the weight of the secret he had kept for so many years, that he had never imagined that anyone, let alone his little brother, would ever thank him. Sherlock had continued, "Thank you for always looking out for me. Even when I didn't want you to. Thank you for having my back and sometimes making decisions that no one else could have made."

Mycroft had shaken his head and replied quietly, "I... Sherlock, I don't know what to say. I don't feel like I deserve this thank you at all."

Sherlock had stood, then leaned over and kissed him on the forehead and whispered, "It will come, big brother. It will come. And I suppose a certain detective might help you accept it."

Then Sherlock was gone again.

Greg remained silent for a few moments after Mycroft's words and then said quietly, "I understand that Sherlock's words have upset you, but he's right, just because you made mistakes doesn't mean your intentions were any less bad. This thank you from him is quite justified and, in my opinion, long overdue. Mycroft, you came to me to keep your brother occupied, to keep him from falling back into drugs, you checked in regularly on his condition, you always put the pieces together as best you could behind him. You even put your career on the line for him. To the point where you were prepared to get yourself killed for him and for John. For his friend. Of course, he has a lot to be grateful for, you were always good to him."

Mycroft shrugged, "I did what I thought I had to do."

Greg shook his head, "Still, you did."

Mycroft lifted their entwined hands to his mouth and gently kissed Greg's hand before whispering with an adoring expression on his face, "You've always been good to me too."

It was Greg's turn to shrug as he replied, "I did what I had to do too."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and replied, "Really?"

They looked at each other in silence for a moment before laughing, both unable to take a compliment for what it was. Mycroft saw the moment when his lover's eyes took on a mischievous gleam and he watched him, wondering what Greg had in mind.

"Did you say I was good to you?" Greg whispered against Mycroft's lips as he climbed onto his lap and wrapped his arms around Mycroft's neck.

Mycroft couldn't resist the lure of Greg's lips so close to his own and flicked his tongue over them before replying in the same tone, "You are." emphasizing his words with a slight nudge of his hip letting Greg know that he understood exactly where their conversation was going.

Greg bit Mycroft's lip and after releasing it, he replied, slightly panting, "How about I show you how much I can be... good."

Their breaths mingled as Mycroft replied in a gasp, "Please... show me and I'll show you how good I can be."

It didn't take Greg long to put his money where his mouth was, and he pressed his lips to Mycroft's in a passionate kiss that was a prelude to something good to come. Something very good.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Mystrade masterlist here

[starks-hero]

I Took Care Of It

Pairing: Sherlock x Fem!Reader

Summary: Mycroft is horrified to discover that one of his old insults no longer applies to his little brother.

Word Count: 798

Warnings: some lots of innuendos ;)

Sherlock didn't often take up cases involving government officials. Or more accurately, he didn't take up cases involving government officials that were given to him by Mycroft.

However, things had been slow of late, there were no new cases of even slight interest, and it was well known that Sherlock was not renowned for his patience.

After two caseless weeks and one bullet-riddled wall, Sherlock finally caved in and accepted the case Mycroft had been pestering him about for god knows how long.

Of course, he dragged you with him. Because one, if he had to suffer being around Mycroft and his high-class government friends then frankly so did you. And two, he rather enjoyed it when you accompanied him to crime scenes. He valued your opinion and ideas and it was also another reason to have you by his side.

The case in question seemed easy enough. Sherlock was convinced that he would have been able to solve it from the comfort of the flat, but Mycroft had ordered that he show his face at the crime scene. Appearances and all that. Still, he was optimistic that he'd be home by tea.

Having spent a few minutes questioning the late politician's wife and examining the penthouse that had been taped off as a crime scene, Sherlock had it solved. It was fairly straight forward; Working for the government was bound to make him enemies, some of which were quite powerful, the murder was an open-and-shut case. As for the large inheritance that was missing? Child's play really.

“You've solved it already?” you asked, expression causing a smile to pull at Sherlock's lips.

“Not entirely. But the inheritance was never missing, he spent it.”

Mycroft laughed bitterly. “On what? The man's dead, Sherlock.”

“Before he died! He was in trouble, didn't have the money to pay her off, so he took it out of his inheritance,” Sherlock added, mildly irritated by everyone's else's dimwittedness.

Mycroft's smile fell. "Impossible. His inheritance was in the thousands."

“Wait," you cut in. "Pay off who?”

“His assistant,” Sherlock clarified. “But why? Why?” Sherlock rambled. “Why did he pay her so much?”

As Sherlock spiraled into conversation with himself you and Mycroft shared knowing looks. A politician and his assistant having an affair that he then paid her to keep quiet about? A little cliche, you were expecting something a little more exciting.

Of course, Sherlock could be a little out of tune with the more human, emotional side of cases, but even you were amazed by his blindness in this incident.

“Sherlock.” You cut him off. “Don't you think that maybe the reason he paid her so much was to assure she wouldn't tell anyone about...a private matter?”

Sherlock stared at you in confusion. “What?”

“Don't be alarmed, brother mine. It's to do with sex.”

“Sex doesn't alarm me, Mycroft,” Sherlock said nonchalantly as he pulled on his coat, having seen everything he needed to see.

The eldest brother chuckled.

“How would you know?”

Mycroft expected a look of defeat, anger or at the very least mild irritation. So his expression contoured into one of confusion when Sherlock only responded with a chuckle.

“Let's just say I received some very helpful tutoring in the area,” Sherlock smirked.

You'd never seen the eldest Holmes brother look so aghast. You found his expression oddly amusing, that was until it was turned accusingly towards you. Your smile fell.

“And would I be right to assume you were the one doing the tutoring?” Mycroft hissed.

“She's a fairly good teacher,” Sherlock chided and you shot him a look that sternly stated ‘this is not the time.’

Shrugging, you simply muttered, “I may have taken care of it.”

You had never found Mycroft to be necessarily intimidating. But now that he knew you'd been shagging his little brother, along with the friendly reminder that he basically was the British government, intimidating seemed to fit him pretty well.

"Well," Sherlock interrupted, noticing the genuine fear in your eyes and the glare his brother was aiming at you. "We better be off. Let me know if you get any more cases, Mycroft. Though preferably a bit more interesting than this one."

You made your way past Mycroft and towards Sherlock, who promptly reached for your hand and laced your fingers together as he prepared to leave. "I'll have the inheritance back to you by tonight."

"That early?" Mycroft asked incredulously.

