#posts3sh

[drowninginfanfics]

Closing his eyes, Sherlock allows himself a brief swell of feeling--let’s not put a name on it, just call it a feeling--for his big brother. He knows that when Mycroft opens that steel door again, every man now inside will be a fresh corpse. The East Wind will take them all, Sherlock thinks fuzzily, before the curtain of sleep descends. *** Or: After Serbia, Sherlock is Not Good.