"Yes, given I don't get distracted," Sherlock teased, rivalling Mycroft's scowl with a pleased smirk. Ignoring his brother's expression, Sherlock turned and left the crime scene, holding the yellow tape up for you to duck under. "See you later, brother mine," he called over his shoulder. "And good luck coming up with a new insult, try to be a little more creative this time."

~~~~~~

Forever tag list: @miraclesoflove​ @bakerstreethound​ @kealohilani-tepise

Sherlock tag list: @fanfictionsilove​ @quentawewe​ @andreasworlsboring101​ @doozywoozy​ @the-worst-critic​ @starrykitn​ @the-queer-dungeoneer​ @xxinvisiblexx​ @xhz17x @jellyfishbeansontoast

[imprvdente]

𝐌𝐘𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐓 & 𝐅𝐈𝐒𝐇: @governmentofficial​ from: 🎁 spend Christmas together

"But why are there so many presents?"

The confusion in Mycroft's voice was clear. He'd quickly got past his awe at the sight of his friend's Christmas tree (it had the be the most impressive one that he'd ever seen!) and, in typical fashion for him, had begun to focus on all the little details. Well, not so little in this case, and the sheer number of presents on display was almost overwhelming! Considering that they were only for Fish and her father, Mycroft didn't understand how there could be so many!

He'd added his own presents to the pile - one for his friend, and one for her father too. They stood out among the horde, the mismatched wrapping paper in comparison to the rest drawing the eye. Now he'd seen how many there were, Mycroft almost felt as though he hadn't brought enough. If he was ever invited over for the holidays again, he would have to bring more.

"Do you get this many every year? Where do you put them all once they're all opened?"

Fish looked at her friend, then looked at the Christmas tree, and back to her friend. Why he was so puzzled by what she deemed to be a perfectly reasonable amount of presents, she had no idea. And frankly, she thought the question was a little bit rude, simply because she’d never ask something like that. But she knew he didn’t mean to be rude. Whenever Mycroft was thinking something, he tended to simply... Say it out loud. 

“I suppose this year, there are a little bit more presents than usual,” she explained, “because there are yours, too.” She pointed towards a little pile of beautifully wrapped presents. 

Of course, Christmas at the Lecter household was always decadent, Hannibal often getting his daughter whatever she wanted. She didn’t see what was so shocking about that! “But yes, I usually get this many every year. Why? Don’t you?” She tilted her head at him, eyebrows furrowed.

[hinge]

Hinge presents an anthology of love stories almost never told. Read more on https://no-ordinary-love.co

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Terribly Confounding

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader Rating: T Notes: Based off of this ask that I got and went way overboard with. Point of view switches between Sherlock and the Reader. Also gigglemug is Victorian slang for someone that smiles all the time. Length: 6.2K Warnings: Angst; fluff; Sherlock Being Sherlock™ Summary: One of the articles that you’d read had claimed that Sherlock could size up a person in a minute. You couldn’t help but wonder what on earth he’d managed to ascertain about you. 

It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Mycroft used to try to introduce him to eligible women all the time, but had stopped being so forthright when Sherlock had done nothing but openly disapprove of both the idea of being married and the women that Mycroft introduced him to. After a dozen or so attempts, Mycroft took more care to couch his suggestions, and was more selective with the women that he brought forward as potential matches.

--

Terribly confounding. A swath of robberies had taken place among some of London’s wealthiest businessmen. Servants had been fired, brought up on charges, but not a single piece of missing goods had been recovered. While Sherlock had been approached by a number of them to reclaim necklaces, rings, silverware, he had yet to respond to a single inquiry. Accepting one would bring on a deluge of irritation from those that had reached out to him and hadn’t received a response; refusing any and all would bring on an offer of raised rates, as well as an equally unwelcome letter from Mycroft asking for a favor toward a someone that he was trying to curry favor with. One particularly large robbery had been perpetrated only the night before, at the home of Mr. Enoch Mulvohill. It had been written up in the papers; the police had taken a report. Sherlock had met the man once, had found him pretentious and proud, if not a fair bit underhanded. He hadn’t liked Sherlock, either. But the man had not fired a single servant as a result of this theft; he hadn’t raised the alarm. It was for this reason that Lestrade had called Sherlock in. An entire set of silverware, an antique clock, a purple garnet brooch, a ruby and diamond necklace, and a seed pearl and diamond ring were all that had gone missing. Not a single charge laid, not a single alarm raised. There was something terribly confounding about Enoch Mulvohill. “Sherlock, are you listening to me?” Mycroft glared at his brother. Sherlock glanced away from the article he’d been scanning about the incident, considering what Lestrade had told him about it all that very morning. “Just,” He nodded. Mycroft sighed. “I know how you loathe the prospect of marriage--” Sherlock was careful not to roll his eyes. Ah. Mycroft was back on that tack. “But this particular situation is one of great advantage. The girl is the only daughter of a very rich gentleman,” As if such matters were of any interest at all to Sherlock, “And I have been told that Ms. Mulvohill is not … Unintelligent.” Sherlock stilled, lifting his eyes from his paper again. “... I’ll meet her,” He said after a moment. “You will?” “Yes.” “Why?” Sherlock folded the paper, turning to look at Mycroft fully and finding his glare replaced with a look of great confusion. “I’ve heard of Ms. Mulvohill’s wit,” He fibbed, “I should be interested to see if there is any truth in it.” That was fabricated entirely; he had no idea Mulvohill even had a daughter. Mycroft hesitated before giving a single nod. “I’ll make the arrangements.” -- “He’s supposed to be very handsome.” You tried to muster a smile. Luella, your maid, was much more excited at the prospect of your suitor than you were. It seemed awfully old-fashioned, a man coming over to meet you this way. All of you friends had met their suitors and husbands at balls or dinner parties. But your mother had been very particular about the men that had come to call on you, and had deemed none of them suitable (which was quite alright with you as you’d been none too fond of any of them). However, when your eldest brother Thaddeus had told you that his old school chum, Mycroft Holmes, would be coming by for a visit, you hadn’t the faintest idea that it would lead to Mycroft bringing by his younger brother for you to meet - and potentially marry. You’d heard a lot about Sherlock Holmes, had read his name in the papers (which your other brother, Phineas, often snuck you - your mother didn’t like you reading the paper; she was worried that it would put ‘dangerous thoughts’ in your head and ‘expose you to the evils of the world’); you knew that he was a detective. And maybe Luella was right, maybe he was attractive. The sketches that were done in the paper were not...Unflattering. 

“There now,” Luella sighed, looking at your reflection in the mirror, “I’d say you’re quite ready for the day.” She gave you a bright smile, and you did your best to return it.

-- 

He was staring at you. A lot. Was that good? Or rather… Well, was that focus that he was fixing you with or was he simply frowning? It was quite difficult to discern what exactly was going on in Sherlock Holmes’ head when he was saying so little; Mycroft had done most of the speaking that afternoon. You didn’t particularly like Mycroft. You’d met him exactly twice, and both times, he’d been incredibly rude. He’d seemed to manage to do it without realizing it, though. Sherlock was still staring. You glanced at him before averting your eyes. One of the articles that you’d read had claimed that Sherlock could size up a person in a minute. You couldn’t help but wonder what on earth he’d managed to ascertain about you; you’d hardly said more than five words since you’d entered the room. -- You seemed a church mouse to him. You’d entered the room, curtsied, murmured a greeting, and then sat down beside your brother Thaddeus. That hardly concerned Sherlock, frankly. What he was more interested in was the discussion that Thaddeus and Mycroft were having about Enoch’s stolen items. He was careful to set his eyes on you, however. Your hands were folded in your lap, and your eyes set on them, though you’d glanced at him twice now; your dress was pristine, as were your shoes. Clearly you’d yet to leave the house that day, though Sherlock had a hunch that you wouldn’t be undertaking such a trip at all. It was already quite late in the afternoon. You’d have to dress for dinner soon, surely. “A damn shame-- Oh! Quite sorry, Miss Mulvohill,” Mycroft hurried to correct himself, turning to you. Sherlock watched as you glanced at his brother and gave him a small nod before Mycroft turned back to Thaddeus. Mycroft didn’t catch the way you rolled your eyes, but Sherlock did. His lips quirked into a small smile. A smile that you didn’t see. “Well?” Mycroft asked as he and Sherlock strode away from the Mulvohill home. ‘Well’, as if Sherlock could really have any opinion on you, as if he could be flushed with love for a woman that hardly spoken. Instead he declared, “I like her.” Mycroft had his suspicions, of course. He pressed Sherlock for his reasons, what he saw in you, and Sherlock was able to draw his answers from what he did see: your respectfulness, your quiet grace, your clean appearance, which showed a certain pride in yourself. “She hardly said a word. You said you were curious about her wit,” Mycroft reminded him. “Oh, she showed her wit, in a way,” Sherlock thought back to the roll of your eyes. Mycroft hesitated before shaking his head, “I will never presume to understand the workings of your mind or heart, brother. I will reach out to her father--” “Better yet, let me,” Sherlock interrupted Mycroft, “If I’m to marry this woman, I ought to go to her father myself.” “Very well.” But Sherlock would reach out to Lestrade, first. The game was afoot. 

--

It wasn’t the proposal of your dreams. For one thing, your mother had already told you that your father had consented and given the marriage his blessing, and that your father’s consent and blessing meant that the deal was as good as done. The deal. Not that your happiness was in hand, but that the deal was as good as done. Sherlock Holmes had come in, handed you a box with an engagement ring, and given you a firm nod before bidding you a good day. Your new fiancé hadn’t even stayed to see if the ring fit. You sat at your vanity, eyeing the gleaming solitaire diamond on the gold band. You weren’t naïve; you’d always assumed that your marriage would come with some feelings of trepidation. But you’d hoped that you would at least know the man a little better. You’d hardly even spoken to him- and he'd had the chance to stay and speak with you, to propose properly, but he had chosen not to. You just couldn’t imagine what it was that your father and mother had seen in Sherlock that they hadn’t seen in your previous suitors. He’d certainly spent less time with you than the others; you doubted he had made a good impression on Thaddeus, who had likely been consulted on the matter. Of course they’d go out of the way to consult your brother and not you, who would ultimately have to marry Sherlock.

You sighed, shutting the ring box. You hadn’t tried the ring on yet; you hadn’t even taken it out of the box. All of your friends had perfectly darling stories about how they'd been proposed to. How could you bear to tell them about your own? 

Yes, he handed me the box, nodded, and left. It was quite sweet. 

--

If this was any indication of how your future marriage was going to be, you were almost entirely certain that your life would be dull, and very, very quiet. For the first time since your somewhat untraditional engagement, Sherlock had come to visit you. You’d written to him once to try and get to know him better; he hadn’t answered that letter. You’d asked him a couple of questions since he’d arrived, and he’d answered with simple, one-word answers. He had asked you a few questions, but they’d all been about your father. You’d spent the last week convincing yourself that perhaps this wouldn’t be all that bad, that Mr. Holmes may just be shy, and may need some time to warm up to you. Surely there was something that he had seen and liked about you if he’d chosen to propose. Your father’s wealth aside, he couldn’t find you wholly repugnant if he was choosing to spend the rest of his life with you. But now, well. Now you were just running out of patience. “-- Are you listening, dear?” You turned your head sharply to look at Sherlock at the use of that pet name. Who on earth did he think he was, calling you that after how he’d dared to act? “I thought that might catch your attention,” He hummed, turning back to the small bookshelf by your usual chair in the sitting room. You felt your stomach twist into knots at his condescension. “I asked you what you thought of your father,” He added, plucking one of your books up. Your irritation flared. It was your favorite-- and why was he touching your things? You stood, crossing the room. “My father is an unfeeling and self-involved man,” You answered. Sherlock turned to look at you, brows rising. “You have no love for him,” He observed. “Well, it’s difficult to have any love or respect for a man that would marry me off to the likes of you,” You took the book from Sherlock’s hands, snapping it shut and tucking it back into its place. You looked up to find Sherlock’s eyes travelling your face, a single brow raised. “... You’re not wearing your ring,” He pointed out. He was right, you weren’t. You’d hardly looked at the damn thing since he gave it to you. “Oh, is that what was in that thing you handed me?” You feigned ignorance, folding your arms across your chest, “I meant to look, but it slipped my mind.” 

Sherlock’s expression darkened just a touch. “Well, perhaps you’ll find time somewhere in your busy schedule of nattering and needlepoint to give it a look sometime soon.” Your eyes widened for just a moment, and your face grew hot at the smug curl of Sherlock’s lip. “Of course,” You answered coolly, “I’ll happily give it a glance once you’ve gone.” “Am I to be leaving?” “I think that may be for the best, Mr. Holmes.” “But we’re just getting acquainted.” “It’s a wonder you’ve gone out of your way to propose to me when I’m certain you could have ascertained the information you wanted about my father from his doctor, his barber, and any number of gentlemen at his club, of which your brother is a member.”

“What makes you think I’m particularly interested in your father? Perhaps I was merely trying to better understand the family that raised my future wife.” “Well, then, what questions have you about my mother?” You allowed Sherlock only a half-second before tacking on, “Of course, you’ll have some about Thaddeus and Phineas as well.” “Of course.” “Go on, then.” “Where was your mother the night of the 17th?” The 17th? The night of the robbery? 

“Interesting that you’ve questioned her location and not her character.” “Interesting that you’ve deflected rather than answer me.” “She and I were both at the McKerras’ ball.” “And your brothers?” “They were there as well.” “Why not mention that along with yourself and your mother?” “Because you didn’t ask about them.” “And your father?” “Perhaps you’d best ask your brother that. He knows very well where my father was. Now, if you have no more questions, then I’ll bid you a good day, darling,” You drew the endearment out before you turned on your heel and stormed out of the room. --

Sherlock watched you go, brow raised. You were quite… Sharp. Quick. Irritatingly so. His first impressions were rarely wrong, but he had been quite misinformed in your case. A church mouse, he’d thought. No indeed -- a lioness may’ve been more suited to your spirit. Lioness or not, you were infuriating, and prideful. Had you really not looked at the ring? The shop assistant had reassured him that you’d like it. No matter. This engagement was a sham - the sooner he pried answers about Enoch Mulvohill out of you, the better. And Mycroft, what did he know about Mulvohill’s whereabouts the evening of the robbery? 

-- “Well he’s quite the gigglemug, isn’t he?” You hid your smile at your best friend’s scathing question behind your fan. Alice Teague was your dearest confidant. She’d been married the year before (to a man who she had the fortune of actually loving and knowing beforehand - some people had all the luck). Your family had arranged a small dinner to announce your engagement to your closest family and friends. Your family was in attendance, as well as Alice and her husband; Sherlock, Mycroft, and his younger sister, Enola, were all there as well. You’d only gotten to speak to Enola for a few moments, but you quite liked her. She seemed very unlike her brothers. But there was also an air of apology about her - about what, you hadn’t been able to ascertain; perhaps she simply knew what a brute her brother could be and pitied the fact that you’d be married to him. You had to admit that Sherlock looked quite nice in his eveningwear. He’d looked quite nice when you’d argued with him a few days prior as well, but you’d been a little more focused on the argument at the time. “He’s quite the busybody, as well,” Alice added, “He’s been speaking to your father and brothers all evening.” “Yes,” You sighed, “He’s quite enamored with Father.” “Oh, come now,” Alice nudged your elbow with her own, “He’s got to cozy up to him some, he is taking you away from him. You are your father’s only daughter, it’ll be difficult for him.” “This will not be difficult for my father. As mother tells it, he gave me to the man in the course of an hour-long conversation for a ‘lighter dowry than expected’. My father wants me out of the house as soon as possible. I’m a disgrace as it is, making it through three seasons unmarried.” “What’s that, dear?” In your discussion with Alice, you hadn’t noticed Sherlock breaking away from your father and walking over to you. You slapped a sweet smile onto your face, returning, “Nothing, darling.” It was Alice’s turn to hide her knowing smile behind her fan. 

--

The more time you spent in Sherlock Holmes’ company, the more you were certain you loathed him. He was nosy, had a habit of rifling through your things, asking questions without any care or tact. You were obliged to see him; you’d faked a headache to avoid him once and had gotten a scolding from your mother, the likes of which you hadn’t had since you were a child. Luella actually grimaced when she came to tell you that Sherlock had arrived these days. When you came into the sitting room, you found Sherlock at your bookcase again. He’d taken to lingering near there. You couldn’t help but wonder if did so deliberately, knowing how it irritated you when he touched your things. Rather than walk across the room and whatever book it was out his hands this time, you stayed by the door, watching him for a moment. You couldn’t help but try and consider the man’s motives. Was it money? Surely it had to be something along those lines. Perhaps the detective business wasn’t particularly lucrative; perhaps Mycroft wasn’t willing to help him when things were difficult. Your father may’ve lowered your dowry price, but Phineas had still told you what Sherlock would receive; it was nothing to laugh at. You glanced down at the engagement ring on your finger. You hadn’t bothered with gloves - which, in any other circumstance, would be an absolute scandal, but this man was technically to be your husband. He was permitted to be alone with you, to touch your hand, or kiss you, should the urge ever arise. Not that Sherlock had ever given you any indication that he had any interest in any of those things, of course, or you, really. Something in your chest twisted when you saw him now. It wasn’t anxiety, or anger, it was… Hurt. A sort of hurt that didn’t make you want to curl up and cry, but the kind that sat with you through the day, through your ‘nattering and needlepoint’, as Sherlock had scathingly put it once before. It swirled about you as your mother reminded you of what wedding preparations remained; it sat with you and Alice when you had tea together, so much its own presence that it practically had its own seat, its own saucer, its own cup. Sherlock glanced back toward the door once, and then again when he spotted you. “There you are,” He said, turning back down to the book. “Here I am,” You confirmed with a sigh, finally venturing deeper into the room. You felt Sherlock's gaze follow you as you settled down in an armchair by the fireplace. 

-- 

As much as he’d tried not to absorb them, Sherlock was quite attuned to your moods now. You weren’t the type to pout and give hints, to try and make someone tease out what was bothering you. No, you seemed to prefer to dwell on your troubles in silence. Initially, that suited him quite well; he was able to ply you for answers about your father, and he had ignored whatever little thing it was that was smoothing your face into a neutral set. But now, after weeks in your company, he found that he preferred that little spark that you got in your eye when the two of you were bickering. He even preferred it when you smiled, though the only smiles he’d ever been graced with were scathing. He’d seen you smile sincerely, once or twice, but never at him; they’d been directed at Enola, or at your friend Alice. Sherlock hadn’t meant to spend so much time with you or in your company to know precisely what your frowns, glares, scoffs, sighs, or rare smiles meant. He’d assumed that this case would come into focus once he spent more time in Enoch Mulvohill’s presence. There had been a number of thefts since he’d taken the case on for Lestrade, and he’d been to a number of the homes as a result of engagement festivities and visits. Rather than gaining insights into the case, Sherlock had been able to gather information about you, such as your dislike for your family - well, for your parents, at least. You had affection for your brothers. Thaddeus was a voice of reason for you, a guiding hand where your father had left you rudderless; Phineas offered you knowledge through books, pamphlets, newspapers. Sherlock had found a number of pamphlets tucked away in your books, and while he’d always meant to ask you about them, the two of you always fell into some argument before he could.

Sherlock watched you for a few moments, taking your countenance, your lack of gloves, where your engagement ring sat on your finger. You’d taken to wearing it daily, like some sparkling sackcloth and ashes, a public penance for being a woman in your position. Enola disapproved of his tactics regarding this case, and had told him as much twice over. He’d reminded her of the time she pretended to be his assistant, but she’d argued that that was entirely different. “When the case is over,” Enola had told him after the engagement dinner, “You will be celebrated. She will be ruined.” He had thought that Enola was being a touch dramatic. Surely you wouldn’t be ruined. He’d never touched you or acted in any way that could be deemed untoward. Your reputation would surely remain intact. Sherlock watched you still, even as you turned your eyes up at him, to take in his look and the book in his hands. -- 

“You’re awfully quiet today,” You said after a few moments. “I’m thinking.” “Yes, I’ve heard that you do that.” You saw Sherlock’s eyes narrow slightly as he snapped the book shut and replaced it on the wrong shelf. Excellent. You’d have to rearrange those later. “May I ask you what’s put you in such a lovely mood this morning?” “Only your company, Mr. Holmes.” He let out a humorless little laugh, one that grated at your nerves. “I understand why you’ve yet to be married, Ms. Mulvohill. You’re quite the rose - bright, alluring petals, but riddled from stem to root with thorns.” 

You clenched your hands, ignoring the feeling of the band of your engagement ring tightening as you did. “And I understand why you are not married, as low as you are,” You retorted. “I take it that that is some comment on my social status, Ms. Mulvohill.” You rose from your seat. “No, Mr. Holmes, it is a comment on your character. You may be a clever man, and you may make an excellent outward show to my father -- and that may be all that you care for, but you seem to have forgotten that you’ve gained me in the deal that you made with him. I do not expect you to grow to love me, as I’m quite certain you’re incapable of feeling that for anyone but yourself, but I had expected you to at least make a decent showing of getting to know me, as I tried you--” “You--” “No!” You snapped, “I am not through, Mr. Holmes. I did try, at the beginning. I wrote to you, I tried to understand you, but you’ve chosen to shield yourself -- for reasons that I cannot begin to comprehend. You’ve been nothing but unknowable and unmoveable from the first.” Sherlock watched you for a long moment before he lowered his eyes to the bookshelf. “... I am working with Scotland Yard to investigate the robberies that have been perpetrated against your set and your family.” It was said so quietly that you almost didn’t hear it. Shock curled around the hurt that had made a home in your chest and squeezed at it until it was choking. “I beg your pardon?” You managed after a moment. “Your father’s circumstances were most suspicious, and I…” He lifted his head from your books to meet your eyes again, “I made a choice.” A choice. He couldn’t have just befriended one of your brothers? You were careful to hold his gaze and not to recoil, to fold in on yourself, or to run and hide as you suddenly wished to do. “...You were using this engagement as a ruse to get closer to my father because you suspect him,” You clarified. “Yes.” You nodded a little. “Then you’re less than half of the man I thought you were.” You tugged the engagement ring off and tossed it at his feet before striding out of the room. 

-- 

Damn and blast it, why had he told you? You were sure to tell one of your brothers, and they were sure to tell your father. Sherlock left the Mulvohill home flustered and in a huff. He had considered leaving the engagement ring behind, on the mantle, but such an action could invite suspicion - your mother returning it to you, asking why it was where it was. He would have to work, and quickly - gather the insights he had, use the invitations remaining to try and solve the case before you told everyone what was going on. He wouldn’t have much time.

-- “You’ve a letter.” One glance at it confirmed that it was from you, your home. “Throw it away.” “Sherlock,” Enola frowned, looking down at your letter, “What if it’s something useful?” “It won’t be. Throw it away.” Enola ignored him, and he rolled his eyes at the sound of the envelope being ripped open. “...Sherlock.” “I’m not in the mood, Enola.” “No, Sherlock… You need to look at this.” -- Eight. Eight additional robberies that had never been reported to the police that you’d known of and never told anyone about. They’d been perpetrated against Alice Teague, a few of your other friends, and another two against your father, at your country estate. He hadn’t reported them, as they’d been quite small. Your mother had insisted on reporting the robbery in London. You’d taken pen to paper, listed off the items and dates to the best of your recollection, and done so to get Sherlock out of your life as quickly as possible. The sooner he solved the case, the sooner this ruse could end. 

-- 

“Where is that sweet, ever-smiling fiancé of yours?” Alice asked as she settled on the settee beside you. You’d arrived at the Blakely’s dinner party alone, had made no mention of Sherlock, and was quite hoping you’d be able to get away without talking about him that evening. “Oh… He’s--” “Incredibly sorry that he’s late,” Sherlock’s voice cut over yours and Alice’s. You turned to see Sherlock smiling down at the two of you. You lowered your eyes, turning away from him as he and Alice greeted one another properly. “May I borrow you, dear?” He asked. “No,” You answered flatly. Alice’s brows rose. “It’s quite important,” Sherlock pressed. You sighed heavily before you excused yourself, rising off of the settee and following Sherlock out of the room. He took hold of your hand, hurrying you down the hall and into a study. He didn’t say anything as you tugged your hand out of his; he was more set on making sure there was no one else there. “What on earth are you doing here?” You asked, folding your arms over your chest. “I’m quite certain the robber is here tonight,” He said, turning back to you, “But I need your help.” “Why would I help you?” “Because the sooner you do, the sooner you’ll never have to see me again.” Well, that was tempting. 

--

Sherlock had managed to keep it quiet. Well, quiet enough. Enoch Mulvohill was no longer the primary suspect, but rather quite complacent in a plot perpetrated by one Mr. Larkin Teague. Your eyes had widened when he told you; he had assumed that you would tell him off, that you would insist that your father was blameless and that you knew Larkin well, that he could never be the man Sherlock was looking for. What had, instead, come out of your mouth was, “Alice will be devastated.” 

For all of your rage and anger toward him the day before, all that had settled over your features in that moment was concern for your friend. And in that moment, Sherlock found himself quite taken with you. He nodded, dislodging the thought in favor of the matter at hand. “The Blakelys are quite known for the jewels that they acquired during their last trip to the continent, are they not?” He asked. “They are, yes. What can I do?” “Keep everyone in the parlor. If you see Larkin leave, do not raise the alarm. I have police from Scotland Yard surrounding the house and waiting for Larkin.” He watched you nod and take a deep breath. “Alright.” You left him without further instruction or another word. 

--

The night’s end found you comforting a weeping Alice; your mother seemed too stunned to cry, and you were certain she’d never dare let herself show that sort of emotion in front of you, anyway. You stayed at Alice’s that night; you didn’t see Sherlock after you spoke to him in the study; you didn’t care to. You were quite certain that you’d be happy to never see Sherlock Holmes again. -- “Mr. Holmes is in the parlor-- Though I cannot think why,” Luellla told you. You frowned. You couldn’t think why, either. You hadn’t seen the engagement ring since you’d thrown it to him, so he couldn’t possibly look for its return; all of your family’s missing items had been returned to you, as well as the other families that had lost items. Sherlock’s case and your engagement had been written up in the papers. It had been positioned that you had been in on the plot, working with Sherlock to help crack the case from the start, and a wave of suitors had followed once the story and the engagement had officially broken. “Thank you, Luella,” You gave her a small smile, “Please tell him I’ll be down in a few moments.” “Yes, ma’am.” You watched her go before you turned back to the mirror and looked yourself over. You’d seen neither hide nor hair of Sherlock since that night at the Blakely’s home. He hadn’t reached out to you through a letter or an invitation (though Thaddeus had received precisely two letters of apology from Mycroft, and you one from Enola). You really couldn’t imagine what the man could possibly want from you now. -- Sherlock was at your bookcase again. It seemed to be his customary place. You cleared your throat as you entered the room, but he didn’t bother to look away from whatever it was that he was looking at. “I did always wonder about this,” he said, holding up one of the many pamphlets that you kept hidden. It was one on fforeign trade that Phineas had brought you from father’s office. Your eyes widened, and you darted forward, snatching it from him and smoothing out a wrinkle in it. You glanced up at Sherlock to find him smiling at you, amused. “What would a businessman’s daughter want with a pamphlet from The Mercantile Guardian Office?” He added. “Phineas brought it to me so that I could better understand how father operates his business, and what he could be doing differently.” “Of his own volition?” “I asked him to.”  You glanced up at Sherlock before you took the book from his hands and tucked the pamphlet safely away again. “What are you doing here?” You asked, stepping between him and the bookshelf to put it away. You’d never bothered to get this close to him while the two of you had been engaged, but now that he had been clear about his intentions, you didn’t see any reason to shield yourself from him. He hadn’t told anyone about any of the pamphlets that he’d clearly found, you were certain he wouldn’t now. “...I wanted to speak with you.” “What about?” You turned around to face him and found him close by, still. Gigglemug, liar, or no, Sherlock Holmes was quite nice to look at. And if you didn’t know any better, there was a touch of remorse in his handsome features. “I should have been clear about my intentions from the first,” He said quietly, leaning against the arm of the armchair behind himself, “I… I was not considering your side of this when I undertook this case with such an approach. It was shortsighted and unfair of me to prey on your feelings in such a way. I apologize, Ms. Mulvohill. It was, indeed, quite low of me.” You were taken aback for a moment. You certainly hadn’t expected that. “I accept your apology.” Sherlock gave a nod of thanks before adding, “I also wanted to thank you for assisting me the evening of  the Teague arrest. It went off without a hitch, and I would not have been able to do so had there been people wandering the house. I couldn’t have done it without your help.” Criminy, you weren’t anticipating that, either. “Well, your...Particular method aside, I’m glad that you were able to undertake and solve the case. Many of my friends and my family are grateful to you, Mr. Holmes.” Sherlock chuckled, nodding a little. “I was happy to assist.” He watched you for a moment, and you watched him in turn. For the first time in all of your acquaintance, you didn’t have the urge to look away from him. “Am I to understand that congratulations are in order yet?” He asked. You raised a brow. “Excuse me?” “My brother tells me that you’d… Had quite a number of suitors since our parting.” “Well, your brother is something of a gossip. But, no, no ‘congratulations’, as you’ve put it. I think I should like to actually talk to someone before I become engaged to them this time.” Sherlock smiled, and you felt your stomach fluttering, and your own lips pulling to mirror it. 

-- 

You were smiling - really smiling - at him, because of him. Sherlock needed to see that again, and again, and again, and again. “I must be off,”  He said, glancing at the clock, “But… Might I call on you tomorrow?” Your brow furrowed at the question, and you asked him, “Whatever for?” “Well, so that we might actually talk before I speak to Thaddeus about you.” He watched you take that in, the narrowing of your eyes, the slight parting of your lips, the hesitation - and damn the hesitation, but that was his own fault. It was his own fault you didn’t trust him, it was his own fault that he’d lost you, and his own fault that he’d have to win your trust back. He’d work for it, though. He’d find a way to come by every day, if you wanted him. The ring that you’d thrown at him had been burning a whole in his pocket since you’d tossed it at his feet, and he was itching to do this properly, to slide it onto your finger and look you in the eye. “...Tomorrow should suit fine,” You finally answered him. He felt a burst of warmth in his chest at your answer, and he grinned. He glanced back toward the door. No one had been by to disturb the two of you; perhaps it was their habit, the two of you had had the right to be left alone when you were engaged, but now that that had ended, the two of you technically shouldn’t have been. Sherlock straightened and stepped closer to you. You were watching him like he was a living puzzle, a walking mystery. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I will be back tomorrow, then, Ms. Mulvohill,” He murmured as he leaned away. 

--

“I will see you then, Mr. Holmes,” You answered in your steadiest voice. You watched Sherlock leave the room, smiled as he turned back to look at you before he disappeared from the study. As soon as you were certain he was gone, you raised your fingers to brush where his lips had lingered briefly.

Sherlock Holmes was coming back to see you, simply for you. He planned on asking for your hand again, not for a case, but because he wanted it.

Sherlock Holmes wanted to marry you.

Terribly confounding.

[cutie1365]

Hello Detective Chapter 72

Pairing: Sherlock x Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: Had a spark of inspiration after some funny comments on my Wattpad version of this story. See the power of feedback for writers lol. 

Any and all feedback is appreciated and encouraged!

Masterlist | Add yourself to my taglist | Chapter 71 | Chapter 1 

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You walked around the empty flat, waiting for Sherlock and John to return from the hospital. Mycroft was calling for backup to do a drug sweep due to his recent relapse. The place was quiet, eerily so. You hadn’t walked these halls for weeks, but it felt as if years had worn them down, turning them dark and lifeless. Nothing like the flat you knew. Nothing like your home. It’s like in their bones they sensed your absence. They revolted against it. You glanced towards the closed bedroom door, not being able to bring yourself to open it. You missed him too much for that. The memories you’d made in that room would be too much to face now. Now you had to hold your mask high, you had to play your role and not become distracted.

Downstairs you heard the creak of the door slowly opening and prepared yourself for the confrontation. It was never pretty when Sherlock and Mycroft went at it.

Mycroft was sitting at the bottom of the steps anticipating their arrival. You waited at the landing, not quite stepping into the light yet, using your last few moments to compose yourself for the inevitable argument.

“Well then Sherlock, back on the sauce?” Mycroft spoke immediately as they entered the room, hoping to employ the element of surprise. But of course Sherlock was expecting him. He’d straightened the knocker, of course Sherlock would notice.

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock rolled his eyes, not in the mood for another insignificant lecture.

“I phoned him.” John admitted.

“The siren call of old habits.” Mycroft muttered disapprovingly.

“Old?” You raised a brow, taking a few steps down into the light. Mycroft turned to look at you, concern flashed across his face. He acted like Sherlock ever stopped using, but you knew better.

“You phoned him?” Sherlock asked John again, who wasn’t in the mood.

“Course I bloody phoned him.” John said, exasperated. Did he forget he just pulled him from a drug den? Of course he was bloody concerned.

“And her?” Sherlock asked, with malice in his voice, directed straight at you.

“Oh I’m here against my will, don’t worry I’d never come here voluntarily.” You retorted.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but Mycroft changed the subject before he got a chance. He was too tired to deal with the two of you at eachothers throats.

“Now save me a little time. Where should we be looking?” Mycroft asked.

“We?” Sherlock asked, raising his brow.

“Mr Holmes?” The voice of Anderson echoed from upstairs.

The look of simultaneous anger and surprise on Sherlock’s face caused you to laugh.

“Oh I take it back, this is going to be fun.” You chuckled darkly. This is just what you needed. A good old Sherlock-Anderson standoff like the good old days. God things were simpler back then, even with the homicidal maniac who tried to blow you up.

“For God’s sake!” Sherlock called up to Anderson, pushing past you and Mycroft while making his way up the stairs. The three of you followed in tow.

“Anderson?” Sherlock asked annoyed and exasperated, hoping that he’d misidentified the voice, only for it to be confirmed.

“Sorry Sherlock, it’s for your own good.” Anderson apologized as the rest of you filed into the flat. He stood next to who you assumed to be his new girlfriend, you recognized her from your trip to his apartment all those months ago.

“Oh, that’s him, isn’t it?” The girlfriend asked, “You said he’d be taller.”

She turned and muttered her last statement to Phillip, but you knew that would strike a cord with Sherlock. Just like the hat, it was a delicate subject.

As you suspected, Sherlock flipped up his hood, turned and curled up into his chair, literally folding his body into the fetal position and resting his entire body on the cushion. Frankly, you were surprised he fit.

“Some members of your little fan club, to be polite. They’re entirely trustworthy. Even willing to search through the toxic waste dump that you were pleased to call a flat.” Mycroft said, as John took a look around the place, no doubt noticing the stark change since his absence. You noticed his chair was gone too. “You’re a celebrity these days, Sherlock. You can’t afford a drug habit.”

“I do not have a drug habit.” Sherlock argued, and you scoffed.

“No, he’s a user, remember.” You retorted, and on that subject you didn’t have to act so disappointed.

“Hey, what happened to my chair?” John asked, looking down to the empty spot on the carpet.

“It was blocking my view to the kitchen.” He answered, but you knew that was a lie. More like ‘I missed my wife and the sight only reminded me of her absence’.

“What have you found so far? Clearly nothing.” Mycroft turned back to Anderson.

“There’s nothing to find.” Sherlock yelled from the living room, hoping to stop them from digging.

“Your bedroom door is shut, you haven’t been home all night,” Mycroft began to walk back towards the bedroom, and Sherlock’s head shot up. “So, why would a man who has never knowingly closed the door without the direct orders of his mother bother to do so on this occasion?”

“Okay, stop!” Sherlock yelled, jumping up as Mycroft’s hand neared the door handle. “Just stop!”

What was it he didn’t want anyone to see in there? John noticed his frantic behavior as well. The two of you shared a confused look, and then it hit you. You turned to Sherlock with a surprised look, and he knew you had figured it out. Oh god was she in there? Your face said it all. For a moment Sherlock’s eyes pleaded with you for forgiveness. For a moment the two of you shared an entire conversation through only two glances that quickly slipped away to not jeopardize the roles that you were both playing so well. Mycroft was right, Sherlock never shut the door unless the two of you were in there together.

“Point made.” Sherlock said, and you shook your head, putting your mask back on.  They were expecting drugs, but you knew better. He didn’t want to put you through that, knowing he had to fake date another woman was one thing, but flaunting it in your face was another. And that was a line he would not cross. Charles was different, he was in on it, he knew you were married. Hell, you didn’t even know who he was fake dating. While Sherlock and Charles had never officially met the two sure knew a lot about the other.

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John said, shaking his head. Of course he’d think this was his fault partially. He should have checked up on him, he should have been here. Obviously he was taking him getting married and moving out a lot harder than he expected. Of course that wasn’t the whole story.

“I’ll have to phone our parents, of course, in Oklahoma. Won’t be the first time that your substance abuse has wreaked havoc with their line dancing.” Mycroft sighed. How these two boys came from those two parents, you’d never know.

“This is not what you think, this is for a case.” Sherlock explained, hoping Mycroft would understand.

“What case could possibly justify this?” Mycroft asked, and you were curious too.

You’d never pressed and you trusted him when he said it was important, but now, maybe you wanted to know. You could handle the anonymity when you were away from Sherlock but now that he was finally standing in front of you again you wanted to help. Your curiosity was getting the better of you.

“Magnussen” He spoke, and you swore you stopped breathing. “Charles Augustus Magnussen.”

You tried not to gasp but you may have let in a sharp breath that caused Mycroft to turn to you. He knew you were currently a part of the enquiry into him, so you really couldn’t get involved with anything Sherlock was about to say. Panic began to set in and it took every ounce of your MI6 training to not let it show on your face. This was what all this was about? Mycroft sighed and turned back to Anderson and his partner.

“That name you think you may have just heard, you were mistaken. If you ever mention hearing that name in this room, in this context, I guarantee you on behalf of the British Security Services that materials will be found on your computer hard drives resulting in your immediate incarceration. Don’t reply, just look frightened and scuttle.” Mycroft threatened, as Phillip and his girlfriend ran out of the room, closing the door.

Mycroft turned back to John, “I hope I won’t have to threaten you as well.”

“Well, I think we’d both find that embarrassing.” John deadpanned, causing Sherlock to laugh, he looked at you hoping to share in a quick smile. He was met with your unamused face, eyes still slightly wide as you fought to keep your breathing at a stable rate.

“This isn’t funny.” You said, one hundred percent serious. He furrowed his brows a bit. Normally you would have found that hilarious, but clearly something had changed. That wasn’t just a part of the act. That felt real.

“Magnussen is not your business.” Mycroft said to John.

“Oh you mean he’s yours.” Sherlock pointed to Mycroft. You could feel your throat tightening, you urged the feeling to go away. You could not show any signs of fear. Magnussen held your entire life in the balance, you couldn’t allow even a tiny slip up.

“You may consider him under my protection.” Mycroft said, you turned to him furrowing your brows for a moment. You didn’t know that, though it didn’t change much. You now had a face to the immunity power that Magnussen had.

“I consider you under his thumb.” Sherlock seethed. You moved your hands behind your back to hide them shaking. You tried to keep Sherlock away from your Magnussen mess and here he was smack dab in the middle of it.

“If you go against Magnussen, then you will find yourself going against me.” Mycroft said.

“And me.” Your voice wavered. If Sherlock attacks Magnussen there's nothing stopping him from releasing the information on you and your uncle. Your words shocked everyone in the room, even Mycroft. A quiver of a brow was all you got in response from Mycroft but you knew that wasn’t the end of the conversation.

“Okay, I’ll let you know if I notice.” Sherlock shot back. He began to walk towards the door.

“Erm... What was I going to say? Oh, yeah. Bye-bye.“ He opened the door and pointed out. Mycroft made his way towards it, as you followed.

“Unwise, brother mine.” Mycroft said, just having to get the last word. You were ready to roll your eyes before Sherlock jumped into action, surprising you. Sherlock grabbed Mycroft’s arm, twisted it behind his back and pinned him against the wall.

“Brother mine, don’t appall me when I’m high.” Sherlock seethed in his brother's ear, causing him to groan in pain.

“Hey!” You shouted, pulling Sherlock off of him and pinning Sherlock to the wall instead. Maybe this is what Mycroft meant by backup. You raised your elbow, pinning him in place as he winced slightly. That wasn’t fake. Having never seen this side of you, his eyes danced curiously across your face looking for any glimpse of an explanation. You held your demeanor.

“I hope you fully understand what you’re about to get yourself into here.” You scold, hoping he understands your warning. You didn’t just mean fighting with Mycroft, you meant Magnuseen. He was not someone to fuck with, and whatever he was getting himself into, it wouldn’t end well for anyone.

Mycroft picks up his umbrella and makes his way down the stairs, straightening his suit and thankful for your help, though he’d never admit it. You remove your arm from Sherlock's neck as he sucks in a breath of air. You turn and follow Mycroft down the stairs without another word.

You were angry, seething on the inside. Magnussen was ripping your life apart at every turn. You hated him, you wanted to kill him, to dismember him limb by limb, but you were powerless. You couldn’t even talk back to the man without fearing the repercussions. He owned you.

As you stepped out onto the street Mycroft turned to you, glancing around to make sure no one was in earshot.

“Keep an eye on him. Don’t let him dig too deep into this.” He said, keeping his voice low.

“Absolutely not.” You shook your head, you couldn’t do that even if you wanted to.

He seemed unsatisfied at your volume, and quickly glanced up to the window into 221B above you. Something must have caught his eye because he grabbed your arm and pulled you back under the awning of Speedys, keeping the two of you out of eyesight.

“I don’t care that the two of you... broke up.” He waved his hand, as if saying those words disgusted him. “That can’t stop you from doing your job.”

“Mycroft, we shouldn’t even be discussing this. With the enquiry going on, you know I can’t get involved. My hands are tied. Magnussen is untouchable, even Sherlock can’t get to him.” You pressed, shaking your head, holding back your anger.

You turned and walked back towards the street, raising your hand to hail a cab. As one began to pull over you heard Mycroft begin to call your name. You whipped back to him before he had a chance to continue the conversation.

“Drop it.” You said forcefully, pointing your finger at him, turning and opening the cab door.

Before stepping in, you turned and glanced up at the window, feeling eyes on you. Sherlock stood, watching the interaction carefully. You shot him what you hoped was a warning look as you sank into the backseat and slammed the door.

You let out a groan as the car pulled away, wishing you could take Charles up on his murderous offer.

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Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated and encouraged!

Taglist in Reblog

Masterlist

[imaginelock]

Sherlock’s lips look so soft and John hates that. Or, more so...he just can’t stand it. 

He spends more time than he would ever admit to a living soul... just staring at them. 

John watches the way Sherlock’s lips gently touch the rim of the mug he uses to drink his tea. He watches the annoyed curl of the detective’s lips when Anderson (or Mycroft) enter the room. He watches the quick flash of pink as Sherlock’s tongue darts over his full bottom lip before man’s mouth slants up into a smirk once the game has begun yet again. 

He watches- 

“Why are you staring at me?” Sherlock asks one night that they sit alone in the flat. And, frankly, it takes John by surprise -- John’s not even looking at Sherlock. 

John’s on his laptop, as ever. Not writing a blog this time, just embarrassingly reading a click-bait article about No-Bake Desserts. He doesn’t remember how he even got there. Wasn’t he just reading about the latest sporting match? John doesn’t even make desserts. Though, he does consider saving one or two of the recipes to show Mrs. Hudson.

“Sherlock, you’re far too smart for me to even need to explain to you that I’m not even facing your side of the room,” John mumbles as he closes the recipe tab he’d been reading. 

“Not currently,” Sherlock says from the sofa. “I’m addressing the habit you’ve acquired.”

“Habit?” John echoes. 

“You seem to do it religiously, so yes. Habit,” Sherlock shifts, smoothing his dressing gown over his lap. “So, why is it?”

John excepts that he’s been caught, then. Sherlock’s noticed -- of course he has. He’s Sherlock bloody Holmes. 

“I...” John could lie now. Would it be enough to convince Sherlock?

“Yes?” 

He could lie. He could lie. He has to lie. But...he’s already moving. 

Across the room, socked feet only making whispers over the creaky floorboards as he walks.

“John?” Sherlock’s confused, and John’s too focused on moving in a straight line from point A to point B to even revel in the rare state of a confused Holmes. 

The doctor reaches Sherlock in a few steps, far more than Sherlock’s long legs would have to take. But, he’s there. Standing in front of Sherlock. 

The detective’s eyes watch John carefully, mind racing to try and figure out what John wants before John even does. But, he’s not fast enough -- John’s hands are already caressing his gorgeous jaw bone. 

And finally, finally, John is able to feel Sherlock’s soft mouth. The pad of John’s thumb goes over the plush bottom lip -- it’s just as soft as John has imagined. Velvety and smooth. Sherlock’s breath is warm over John’s skin when Sherlock finally remembers to exhale. 

“John?”

“You’re so beautiful,” John says softly. “That’s why. Of course, that’s why.” 

[roguelov]

Based on the Moriarty and Crimelord!Reader series and requested by anon!

Warning: SMUT! Car sex, fingering, and dirty talk

You lulled your head back staring up through the glass ceiling watching as clouds lazily passed over the sun. The sweet aroma of flower filtered around the room. Serenity was what you should feel. A groan rumbled in the back of your throat. Boredom – completely draining boredom – has carved into your mind. Your body antsy to move, to do something. Of course, you could work. And, you were. Work always demanded your attention in some form. However, you simply had enough. You wanted – no needed – a break. You needed to have some fun. To let loose.

Jim, who sat on the couch across from you in your sun room, hasn’t moved a muscle. His attention on new plans, ideas, and details needed to sort out for his clients or for his own personal gains. “What’s the problem, love?” he asked. His eyes still directed on the sheets of paper.

“I’m bored.”

“Rob a bank,” he suggested nonchalantly as he flipped over a paper.

You scoffed. “As if that’s a challenge at this point.”

Your comment caused Jim to peer up with a devious smile. “True.”

“Come on, Jim, let’s do something! Let’s have some fun.”

“And what kind of fun do you have in mind?” He asked setting down his papers.

Fun was a loaded word for the pair of you. Fun entitled many things. Dangerous and deadly tacked onto the lighthearted word. “I don’t know,” you groaned, “if I did know then I would be doing it by now.”

He chuckled; everything about you amused him in some degree. Like now. You, a well-known ferocious crime boss who has killed more people than you can count or remember, was acting like a toddler. Whining.

“How about this?” He leaned forward smirking. “We pay a visit to our old friends.”

“Oh?” You perked up. “You mean a truce? Drinks?”

“Of sorts, but I think I have something better planned than just drinks. Something that’ll definitely cheer you up.”

And, oh boy, he did.

You, along with Jim, Sherlock, and John, were going to prank and simply all-around annoy Mycroft. All of this absolutely delighted you. Ideas were already firing off. And to be frankly honest, it took little to almost no convincing from Sherlock and John to join you. Sherlock instantly jumped on board because sibling rivalry can be such an influential factor. John joined because he hardly left Sherlock’s side and he too would enjoy to see Mycroft knocked down from his high horse. Another reason, one of which he didn’t say out loud, was to ensure Mycroft wasn’t seriously injured. Or killed for that matter. He still hardly trusted either you or Jim. As he should.

With an unusually amount of ease for a government building, all four of you snuck in. Then quickly the fun ensued. From rearranging items to confuse him, prank calling his phone, placing tripwire down to make him stumble, putting a sound device in his office to annoy him, and giggling as he did obscure things in the safe veil of believing his was alone. It was all around harmless pranks. Unfortunately. You had a few ideas which John immediately shot down. Luckily, to offset your disappoint, you filmed a good portion of the pranks. A video you know will always make you laugh and possibly be a loving piece of blackmail down the road.

But, as always, all good things must come to an end.

“The four of you are acting like children!” Mycroft shouted red in the face while looming from behind his desk. The four of you stood in front like kids sent to the principal’s office.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, shut up, Mikey.”

“It’s Mycroft!”

“Well, Mikey, we were just having a bit of fun. No need to get your panties in a twist.”

“Fun? You call this fun! Torturing me all day?”

“Uh, yeah.”

He huffed as a veins pulsed on his forehead ready to burst.

“Oh, do calm yourself Mycroft,” Sherlock interjected. “You weren’t hurt.”

“No, but do you realize the position I am in? If anyone caught me in those ridiculous … pranks then I would never be taken seriously.”

You smirked, “Oh, yeah because –“

John clamped a hand over your mouth. Obviously trying to avoid more problems. You shook him off glaring at him, almost debating to cut off his hand. He returned the glare, not backing down, and hissed, “Don’t make this worse.”

“Fine.” You crossed your arms and directed your attention back at Mycroft. “How about we soothe this all over with some drinks? My treat.”

Mycroft glared unable to believe if you were being serious or this was some other prank in the works. Moriarty wrapped his arm around your waist, “Oh come on, Mycroft, we’ll behave. It’s just drinks. Think of it as an apology of sorts.”

His words were light and airy, but his deadly gaze in his eyes dared Mycroft to say no to him, say no to you, his queen.

Mycroft sighed running a hand over his face. “Fine. But! I want to see (Y/N)’s phone.”

“What? Why?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Because knowing you, you have some sort of video of me. I want that deleted now and once that’s done I’ll consider us square.”

You puckered your lips not wanting to concede, but you had to. You didn’t want – or frankly need – Mycroft to be in a sour mood or to think about interceding with any of your future plans. You pulled out your phone and deleted the video then showed Mycroft it was permanently gone.

“Happy?” you asked.

“Absolutely ecstatic,” Mycroft replied drily. He turned away and led the way with Sherlock and John on his heels.

You mumbled, “I do have others, dumbass.”

Moriarty chuckled, “Come on, darling. We can’t keep the boys waiting.”

Together, all five of you, strolled into a bar. However, this bar in particular – The Hen House – was owned by you and Moriarty. It was a gift from him to you almost a year ago. If it wasn’t Sherlock’s claustrophobic apartment, or your mansion, then all of you would go here for drinks. Given how this place had a larger supply of alcohol, you all tended to come here more often.

The instant your foot stepped into the bar all of the patrons’ eyes glanced over. With a single nod to the bartender, he announced that the bar was closing effective immediately and that all customers must leave. A few groaned, some shouted about it not being fair, while others – your usually customers – left without saying a word. In a few minutes, the bar was empty expect for the five of you.

You walked behind the counter grabbing bottles. “So, what will it be boys?”

“Anything you make, sweetheart,” Moriarty smiled sliding into a seat in front of you.

Mycroft scoffed at Moriarty’s comment. “I’ll have –“

“Shots, it is,” you announced grabbing multiple shot glasses from under the counter.

Mycroft glared. “If you were going to do shots, why ask?”

“Formality.” You passed out shots. Sherlock, John, and Moriarty grabbed theirs while Mycroft looked in disgust before picking it up. You smiled and clinked your glass with theirs. “Cheers.”

You downed your shot swiftly and with ease. Moriarty followed next along with John and Sherlock, however Mycroft squinted at the poison that filled the tiny glass. His eyes flickered over to you and you cocked your head. It was a challenge. Does he truly dare get on your bad side? Frowning, he drank the shot and hissed loudly at the burning sensation.

You smiled brightly. “Alright, who’s ready for the next round?”

“Dear god, could I please just have scotch or something less atrocious then that monstrosity of a drink you gave me,” Mycroft groaned.

“Um, let me see if we have any.” You spun around staring at the wall of perched bottles. Each one shined under the florescent lights in their unique bottles. You turned back around shrugging, “Sorry, we don’t have any.”

“I can clearly see a bottle right there!” Mycroft pointed at a bottle of scotch gleaming with its amber liquid.

“Well, maybe, I just don’t care.”

“Sweetheart,” Moriarty cooed.

You hummed.

“Let the man have his drink. I quite rather have him mildly happy then pissed off at the moment.”

“Fine,” you sighed then glanced to Sherlock and John. “Care to make any requests too?”

Those were the famous last words. Bottles littered the counter along with empty glasses. Music blared from the speakers as the five of you drunkenly passed the time. Mycroft was going on and on about utter nonsense, Sherlock and John leaned on each other struggling to stay awake, while you laid on the bar counter sprawled out with Moriarty on a stool beside you calmly stroking your hair.

“He’s still talking?” You picked your head up seeing Mycroft now standing up as he wildly gestured with a full glass spilling its contents.

“Yes, and I think his audience is nearly dead.” Moriarty chuckled.

You laughed through your nose and laid your head back down. You glanced up seeing Moriarty staring unwaveringly at you. You tilted your head, “Yes?”

“Oh, nothing.”

You snorted, “I know that look, Jimmy. You’re thinking of something, now spill.”

“I think of lots of things.” He gently ran his fingers through your hair.

“Then what are you think of now, handsome?”

He smirked and leaned closer into your ear. You shivered. “I’m thinking of all the ways I can make you scream out my name tonight.”

You blushed then cleared your throat, “Oh? Are you threatening me, Jimmy?”

“Only with a good time, love.”

You shook your head and sat up. Swinging your feet over the edge, you glanced back over to the trio. “We still have those idiots to take care of.”

Jim rested his hand on your knee. “Call a cab.”

His hand wondered up your thigh under your skirt. He stood up leaning into you. “When was the last time we had a good time? Hmm? You’ve been oh-so busy, darling, let me treat you.”

You let out a shaky breath. Damn this man and his silver tongue. “The boys,” you replied.

“Then I’ll call them a cab and in the mean time they can watch if they like.” Jim chuckled, “Although poor Sherlock might bust a blood vessel. The poor virgin man.”

You were going to scold him when he pressed a soft kiss into the crook of your neck. All irritation faded as you sighed dreamily. He whispered, “I’ll be right back. Then our fun can begin.”

He walked off pulling out his cellphone. Thankfully, it gave you an opportunity to breathe. Your heart skipped frantically in your chest as your nerves danced in anticipation. Your eyes slid over to the trio. Mycroft had finally sat back down pouting while Sherlock and John tried – but failed – to contain their giggles. Curious, you walked over to the booth. You leaned your hands on the table smiling at the giggly pair. “What’s so funny?”

John and Sherlock couldn’t get a word out. John wiped away a tear before stuttering out, “My-Mycroft as, oh boy, as the – the Queen! Dress and all.”

You snorted. These two are completely wasted.

Jim strolled back in from outside. He smirked seeing you slightly bent over the table chatting with the others. Walking up, he pressed his crotch against your rear. You immediately straightened up. He chuckled wrapping his arms around your waist. He whispered into your ear, “Missed me?”

Despite your initial surprise, you smoothly replied, “Always.”

“Oh, get a room you two,” Sherlock groaned.

Jim looked at Sherlock. “I’ve called a cab for all of you.”

“Boo!” John shouted. “Another round!”

“Sorry, boys, but we’re closing,” you said.

John scoffed. “Horrible night out. Truly.”

“Of course you can stick around if you wish,” Jim added.

You scrunched your eyebrows together, “Wh –“

“You can stay and watch as I fuck (Y/N) here on this table,” he cut you off.

“Jimmy!”

“But, I will tell you this as a fair warning,” he dragged his finger across your jaw so you looked directly at him, “she is wonderfully loud in bed.”

Your face ignited. You couldn’t think of what to do or say. The trio looked on in horror and disgust. Jim simply smiled. “Well,” he began pulling you away, “our ride is here so please do lock up for us.”

Before you could get a word in edge wise, Jim dragged you out the door and practically pushed you into the limousine parked out front. Shutting the door behind him, Jim fell into the lush leather seats while you huffed and puffed to yourself. The trio’s horrified faces were seared into your mind. Jim nodded to the driver and the car slowly pulled away from the curb.

“I can’t believe you did that,” you muttered.

“What? They can close the bar. And they wouldn’t dare steal from us.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” You crossed your arms looking away.

“I know.”

You stared out the window ignoring him.

“Darling?”

Your mouth stayed shut.

He scooted closer. His hand landed on your thigh as his breath tickled your neck, “Love, don’t ignore me.”

You huffed keeping your gaze locked onto the passing world.

Jim started to lazily draw his fingers back and forth on your leg. You shivered. He hummed in delight, “You know you can’t ignore me.”

Your head snapped over. Your nose brushed against his. He smirked. His eyes were a void waiting to suck you in. “I think I can,” you challenged.

You knew exactly what you were doing. And Jim knew too: you were baiting him.

He chuckled. “Darling, I can have you singing my name in no time.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh really?” He pulled you into his lap. Despite your words, you sighed as his hands wondered up your sides and cupped your face. His thumb ran over your bottom lip. Your tongue darted out to chase it. “You think I can’t have your sweet little mouth saying my name?”

You smiled, “Honey, I know I can. No amount of torture in the world can make me talk.”

“True, but they don’t have anything on me.”

His finger dragged under your chin guiding you forward. His lips skimmed over yours. Your eyes fluttered close. Yet, he didn’t close the gap. He simply sat their soaking in how easily you gave yourself over to him, how this powerful woman can be reduced to a mess by him. The only one to do so. And he hasn’t even started.

“I propose a little game,” he leaned back.

“Oh?” You opened your eyes.

“You can’t make a single peep. No words, no sounds.”

“No sounds?” Jim was right, you were a bit loud in bed. You think you could hold your tongue, but to hold back how your body instinctually reacts to this man’s touches would be impossible.

“Fine, you can moan until your heart’s content, but you can’t speak, can’t beg.”

“And what if I do?”

“Well, if during this ride you can keep quiet then I will cherish you in a way you could not imagine. But, if you mumbled a single word then … well, I think I’ll keep the punishment a surprise.”

The way Jim stared at you, the predatory gaze with the danger sparkling in his eyes made your heart thump in your chest. You peered over your shoulder to the driver. The dark tinted window panel blocked the pair of you from him.

“He won’t be able to hear a thing, love,” Jim cooed. “Now, what do you say?”

You bit your lip and nodded.

“Wonderful.” His lips hovered over your own. “Just know that I won’t be holding back. I want to hear my name on those pretty little lips over yours.”

“Bring it.”

He chuckled.

He finally kissed you. You hummed bunching up the front of his suit. He grabbed the back of your neck raking his fingers through your hair. He tugged on your locks making you moan against him. He smirked. One second in and you were already vocal. Just as he likes it. He tilted your head and forced his tongue inside. You whimpered as he devoured you. You didn’t fight him. You didn’t want to. You decided to let him have his way with you. Curious of how he will play. He pulled away giving you a well needed moment of air.

Jim felt a swell of pride as you were panting with swollen lips and hazy eyes. I haven’t even truly started, he thought, and she already like this. Because of me.

He began kissing you from the corner of your lip, down your jaw, to your neck. You craned your head to the side humming. His lips skimmed up and down your neck making you whine. His name sat on your tongue. You wanted to plead it, to ask for more, but you would not lose.

“Darling, just say my name,” he whispered into your neck.

You shook your head. Your mouth clamped shut.

“That’s my girl.”

You shivered when his lips continued to tease in one spot in particular. Jim smirked against your skin. He placed a gentle kiss there. You sighed. Soon the gentle kisses turned sinister. His mouth latched onto the spot sucking and marking it. You bit your lip to suppress the moan trying to crawl its way out. He bit down. You gasped and tugged on his dress shirt. With the flat of his tongue, he soothed over the pain. Quickly, he captured your lips again. You hummed against him.

Distracted by his sinful tongue, his hands wondered down to your thighs. He played with the hem of your skirt before pushing it up. He gripped your hips. There will be bruises. His fingers ran over the band of your panties. Slowly, he moved one hand closer to your more needy area. His knuckles grazed over clothed core.

You gasped and broke the kiss staring with wide eyes.

“You got something to say, love?” Jim cocked his head. He ran his knuckles over you again.

You let out a shaky breath and dropped your head into Jim’s shoulder. His thumb started to gently rub over your clit. You whimpered. You wanted to say so many obscene things. Curse, scream, beg but you held it all in. Jim moved aside your panties and with one slender finger stroked you.

Oh, dear lord.

“Already so wet for me,” he hummed. “Such a good girl.”

You moaned at his praises.

He smeared your dampness all over his finger. He pulled away his finger and you squirmed. You needed him. But, you could tell him that. He brought his finger to his lips and sucked it clean. He sighed, “Divine as always. I can’t wait to have a real taste … that is if you can hold out.”

His name was on the tip of your tongue. Both as a savior and your demise.

“Look at me, love.”

You lifted your head and locked eyes with Jim. He smiled softly at you admiring your flushed cheeks and lust blown eyes. You returned the smile. Without warning, he pushed two fingers into you. Your mouth fell open as a low moan escaped your lips. He started pumping. You gripped his shoulders. You bit down on your tongue stopping any words from flying out.

“Look at you,” he cupped your face with his free hand, “so desperate to win.”

You buried your face into his hand breathing heavily. He curled his fingers and you moaned again. He was hitting all the right spots. He knew where to strike. The cunning snake.

“Darling, you’ve never looked hotter. You here taking my fingers struggling to not say a single word. Come on, do it for me. Say my name. I want to hear you scream it.”

He picked up his pace pumping you faster. His thumb swiped over your bundle of nerves and you nearly broke.

He smirked, “Just say it once.”

You shook your head squeezing your eyes shut.

“Please, darling,” he purred.

You stayed quiet throwing your head back in ecstasy. Each pump brought you closer to release. He smiled at the sight of you. You were beautiful, stunning, captivating, all of it. His queen. His wonderful devious other half. However, he also did like to win. He pulled his fingers out. You groaned at the loss of friction. His hands landed on your waist. Away from where you really need them.

“I can help with it, but you just have to say one word. Come on, say my name, love.”

At this point, it was a battle of will. And you would not lose. You wouldn’t be who you, where you are, if you did so easily. Two can play at this game. You threw your arms over Jim’s shoulders pulling him close. You kissed feverously him, running your tongue over his lips. Sitting in his lap, you could feel his growing arousal. You smirked against his lips. You grinded down on him eliciting a delicious moan from Jim. You shivered. You loved hearing those noises from him. You were the only person who could do so.

You began to rock your hips adding to the wonderful friction. Jim’s fingers dug into your waist. He broke the kiss breathing heavily, “You’re not playing fair.”

You smirked and bucked your hips again. All’s fair in love and war.

Jim groaned tossing his head back. You dove in kissing his Adam’s apple then over to the crook of his neck nipping at him. As you attacked his neck, your hands danced over his chest undoing his tie and unbutton his shirt. You ran your hands over his bare chest causing him to shiver. Your nails lightly scratched him. Quickly, he grabbed your wrists yanking your hands away.

You reclined looking at Jim to see the dark gaze in his eyes. You tilted your head batting your eyelashes feigning innocence. He growled. With one hand, he clamped your wrists together. The other teased your entrance. Your head lolled back closing your eyes.

“You’re going to pay for that, love.” He whispered. “Now, let’s see if I can finally make you scream my name.”

He slipped two fingers back in. Instantly, you whined. He let go of your wrists. Now, his free hand slipped under your shirt, under your bra to tease your breast. You arched your back at his touch. One hand continued to pump in and out while the other pinched and played with your perked nipples. Each action sent your world spinning.

“Look at you,” Jim smiled. “Taking my fingers while in the back of this car looking absolutely beautiful.”

Your release was coming to an end. Jim could feel it. The way your walls fluttered around his fingers. Begging for it. He curled his fingers. You moaned. Needing to chase your high, you started meeting his thrusts grinding down on his slender fingers. Your hands flew to his shoulders holding onto him.

Jim leaned into your ear. “Come on, love. Be my good girl and come around my fingers.”

You bit your lip trying to muffle the animalistic moan, trying to muffle his name. With the feeling building and building, Jim never let up. He started going faster loving how you looked, loving how he was your undoing. You locked eyes with him and he simply smirked at you.

With one more curl of his finger, you finally came crashing down. Your walls clamped around his fingers as he continued to pump as you rode out your high. You collapsed your head into his chest. When he removed his fingers, a small whine rumbled in your throat at their loss. Jim chuckled.

He cupped your face so you would look at him. He placed a loving kiss on your lips making you melt. He pulled away, “I think you deserve more than what I had planned. Not a single word from you, I’m impressed.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Did you doubt me?”

“A little.”

You leaned in smirking. “Maybe you’re just not as good as you think you are.”

“Is that another challenge, love?”

“Maybe.”

He chuckled, “Well, then I guess I’ll have to –“

“We’re here.”

You jumped at the voice. It was the driver. He cracked the window diving the three of you just enough to talk. A blush crawled over your cheeks. You totally forgotten about the man.

“Thank you, Marlo.” Jim replied easily. “Come on, love, I’m not done with you just yet.”

The next morning, you were sprawled across the king sized bed. Your head rested on Jim’s shoulder as one arm thrown over his chest. His arms wrapped around you. Both of your legs tangled together. A thin sheet draped over the both of you. Slowly, you cracked open your eyes. Your vision swam with Jim’s calm sleeping face. You smiled. He moved slightly, slowly waking up. You craned your head and kissed under his jaw before working down over his chest. He hummed. You glanced back up to see Jim giving you a lopsided smile.

“Morning, love,” he whispered.

“Morning, handsome.”

Jim sighed running a hand through his hair. “So … what should we do today?”

“Well,” you maneuvered around straddling his hips. The blankets fell back relieving your naked body littered with love marks. Jim’s hands instantly latched onto your hips. “I was thinking –“

“Hmmm,” Jim cut you off. “Can I first say how lovely it is to wake up to this?”

You shook your head and continued. “I was thinking we stay in bed today.”

Jim smirked. “Did someone not have enough after last night?”

You huffed and leaned down. Your hands landed on each side of his head. “And what if I didn’t?”

He chuckled. “Then I have to make it up to my queen.”

You smiled staring down at this impossible man. A wonderfully dangerous impossible man. “I love you.”

He returned the smile, “I love you too.”

[inevitably-johnlocked]

do you have any fics of john flirting with sherlock over text? maybe sherlock being utterly clueless? thank you & and much luv ❤️

Hi Nonny!!!

Ahhhhhhhhhh AGES ago, I did an Epistolary / Texting / Letters fic rec list, back before I had A System™, so it’s a bit messy but it is there :) I don’t have a lot of new ones to add to it, BUT I decided I would pull all the Texting fics from that list since I now have neater organization with tags and Chapters, and then just add my NEW fics onto that one, how about that? Would that be okay? It wouldn’t be specifically just flirting, but I think that the list is long overdue anyway!! Hope you like something on this one, and I’ll TRY to tag the flirting fics WITH flirting so that you can pick them out :) 

And as always, add your own fics, Lovelies!! <3

TEXTING AND SEXTING (JULY 2020)

See also:

Epistolary / Texting / Letters (My List, 2017)

First Meeting Via Internet / Phone / Letters (Mine)

Phone Sex & Texting (Alexx’s List)

Wrong Number Texting (Alexx’s List)

They Met Online or Texting (Alexx’s List)

Message Not Sent by Queerasil (K, 762 w., 1 Ch. || Angst, One-Sided Texting, Pining Sherlock) - Sherlock texts John after the fall and during the hiatus. The messages are sent, but never received. Sequel to WORDLOCKED, TSTM, and Wait, How Do You Play This Game Again?

Texts and Tea by JillianWatson1058 (K, 959 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, Texting, Humour, Fluff, POV John, Cranky John) – A John who is woken up at 2:30 in the morning is not a happy John. Sherlock, frankly, doesn’t care. He just wants his tea.

Untouchable by greengrapegaze (T, 1,368 w., 1 Ch. || Pre-S3, UST/URT, Oblivious John, Lonely Sherlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Emotional Sherlock, POV Sherlock, Pining Sherlock) – “He never would. Petty, childish, immature-bitter. Jealous. She had all that he wanted. All he could never have.” Part 1 of Steps to a Bittersweet Symphony

Yorkshire Gold by Tammany Tiger (K, 1,467 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Angst, Holmes Brothers, Open Ending, Grief, Implied Bondlock) – Mycroft may not mourn Sherlock's death-but even if he knows his brother lives, he's not without his own grief. It ain't easy being The British Government. But at least he's got good help. Set between the Fall and the Return.

Text Me When It's Over by immaculately-flawed  (K+, 1,937 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, Humour, Post-TRF, Texting, Sort-Of Pining Sherlock) – After the fall Sherlock starts writing texts to John. Of course, he never sends them... Until he does by accident. Post Reichenbach fic but not angsty.

Denial Isn’t Just a River in Egypt by satanatemycat (T, 2,107 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Friendship, Texting, Bored/Cranky Sherlock) – In which John makes a bet with a co-worker. If he wins, she shuts up about him and Sherlock being a couple. If he loses… well, that doesn’t matter, because he won’t lose. Because he and Sherlock ARE NOT a couple. Right?

The Art Of Communication by StillWaters1 (T, 2,679 w., 1 Ch. || Friendship, H/C) – Lestrade was used to getting odd, non sequitur texts from Sherlock. But when "John went out for milk" was followed by a terse "two hours ago," Lestrade immediately understood three things: John was missing, Sherlock was quietly panicking, and this could all end very, very badly.

Unquantifiable by 221b_hound (M, 2,799 w. 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Grumpy John, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Pet Names, Texting, Sweet Sherlock, Princess Bride References) – John remains a terrible and foul-tempered patient, but he does try to make up for it with pet names and text message silliness. In the meantime, Sally Donovan visits Baker Street for a hint about the Milverton case, and has to deal with a Sherlock Holmes who can't find words big enough to thank her for saving John's life at the warehouse. For afters, there's a viewing of The Princess Bride. Part 33 of the Unkissed series

The Sweetest Taste In The World by crossroads (G, 3,121 w., 1 Ch. || First Kiss, Jealous Sherlock, Fluff, Pining, Friends to Lovers) – The sweetest taste in the world is rarely ever the easiest to come by.

Entanglement by orphan_account (G, 3,218 w., 1 Ch. || Confessions, Physics, Metaphors, Texting, Pining, Christmas, Mind Palace, Sick Fic, Fluff, Humour, Praise Kink) - On Christmas Eve, snow covers London, John visits Harry, and Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson untangle some knots.

Come home. by hudders-and-hiddles (huddersandhiddles) (E, 3,763 w., 1 Ch. || Texting / Sexting, Lonely Sherlock, Nude Photos, Pining, Fluff & Smut) – When John leaves for a medical conference, Sherlock tries to entice him back home.

Happy anniversary by Salambo06 (E, 3,772 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Vulnerable Sherlock, Wedding Anniversary, Anal, Texting, Lingerie) – John inhaled deeply, feeling his cock pulse under the silk gown, and he let his eyes travel on the lean body in front of him. Sherlock was kneeling on the bed, their bed, and the picture had been taken so John could perfectly see his bare chest and pelvis. But what mattered most, what made John harden rather quickly, was the pair of panties Sherlock was wearing in the picture. Black, string over each hip and laces that outlined Sherlock’s erect cock barely hidden under the soft underwear.

Lingerie by Sexxica (E, 4,135 w., 1 Ch. || Valentine’s Day, Lingerie / Women’s Underwear, Mildly Public Masturbation, Picture Texting / Sexting, Bottomlock, Body Worship, Anal Sex / Fingering, Rimming, Orgasm Delay / Denial, Est. Rel.) – It's Valentines Day and Sherlock is taking John to Angelo's for dinner. Sherlock also happens to be wearing a garter belt, stockings and a rather small pair of women's underwear under his clothes. There's no dessert at Angelo's because John needs to get Sherlock home just as quickly as he can before they both lose their minds entirely.

If He Knows by shamelessmash (M, 4,513 w., 1 Ch. || TSo3 Fic, Pining Sherlock, Bed Sharing, Angst, First Person Sherlock POV, Texting, Internal Monologue, Blanket Forts) – I imagine mornings: John handing me a cup of tea, hair sticking out at odd angles. How he would bend down to kiss me, smiling fondly as he pulls away. The way his skin crinkles at the corner of his eyes, the way his skin looks in the morning light. The soft sigh as he sits in his chair with the morning paper, the way his toes curl in the carpet, the way he rolls his shoulders before sinking deeper into his seat. I watch him, how he is when he is content, as it should be. As he deserves. Happy. With me.

Tease You Till You Come by phoenix089 (E, 6,090 w., 1 Ch. || First Time, Clueless Sherlock, Sexting/Texting) – Initially, Sherlock was rather put out by John's lack of presence on the case. But then he starts to receive pictures, several of them, of an unexpected nature. The case is forgotten rather quickly after that.

What Did I Do Wrong? by Starlight05 (T, 7,880 w., 5 Ch. || Hurt Comfort, Angst, John Whump, Hospitalization, Worried Sherlock, Emotional Turmoil, Nightmares, Sherlock Being Dumb) - After John almost dies on a case, Sherlock disappears. So John is left to figure out what he can do to get his best friend back. Meanwhile Sherlock, guilt-ridden and willingly alone, is doing everything he can to stay away.

Bread and Wine and Curry Once a Week by cwb (E, 8,737 w., 1 Ch. || Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Stroppy Sherlock, Love Letters, POV John) – Sherlock asks John for relationship advice. Little does he know that it’s him that Sherlock is in love with.

A Building of Bridges by Unique (K, 12,325 w., 3 Ch. || Drama, Alternate First Meeting, John’s PTSD / Flashbacks, Mute John, Dialogue-Heavy, Caring Sherlock, Friendship) – No one would ever send Sherlock in to diffuse a stand-off; but on one unlikely day, that's exactly what happened. "Congratulations, Lestrade," he called out sarcastically. "You're traumatizing a war veteran."

A Brand of Gold by aquabelacqua (M, 12,757 w., 1 Ch. || Mutual Pining, POV John, Phone Sex, Texting, Masturbation, Long Distance, Drunk Texting) – What am I doing? he wondered. The answer came back at once: Flirting. He let the vital, missing piece snap into place as surely and as cleanly as if it had always been there. He was flirting with Sherlock Holmes.

Traitor's Gate by roane (E, 17,714 w., 6 Ch. || Post-TRF, Case Fic, Mystery, Bets and Wagers, Undercover for a Case, BAMF John, Scientist Sherlock, Teasing, Established Relationship, Military Base, Sexting/Texting, Military/Uniform Kink, Frottage, Dirty Sex, Anal, Bottomlock) – John and Sherlock go undercover at a top secret government lab to find out who is selling research. John is back in uniform and Sherlock is back in a laboratory, but they have to pose as strangers. Sherlock thinks he'll have an easy time of it, but John has his doubts. It's up to them to find out who is responsible for putting a dangerous weapon in the wrong hands, and try to keep their hands off each other at the same time.

The Real Meaning of Idioms by feverishsea (T, 21,691 w., 13 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Texting, Humour, Post-TRF, Awkward Romance, Idiots in Love) - After two weeks away, John finally texts Sherlock. He doesn’t expect Sherlock to respond. He doesn’t expect Sherlock to keep texting him. And he really doesn’t expect things to spiral out of control so rapidly.

A Study In Auto-Signatures, Sniper Dolphins, and Sex Holidays by cwb (E, 32,689 w., 8 Ch. || Case Fic, Post S3, Evil Mary, Dev. Rel., Beach Holidays, Confused Sherlock, Friends to Lovers, Honeymoon, Epistolary, Bottomlock, First Kiss / Time, Fluff, Secret Agents, BAMF!John) – John and Mary go on their sex holiday, and Sherlock is grumpy and pining about it. Part 1 of HOT DOLPHIN SEX

A Week is Just Seven Days Isn't It? by scifigrl47 (T, 39,906 w., 4 Ch. || Humour, Friendship/Bromance, Stroppy/Bored Sherlock, Undercover/Army John, Texting, Pining-ish Sherlock, John Whump) – When John heads overseas for a week, Sherlock's forced to fend for himself. It goes about as well as anyone could have anticipated. Which is to say, very, very poorly. Don't worry, things'll be fine in just seven days.

Definitions by siennna (T, 101,528 w., 12 of ? Ch. || Dev. Rel., Pining, Fluff and Romance, First Kiss, Love Confessions, Fluff, Cuddles) – Sherlock’s journey in defining his flat mate and stumbling through the muddled world of emotion. {{This feels complete; the chapter count is listed as ? but I feel like it is done}}

[therealsaintscully]

In saving my life she conferred a value on it -- It is a currency I do not know how to spend.

Why Mary was always going to win and why Sherlock saw it as the best case scenario

Ooof, this quote had been haunting so much recently. It’s so breathtakingly honest, and what’s sadder is that John doesn’t really see it for what it is.

But what is it, really? What was the state of mind that led Sherlock to speak these words?

Recently, I’ve been wondering about Sherlock’s apparent and frankly baffling deference to Mary.

Sherlock isn’t a loser. When he wants something he confronts his opponent head on (meeting Moriarty in a pool and on the roof, pranking Mycroft to the get truth out of him).

We’re never told explicitly what Sherlock told John about going back to Mary. However, I doubt John would have made that decision without feeling Sherlock is in someway supportive of it.

So why would Sherlock be supportive of that?

I think it’s because immediately after Mary shot him Sherlock considered all eventualities and his conclusion was that no matter what, MARY WILL ALWAYS WIN - physically, mentally and emotionally.

It’s not far-fetched to assume that during his recovery from Mary’s bullet Sherlock spent a lot of time calculating various scenarios and realized that no matter what, they’ll all end badly for him. Here are some options he may have come up with:

- If Sherlock attempts to confront or expose Mary (for example, using Mycroft’s help in revealing her identity) she will no doubt become an immediate danger to Sherlock, John and Mycroft.

- If Sherlock attempts to lure John back to his side and ‘take him’ from Mary, he’s left with a begrudging John and a Mary motivated to hurt him again.

- If Sherlock attempts to disappear from John and Mary’s life completely, he ends up with John, begrudging him for disappearing once again. That also means Sherlock can’t protect John.

- If Sherlock attempts to outmaneuver Mary somehow, to prove that he’s got the upper hand, a confrontation might lead to (a pregnant!) Mary’s injury or death. This will result, again, in John begrudging/blaming/falling out with Sherlock.

- And what If Mary runs away? While it is tempting to let her go, Sherlock can not allow that. If he doesn’t know Mary’s whereabouts, he’s unable to protect John as well as himself.

And so on, and so on, you catch my drift.

Either way, Sherlock loses. At stake are John’s friendship and safety and his own life. Mary always wins in every situation, no matter what; she gets to keep John and even if she doesn’t, she will have come between Sherlock and John.

So from the moment Sherlock begins his recovery he’s essentially bracing for his own defeat. Not only the loss of the upper hand, but of his own life. In fact, I think he realizes he’d lost the game the second Mary became pregnant. John may leave a wife, but a pregnant one? Not so quickly.

Sherlock ‘sends’ a conflicted John back to Mary and keeps her close (I explore this period in my fic Fight or Flight). Not because she’s a friend (although I do think she amuses him from time to time) but because that is the only scenario that isn’t a lose-lose-lose situation; he had Mary’s under his watchful eyes, John isn’t(?) begrudging him, Sherlock gets to protect John.

But I think Sherlock is also expecting and accepting his eventual death. That is what we see on the airplane in TAB, that is why he offers to help Mary when Ajay is after her. He’s sacrificing himself because that’s the only way to keep John and Rosie safe.

But then Mary dies, and Sherlock never expected that. He didn’t have a plan for that eventuality. He lived his life as if death and/or loss was imminent; what’s he to do now when it isn’t?

Years ago I read a fascinating article about men who contracted HIV in the 80s and early 90s. They were told they’d be dead within a few years and lived their lives accordingly. They spent all their money, cut important relationships, partied like it was the end of the world. But medicine progressed and turned HIV into a chronic disease rather than a sure-fire death sentence.  “And then, the end never came,” one of them is quoted in the article saying.

I believe that’s exactly what happened to Sherlock. He’d been expecting an imminent death, one which he hoped will finally break the terrible lose-lose-lose triangle. Once he’s fully out of his equation he can’t be blamed for whatever happens next. Mary will win and it’s up to her to keep John alive and happy.

What John hears when Sherlock speaks is ‘she sacrificed her life for mine, I’m in her debt’. But that’s just the surface level, isn’t it? His words are much deeper than that. He’s actually saying - ‘I didn’t expect any of this, I don’t know what to do now. I planned for the end of the world and then the end never came.’ as well as ‘She was supposed to win and keep you happy, what do I do now?’.

And what’s worse - Mary dies, yet she somehow still won. John blames Sherlock, emotionally separating from him and physically hurting him.

And yet, John is still there and Sherlock is still lost - what does he do now with this things he’d been given? How can he ever give John and Rosie what they supposedly lost?

Of course, Sherlock’s thoughts are tragically misguided. Even if he had died while Mary was still alive (whether John knew it Mary who shot him or not) I doubt a happy future was in store for them; John would not have been happy to know Sherlock is so willing to sacrifice himself. 

And to think Sherlock is immediately transported from not knowing how to use this currency to the event of The Final Problem - another devastating blow.

The show leaves us with a cheerful montage, with Mary supposedly vindicated and a promise of return to John and Sherlock’s normal life. But I don’t buy it; the truth is that life post The Final Problem must have been incredibly scary, confusing and painful for Sherlock.

[crimesolved-moved]

𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜 , Sherlock reprimanded himself as he drummed his fingers anxiously against the armrest of his chair. It was absolutely ridiculous of him to be getting so worked up internally when it was really quite obvious. You’ve always been so slow, Sherlock. Of course this was where it was all heading, this is what people do. Evolutionary instincts and societal pressures overtook most people in the end, forcing the pair off together and procreate.

He’d known Gaea to be a romantic the entire time he’d known her, always so sentimental and affectionate. It was something that had made him dismissive of most, but she was one of the few noted exceptions. Perhaps it was the genuine earnestness that encompassed her. She believed in love, and he’d be lying to say she had never swayed him on occasion to enjoy her perspective of things --- while Sherlock knew love existed, he also knew it to be the cause of his stress right now. At the moment, he wish he’d never felt it.

As for John, while he wouldn’t call every one of his pursuits to be in the name of love --- more like animalistic crave in a few cases; it was clear that he still sought that kind of companionship. It was what John had convinced himself long ago was what he wanted from life. Perhaps some of him did want that, he couldn’t say for sure as John was an increasingly difficult man to read --- but he knew that John’s craving for danger and abnormality was something well suppressed. A secret kept from himself; something he had hoped to keep him satisfied with enough --- but evolution won out in the end, and he knew what came next.

He’d been quite keen to separate them from one another, preventing their meeting and being as difficult as possible in regards to their growing relationship. Sure, he claimed his reasons of love being something which evaded him, he didn’t do things like that, he was committed to the work --- etc. However, in the deepest corners of his heart, locked away in a cupboard of his mind palace he dared not to examine except when at his most solitary, Sherlock knew his reasons for it all were more personal and selfish. For the truth of the matter was that his own feelings had been caught up between the two --- and he had realised only after it was too late to do anything about it. Forcing himself to bury his feelings down --- something he had been given many years of practice over. Managing it for as long as he didn’t need to face it too much directly.

So now here he was, forced to accept as the two most confusing characters in his emotional history were here to sit him down in his home like a child being told that they were going to run off together and commit to their monogamous, normal life that Sherlock had no comfort in. So, he steeled himself, ready to rip the band-aid off. Mycroft had been write all along, his emotions would only bring him trouble... and you had always been such an emotional child, Sherlock.  “  Why are we are beating about the bush with this, quite frankly it’s obvious what’s going on. Allow me to say that while I cannot personally wish you the best as love is concept that eludes me and inherently abhorrent to me, I do hope you two are able to avoid the statistical likelihood of divorce and separation and I’m positive I have influence enough somewhere to help you find a new residence away from anywhere active in homicide. ” 

@unecrth​  /  𝚐𝚊𝚎𝚊 𝚕𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚛 ! 

[writingwife-83]

Accidental Research, ch 1- A Study in Sleep

(Sherlolly Appreciation Week 2020, Day 1- There’s only one bed?!)

At @thisisartbylexie’s suggestion, I decided to take on this entire week of trope prompts as a 7 chapter fic set in TAB universe. Excited to kick off this fun week and share a new chapter every day! ❤️ 

Molly sighed to herself for about the tenth time, eyes wide open as she lay in the darkened little hotel room in Paris.

This had quickly become nothing short of preposterous.

Five days ago, Sherlock Holmes had barged into Bart’s hospital, rambling on about the exciting but rather inconvenient news. Namely, that the Watsons were newly expecting their first child, but that it put the detective in a rather difficult position, having recently accepted a case abroad which would require an assistant. Apparently the new baby was not yet agreeing with Mrs Watson’s stomach, and the good doctor felt she needed him to be a more constant presence.

Sherlock had then informed Hooper that his expertise would fill the void nicely.

Molly, possibly against her better judgement, accepted his request. She’d convinced herself that they were both adults, well aware of the truth of the matter, and seeing as nobody else was there was little chance at causing offense.

While her time with the brides was over, she managed to come out unscathed, thanks in no small part to Mycroft Holmes. Molly recognized how lucky she had been and the need to be gracious, even if that meant indulging the whims of the more volatile of the Holmes brothers from time to time.

And now, here they both were, spending their third night in this hotel which apparently couldn’t give them two rooms or, indeed, two beds. She’d seem Holmes bristle slightly when the clerk at the front desk informed him that there was no added vacancy and that they could only provide his initial reservation of a standard, one bed, room.

No matter, he’d assured her as they climbed the steps with their bags in hand, explaining that he rarely slept anyway.

His pacing was becoming truly maddening.

Molly turned over, trying to eliminate the view of his back and forth from her peripheral, but she could still hear his soft steps and the words he spoke under his breath.

The first two nights had been tolerable. He’d insisted she take the bed and she’d managed to sleep for some hours uninterrupted. But something changed on the third day and Molly was becoming more keenly aware of the true state of things.

She heard the grandfather clock in the hallway outside their room strike the hour, making it two in the morning now. That did it.

Molly threw the covers off her, sitting up to lock eyes with him as he spun at seeing her sudden movement.

“When was the last time you slept?” she questioned sternly.

She couldn’t see his confused frown in the dark, but she could practically feel it.

“Miss Hooper, do not concern yourself with how much-“

“Would you please do me the courtesy of simply answering the question?”

He paused.

“I...dozed off a bit in the chair last night. A couple of times I believe.”

Molly nodded to herself. “Yes, just as I suspected. Well then...get in.”

This prompted a lengthier pause.

“As I believe I already stated, insomnia does not hold the negative effects for me that it does for most people, particularly when I’m on a case, therefore I am far more capable of-“

“You were not so capable today, Mr. Holmes.”

His indignance shone through, even in the dark.

“I beg your pardon!”

“Oh, you heard me,” Molly sighed. “Mr. Holmes, three times today you were incapable of conjuring the correct word when speaking to the client, which I had to fill in for you. Twice you began to fall asleep during a carriage ride, and then when pouring your tea you nearly dropped the pot, a lack in dexterity which is wholly uncharacteristic for you.”

Sherlock cleared his throat after hearing her list of evidence and replied, his tone notably sheepish.

“Even in the event of a need for rest, I imagine that you see the predicament we find ourselves in to be...less than ideal.”

“Oh for pity sake,” Molly groaned. “I said get in! As a doctor, I cannot allow this foolishness to continue. Furthermore, while I can appreciate your frankly overdeveloped sense of chivalry, I consider my virtue to be in no immediate danger and will feel quite free to inform you if that circumstance should change, though I imagine it unlikely as you will be asleep before your head meets the pillow!”

“Miss Hooper, honestly-“

“Holmes!”

Her louder, slightly lower, and more authoritative use of his name seemed to do the trick.

Molly watched as Sherlock made somewhat irritated movements, shrugging off his jacket and waistcoat and then kicking off his shoes before finally crashing into the bed next to her.

Right next to her, considering the size of the bed.

“There,” she said, lying back against her pillow and exhaling contentedly. “Now go to sleep and I feel sure you’ll thank me in the morning.”

Sherlock let out a slow sigh, his reply a bit petulant. “You’re terribly sure of yourself.”

“Yes, occasionally someone other than yourself is,” she said softly, closing her eyes as she noted the smell of his particular brand of soap. “Goodnight, Mr. Holmes.”

She felt him shift slightly, getting comfortable, and could hear the lull in his voice when he finally answered.

“Goodnight, Miss Hooper.”

~~~~~~~~

Sherlock sat in the little armchair at the opposite side of the room, legs crossed neatly and fingers steepled against his lips...his eyes fixed, unmovable, on the bed across from him.

Her arm was still draped across the vacant side of the bed, which was where he had been lying less than an hour earlier. It was the first thing he saw upon opening his eyes. That pale, delicate little arm across his chest, the nightdress sleeve having bunched up above her elbow.

Sherlock hadn’t wanted to touch it, for fear of waking her. And so the painstaking process of extricating himself from that bed turned into quite a project over the next five minutes. Moving himself without disturbing another person was quite a new way to wake in the morning.

Feeling her hand slide across his chest over his shirt as he moved was also rather new.

The fan of dark hair that surrounded her now, her arm still stretched out somehow gracefully while still being haphazard, and the partially visible white cotton of her nightdress around her shoulders brought him to a somewhat shocking conclusion.

She was a woman.

No, he was not still in the dark about the very basic truth of her sex. But the evident reality of it hadn’t truly hit him until then. Up to last night, he’d been opting not to share a bed with her on general principle alone. Rules of proprietary that existed on paper, but certainly not for his own personal boundaries.

In the light of day, literally and figuratively, he felt somewhat differently.

Not thirty seconds later, Sherlock’s eyes went wide and he jumped excitedly from his chair, which prompted Molly to wake suddenly from her peaceful slumber.

“Ah good, you‘re awake!”

Sherlock began hurrying about the room, gathering things and stuffing them into his leather satchel while Molly rubbed her eyes and muttered some sort of question of what he was doing.

“Pack your things, Hooper,” he explained excitedly. “We shall be traveling back to London today, for this case is solved!”

“What...just now?”

“Just now, precisely.”

“Right,” she said softly. “Well then, I suppose I should begin dressing.”

Sherlock paused for a breath, noting her exit from the bed and the way she quickly straightened the nightdress to cover her legs. He frowned to himself, then continued in his chosen area of focus- packing! Though he did pause for one more moment.

“Oh and Hooper?”

She turned, smoothing some tousled locks aside to look at him as she gathered her clothing and wig to prepare for the exit of their room.

“It pains me a great deal to admit when I am wrong,” he said with a little smirk. “But I find myself compelled to give you exactly what you predicted I would last night.”

Molly’s lips lifted proudly even before the gift he verbally bestowed.

“Thank you.”

[imperial-martian]

Bets {Mycroft Holmes x Reader}

Requested by Anonymous

May i request a mycroft x (younger) reader. Reader is mycrofts wife and pregnant. She does not know yet and ofcourse mycroft does, just by looking at her. She comes along with mycroft when he visits sherlock. Sherlock also deduces it and wants to say something about it, but mycroft gives him a look :p. When she goes to the toilet or something, they talk and make a bet, how long it takes for her to find out herself. John is also there and takes a lot longer to understand whats going on. Thanks!

Mycroft x Pregnant! Wife! Reader

Fluff

•—•

You adjusted the sweater you had put on, looking at yourself in the mirror to make sure you looked somewhat presentable. A small smile graced your lips as you saw Mycroft enter the room with damp hair, having just taken a shower. Turning around, you watched as he walked towards the closet and pulled out a maroon-colored tie to go with the black suit he had brought with him to the bathroom.

Turning to look at you, Mycroft gave you a soft smile. It was uncharacteristic for him to do such a thing, but as of recently, he seemed to be smiling more. These were practiced or forced smiles, rather they were the most genuine smiles you have seen him give. They made his eyes shine brightly as if he had just been gifted with the most beautiful gift ever, and it often made your heart race just a bit faster every time you saw it.

Had you known why he smiled like that, you’d be doing the same. You had yet to discover the gift in which made Mycroft smile so brightly, the gift of a child.

It was strange, even for Mycroft, to think that something like a baby, especially one that was to be his own, could make the Ice Man melt so quickly. It hadn’t even been born yet, and already Mycroft had sworn to himself that he’d give his life for the child.

Ever since you entered Mycroft’s life you had changed it little by little. He hated it at first, the fact that a mere goldfish could make him worry so much when given a cut, or become so angry when seeing a tear shed, even laugh at a stupid joke. But, Mycroft had discovered that you were no goldfish, rather you were so far from it. You were an angel which brightened every room you walked into.

That was why Mycroft has been so attracted to you because no matter how bad a situation was, you always found a way to look at the positive, something that Mycroft could never seem to do. You were his complete opposite. He was so outwardly cold and harsh, but you are so kind and understanding.

Of course, like every marriage, you had both gotten into arguments, some that even ended in shouting. Yet, you had always seemed to find yourself apologize so quickly after a fight. You even made Mycroft feel guilty at times.

It was strange to think that Mycroft could fall in love with someone like you. Frankly, it had shocked everyone when they first met you. Sherlock even accused his brother of paying you a good sum of money just to make it seem like someone cared for him. That was not the case, he later found out when you both shared a brief kiss that clearly showed the relationship was no hoax.

So, as Mycroft stood before you, the tie he had selected now perfectly in place, you took his hand and made your way out of the room after grabbing everything you needed.

With a small hum, Mycroft asked, “Are you ready to visit my brother?” His blue eyes were focusing on the side of your face as he spoke while reaching out for the handle of the front door. He opened it for you, watching as you turned your head to look at him.

“It isn’t like I haven’t met him before, dear,” you replied, walking out of the manor and waiting for Mycroft to lock and close the door before heading towards the car he had called for earlier.

“Yes, I suppose you are right,” he responded before turning back to you and walking down the walkway with you.

Your brows furrowed for a second, questioning why Mycroft had seemed to ask such a question. You were clueless to the fact that he had asked that because he worried that his brother would spoil the gift that made his day.

Mycroft had been worried about Sherlock deducing the fact that you were with child and ending up mentioning it without realizing. Sherlock seemed to do things like that often, always mentioning subjects at the worse time. He never realized he did it, and it’d often times end him up in some trouble.

However, as the car drove to Baker Street, and eventually arrived in front of 221B, Mycroft’s worry began to show by the way he cleared his throat as he saw Mrs. Hudson- who had opened the door for you both.

Thanking her, you and Mycroft walked through the door, and after saying a quick hello to Mrs. Hudson, you turned to Mycroft.

“Are you alright, Mycroft, you seem a little out of it today,” you noted, gripping his hand a bit to stop him front entering his brother’s flat.

Instantly, Mycroft has straightened out and made sure that no signs of worry or stress were given off. “I’m fine, my love,” he assured, purposely not giving an excuse, knowing that you wouldn’t buy it.

For the meantime you just nodded but continued to keep a close watch on him, however, as you both entered Sherlock and John’s flat, you got distracted from your husband.

“Doctor Watson, Sherlock,” Mycroft greeted, giving them both a small smile, something that instantly caused Sherlock to furrow his brows.

“Mycroft, Y/N,” Sherlock nodded, sitting in his usual seat, John across from him. John had given you both a wave and a smile before standing up.

“Would either of you like some tea?” John offered before he headed off to the kitchen when both of you nodded

You took a seat beside Mycroft on the settee, Mycroft’s arm instantly sneaking around your waist in a protective like fashion.

“Mycroft, why are you here?” Sherlock asked abruptly before he scanned you quickly and came up with his own conclusion. “Never mind, I think I found the answer. Cong-“ he instantly stopped speaking as Mycroft gave him a sharp glare, one which you hadn’t noticed since you were distracted by John who was handing you your tea.

Mycroft cleared his throat again, this one sounding much like one that he’d give in a meeting rather than one that showed signs of nervousness. Thankfully, you hadn’t paid attention to the sound, both because you were no longer paying attention to Mycroft as closely as you told yourself you would, but also because you and John had struck up a conversation yourselves.

Sherlock looked at his brother with a raised brow after he stopped talking. He quickly realized why his brother had given him a look and grinned slightly, the thought of you not knowing you were pregnant caused Sherlock to question his brother on why he hadn’t told you yet.

However, Mycroft changed the subject quickly, distracting his brother from his own thoughts by asking, “Have you received any recent cases?”

Sherlock shook his head and sighed softly. “No, Lestrade hasn’t gotten any good ones and no clients have shown up with decent cases. They’re all far too easy for me.”

Mycroft nodded and continued to converse with his brother, switching from subject to subject and even playing a game of deductions with one another.

You and John both watched in amazement as to how the Holmes brothers could do such a thing. However, Sherlock was subtly sneaking in hints about a child, that only Mycroft had caught on to. Mycroft had narrowed his eyes when his brother made the first subtle remark and went along with it so neither you or John would be suspicious enough to ask why he had changed the topic.

But, when you stood up to go to the restroom, Sherlock began to hammer his brother with questions.

“Why haven’t you told her yet?” Sherlock asked, leaning back in his chair as he looked at Mycroft, raising a brow as he waited for the answer.

Mycroft huffed quietly and rolled his eyes. “Because she deserves to find out on her own. If I told her it’d spoil the most important moment in her life,” he answered, crossing his arms.

“Discovered what?” John questioned, his brows furrowed in confusion.

The two brothers ignored the doctor and just continued the Q&A session that was happening between them.

“How long until you think she finds out?” was another question that Sherlock had asked before he gave his answer first. “I’d say another month.”

Mycroft scoffed and shook his head. “You don’t give my wife enough credit,” Mycroft argued, “give her a week and she’ll realize it.”

John stares at the two, completely confused as to what was being discussed. He just gave up trying to figure out what the two were talking about and leaned back just as you walked in again.

“What are you both talking about?” you asked, looking over at Mycroft with a small smile before shifting your gaze quickly to Sherlock than to John.

Mycroft smiled again, holding his hand out for you when you came closer to him. He held it carefully in his as you sat back down beside him, his hand letting go of your before he placed it softly on your knee. “Nothing dear.”

[honeypiehotchner]

Trust -- part twenty-nine

Hello again.

If you’d like to really get into the emotions of this chapter, or if you’re just curious of what kind of soundtrack I would possibly have when writing this insane story, then I’ll tell you I listened to “Hold On” by Chord Overstreet a lot. But I listened to “The Night We Met” by Lord Huron when Sherlock begins talking (I’ll put a thing in there to say when to start the song, if you want).

I know I’m evil, but if it makes you feel any better, I cried while writing this, too.

You thought about death probably more than the average person should.

Ever since you were a kid, death was all around you. It wasn’t something your mother waited to explain to you when you were ready or older or when a family member passed and it was inevitable, it was something you were told about and told to just accept. She told you your father was dead, or might as well be – so you accepted it. Her parents were dead – so you accepted it. When friends of hers would die – you accepted it. When one of your friends in school died in a tragic car accident – you had to accept it. And when you shot your mother, taking her life – you had to accept it.

The funny thing about it, though, is that death is a lot easier to accept when it isn’t your own. You had come to terms with possibly dying when being stuck in the factory with Gidon because you were sure Sherlock and John wouldn’t be able to get there in time – and you had accepted that.

But when you saw their faces in the back of the ambulance, both terrified and concerned and confused all at the same time, your mind changed. You had accepted your death when you thought it would occur with them nowhere in sight, when you weren’t able to see how it was hurting them, because it was easier to convince yourself that they would be relieved. But seeing their faces made it all change.

You didn’t want to die anymore.

~~~

“A medically induced coma— What the hell is she in a medically induced coma for?”

           Sherlock watches the doctor calmly try to explain to John that the drugs found in your system were unlike any they’d seen in a long while, and that the amount administered was enough that you could’ve overdosed. Surprisingly, you hadn’t, and Sherlock is chalking it up to your stubbornness – which is why he presumes you were able to stand and fight Gidon after having been shot in the abdomen.

           John regains his senses after the explanation and the doctor’s assurance that by this time tomorrow, if all is looking well (which he’s sure it will be), you will be waking up and continuing on your speedy recovery.

           John nearly scoffs. There is nothing speedy about recovery. He still feels like he is recovering every day from the war, and it’s been years now since he was shot. Recovery isn’t speedy. It’s shitty.

           You lost a lot of blood. Enough that the helicopter took you back to the hospital, because the fifteen-minute drive was too long and they weren’t sure if you would make it that long. Surgery lasted a few hours, from removing the bullet, resetting your shoulder, and repairing the areas that internal bleeding had caused damage. Sherlock was a worried mess the entire time, pacing back and forth in the waiting room so much that even the nurses were worried for him.

           You did well, though. They got the bleeding under control and your vitals stabilized, except now you’re in a coma. It’s Christmas, and you’re spending it in the hospital, in a bloody coma.

           “Did they say when she’ll be able to wake up?”

           “Hopefully tomorrow,” John explains. “But at the latest, New Years.”

           Mary reaches out, grabbing his hand. “You need to sleep.”

           “I can’t sleep.”

           “Come on, John, Sherlock will be here all night, you know he will. You need to go home and sleep. We can come back first thing in the morning after you’ve had a shower.”

           It takes a few more moments of coaxing, but eventually John leaves, telling Sherlock he’ll see him in the morning. Sherlock merely waves, not really focused on anything but you right now.

           And Gidon. Gidon has been taken into custody, even though Sherlock wanted to kill him. Lestrade had to physically restrain Sherlock from kicking Gidon’s face in.

           Sherlock told Lestrade he better lock Gidon up tight because…someone might kill him during the night. That someone is Sherlock.

           His phone begins buzzing in his pocket, causing him to join reality again. But it’s his brother.

           “What do you want?”

           “How is she doing?” Mycroft asks, because even though his brother is angry with him, he still knows him better than anyone else, and he knows he needs someone to talk to right now.

           “She’s in a coma,” Sherlock pauses. “Medically induced. Because of you, might I add.”

           “Yes, because you haven’t stressed it enough,” Mycroft sighs. “When will she wake?”

           “Tomorrow,” Sherlock says quietly. “Or New Year’s.” He doesn’t want Mycroft anywhere near you, but he also knows there isn’t much he can do to stop him.

           “Alright.”

           “Don’t come,” Sherlock orders.

           “I am coming to check on her, Sherlock,” Mycroft counters. “I will text you when I arrive, so if it is absolutely too much for you, you can leave, so you won’t have to see my face.”

           “I’m not leaving you alone with her.”

           “Very well. I will text you all the same.”

           “Goodbye, Mycroft.”

           Sherlock doesn’t wait for his brother to answer before he ends the call, sighing frustratedly. Mycroft is who got you in this mess, and now he thinks he should come visit you. As if he has the right.

           Sherlock leans back in the chair he’s been sitting in for an hour now. He got bored with pacing, so he decided to sit and think, but this chair is nothing like his back at Baker Street – comfortable and broke in. But he’s not leaving you here.

           “Hey.”

           He looks up, finding a woman – a nurse, early thirties, a new mother – leaning against the doorway, a soft smile on her lips. “Hello.”

           “I’m Natalie,” she offers, fitting one of her hands in the front pocket of her scrubs. “You’re Sherlock Holmes?”

           He nods.

           “You’re here to see…”

           “Y/N,” he answers for her. “Y/N L/N.”

           “I figured,” Natalie nods. “Are you two married?”

           “No…”

           “Wrong answer.”

           Sherlock furrows his eyebrows. “I’m sorry?”

           “Look,” Natalie sighs, walking further into the room and lowering her voice. “Visiting hours are long over. The only reason you’re still here is because I’ve told them you’re not causing any trouble. Now, only one immediate family member can stay overnight with a patient. Since her brother left, that leaves the option of a spouse.” She pauses, raising her eyebrows. “So. Are you married?”

           Sherlock hears what she’s saying and knows that at this point it doesn’t matter about telling the truth. “Yes.”

           “Right answer,” she smiles brightly. “Now, come here. The chair in her room isn’t the best, but it’s better than these. And you’ll have some privacy.”

           Sherlock feels himself smiling, suddenly grateful for Natalie’s generosity. He lets the nurse lead him into your room where you lay peacefully, not moving. He averts his eyes, still not used to seeing you in this state. Your shoulder is fine, sling holding your arm up while it heals. There’s a large bruise covering your cheek, vaguely resembling a handprint, and Sherlock has to take a deep breath to calm himself down after seeing it.

           “Here’s a pillow,” Natalie tosses it to him. “I’ll come back with a blanket and check her vitals, and I’ll try to leave you alone for the rest of the night. Something tells me you’d notice if something was wrong.”

           “Thank you,” he says, actually meaning it for once.

           True to her word, Natalie returns with a blanket a few moments later. She hands it to Sherlock before she begins checking your vitals.

           “Everything looks good,” she murmurs. “Have a good night, Mr. Holmes. I’ll be back on my rounds but try to get some sleep. You look exhausted.”

           Sherlock makes a face at her as she leaves, feeling suddenly like a child being told it’s their bedtime.

           He tries to sleep, he really does. He props the pillow in the corner of the chair and pulls the blanket up to his chin. He tries looking out the window at the lights of the city, but his eyes always find their way back to you. You, sleeping soundly, completely unbothered by the outside world. Completely unaware of the worried man sleeping at your bedside.

           Or so Sherlock thinks.

This is when I would start “The Night We Met” by Lord Huron.

           You’ve heard of people in comas having out of body experiences or being able to hear their family members talking to them, but you didn’t think it was real. Until you heard Sherlock start talking.

           You had heard him talk minutes before to a nurse, Natalie, you remember seeing her when you first came in, only briefly. You heard the rustle of the chair next to your bed, no doubt Sherlock settling down. You wish you could move, open your eyes and let him know you’re okay, but you can’t move. All your brain is allowing you to do is listen.

           “My brother used to tell me a story,” Sherlock began, moving his eyes from you to look back out at the city. “When we were kids, he told a lot of stories, a lot of frankly rubbish stories, but he was a rubbish big brother. He told me a story about the east wind.

           “I don’t know why I’ve thought of it just now or why I’m talking to you about it when you’re clearly comatose, but I haven’t slept in three days, so I assume I’m verging on delirium.”

           You want to smile. To laugh at his blunt humor. Then to scold him and tell him to go to sleep. Despite the arguments you had before…before everything happened, you wish you could move, could scoot over on your hospital bed, so he could join you, so he could hold you, so you could tell him it doesn’t matter that he’s scared because you’re scared too, but that you can both be scared together and you can get through this together. Not apart. Together.

           “My brother used to tell me the east wind takes us all in the end. It was this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path, seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth. That was generally me.

           “But as we grew older, he warned me about the east wind. It was my…addiction. It was my destructive side. He warned me not to let the east wind take me, but also not to let the east wind become me.

           “I know you aren’t really here right now, and I’ve never been a man to gamble, but I hope you somehow hear these words.

           “Do not let the east wind take you.”

           If you had any control over your body right now, you know you would be crying. The break in his voice when he says those last words, like he doesn’t want it to be true and he doesn’t want to even entertain the possibility of you not waking up.

           “After all, I need my companion,” he chuckles darkly, his voice thick, and you wonder this time if Sherlock Holmes is actually crying again. “I can’t let the east wind take you. I’m not sure what I’d do with myself if it did.”

           You wait.

           “I know it hasn’t been long since I’ve met you, but your presence at Baker Street is something I have found myself growing used to. If you were to no longer be there, I don’t know what it would feel like. I can only imagine that this must be how John felt when I was gone.

           “I admit that was wrong of me to do, to fake my own suicide. If this is the east wind teaching me a lesson, I can assure you, it has been learned.

           “I have never felt this feeling before of fear that I can’t protect someone, and I’m not sure what exactly to call it. I’m afraid even my mind palace has limited information on the subject.

           “I know I have limited information on you, seeing as I’ve only known you for under a year, and I can be more self-centered more days than most, but one thing I believe is that there is a right day to die. We can feel it, when it comes. And if you never wake up…”

           He stops himself, and I hear him take in a shuddering breath.

           “If you never wake up, then I want to leave you with these words. I think I might love you, Y/N, and I’m not sure what I should do with this revelation other than tell you right now because I am afraid I might never have another chance to say these words.

           “It is true that I have taken a liking toward you from the moment we met, and you have managed to confuse this brain of mine on more than one occasion.

           “But it won’t confuse me if you do go with the east wind. I understand if it is your time. And I…I am grateful for the time I did have with you. Though I have always despised the east wind, I understand if you would rather go with it than me.”

           There’s another moment of silence, followed by some rustling, and you think he’s rolled over and finally gone to sleep, but that isn’t the case.

           You’re caught off guard by a gentle kiss being placed on your forehead, his hand smoothing over your cheek one last time.

           His touch leaves you, making you wish nothing more than to let your body move, to wrap your arms around him and make him stay.

           There’s more rustling, and after some time, you hear him begin to snore.