#with sons called Sherlock and Mycroft | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thalialunacy · 3 months

Text

[written for the @calaisreno May Prompts Safari. E-rating, y'all. and schmoopy as hell.]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) 30: journey (31)

When next they arrive at Sherlock's parents' house, it's the end of May bank holiday and John is more than ready to hand over his child in exchange for a strong drink.

This, he muses as his wish comes true without even having to be voiced, is the magic of grandparents.

---

He's just coming back from putting Rosie down when he hears surprisingly raucous laughter and the words '... the priest was never quite the same after that, was he?'

He comes to a stop in the centre of the furniture configuration, looking round at various family members with a raised eyebrow. 'Holmeses,' he says solemnly. 'Dare I ask?'

'Oh, absolutely,' Sherlock's mum replies. 'We've had enough to drink that we're starting in on rude stories.' John coughs, and she waves her hand, somehow managing not to spill any wine. 'Not rude like that. Well. Mostly not.'

Mycroft, of all people, lets out what could graciously be called a snort. 'I'll start: John, I must tell you that once, at Christmas, Mother told us her shirt had French letters on it, and then had no idea why Grandfather looked so scandalised.'

John looks to Sherlock, perplexed. 'Condoms, John,' Sherlock explains. 'Eighteenth century Britons called them, among other things, "French letters."'

John swallows his mouthful of scotch. 'Of course.'

'Oh, oh!' Sherlock's mum starts. 'John, there was a time when Mycroft was so worried that baby Sherlock would roll out of bed that he found every blanket in the house and made him a huge nest. Then wouldn't leave his side.'

Mycroft purses his lips. 'I did no such thing.'

'Don't lie to your mother. You were there for days. You nearly suffocated him, you were so worried.'

Sherlock's father chuckles. 'There was also a time, John, that he and Sherlock volunteered to be ushers at church and ended up fighting over which offering plate had the most in it at the end. The Altar Guild was cross with us for months.'

John does laugh at that one.

'Yes, yes,' Sherlock drawls. 'And believe it or not, John, Father frequently used to play hangman with me in the church bulletin during services.'

His mother turns to her husband, genuinely surprised. 'Did you really?'

His father shrugs. 'It was better than the alternative.'

His mother eyes her younger son. 'Yes, that's probably true.' But she doesn't bother hiding her fond smile.

This goes on for quite a while, all four Holmeses using John as their audience to tell increasingly far-fetched stories about their shared histories. John, sat next to Sherlock and making his way slowly through two fingers of fine alcohol, can't help but be charmed. They're ridiculous, and, let's be honest, fairly weird, but they obviously have great affection for each other. Despite what Mycroft and Sherlock might claim.

When there's a lull, he just asks it: 'Out of curiosity, why are you telling me all this? Not that I don't find it amusing, obviously, but… Sherlock?'

John's eyes narrow, his stomach somersaulting, as he realises Sherlock has slid off the sofa and onto both knees, his whole family is situated on various pieces of furniture behind him like a posed picture, and he's got--

'Oh.'

--he's got a rather distinctive item in the palm of his outstretched hand.

'Oh.'

'Yes, very good John, knew you'd cotton on eventually.'

His voice is strong, yet a bit off. John searches his face. 'You're not taking the p--' He glances at Sherlock's mum. '--mickey?'

'Yes,' Sherlock deadpans. 'I gathered my whole very hilarious family of known pranksters to pull your leg in an elaborate and expensive manner.'

'Alright, keep your shirt on. I just-- You're serious. You actually want to get-- be-- married. To… me.'

'If you and Rosamund will have me.'

John feels it like a surge, but tamps it down. 'And Reginald the cat?'

Sherlock is slightly taken aback. 'Obviously. Unless that would be an issue for you, if Rosamund--'

John barks out a laugh, plucks the ring from Sherlock's hand and yanks him back up onto the sofa. 'Oh shut up, you absolute disaster, of course we bloody will.'

Sherlock's mouth curves, but he doesn't fully relax. 'Even though I come with this lot attached?' He waves at his family without looking at them. 'Those stories, I assure you, are only the tip of the iceberg.'

John wants to tackle him. 'You've met my "A-leveled in alcoholism" sister, have you not?'

'Well, yes, but--'

'Shut. Up.' John glances at the rest of the family, feeling his ears turn a bit red at their blatant interest in the proceedings, but clears his throat and grabs the back of Sherlock's neck anyway. 'I love the hell out of you, remember?' he says quietly.

Sherlock's gaze jumps around his face, searching. 'I seem to recall something about that, yes.'

'And if the shit we've gone through in the last decade hasn't broken us--' Sherlock opens his mouth. '--inoperably, hasn't broken us inoperably, then I'm pretty damn sure we'll be fine.' He touches their lips together very briefly, then presses their foreheads together for a moment longer.

Sherlock's mum very cheerfully breaks the moment. 'Wait until Rosie's a teenager to say that, dear.'

'Mum.' John feels Sherlock's groan rumble through him, and can't help but chuckle.

He pulls back, dropping his hand, and gives the family a sheepish but unashamed look. 'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, I think.'

'Indeed. Life is a journey, not a destination.'

Everyone turns to stare at Mycroft.

He stares back, lifting his chin. 'What? Am I not meant to know Emerson?'

'Are we sure he's not been replaced by a cyborg?' John whispers to Sherlock.

'Who would be able to tell the difference?' Sherlock parries immediately.

Mycroft huffs. 'Oh, please. Go consummate this new relationship status so I can have some peace.'

John clears his throat. 'Beg pardon?'

Mycroft rolls his eyes and stands. 'Shall we fetch another round of drinks before we move on?'

His parents exchange a look, then stand. 'That is a brilliant idea,' says his mum.

'I am rather known for them,' Mycroft says dryly, heading to the kitchen without a glance backwards.

John tries again. 'Beg p--'

Sherlock's mother pats him on the cheek. 'Oh, we have a movie night planned. With lots of explosions.'

'Ah,' Sherlock says, as if this explains everything.

John turns to him with a questioning look. 'The home theatre room,' Sherlock clarifies, his droll tone belied by his slightly pinked neck, 'is at the opposite end of the house from the rooms they've given us for the weekend.'

John considers being embarrassed for half a second, but then decides it's of no use. 'Ta, Holmeses. We'll see you in the morning.'

'Oh, and don't worry about the baby's wake-up,' Sherlock's father adds as he's following the rest out of the room. He gestures at his wife's retreating back. 'This one will take care of her so you lot can be as lazy as you like.'

'As if John is ever--'

John nudges the detective's elbow. 'It's a euphemism, Sherlock.'

'Oh. Certainly.' He nods, once, at his father. 'Thank you.'

---

Sherlock gets up the stairs ahead of him, but they're still yards from the door to their room when he stops and unceremoniously herds John against the wall. John grunts in surprise. 'What? Are you--'

Sherlock's lips stop up his words, and distract him so much he doesn't really clock that Sherlock's gorgeous hands are working efficiently at his trouser fastening… until all of the sudden he does.

'Are you mad?' he manages when Sherlock mouths across his jaw, his hand plunging into John's pants with finesse. John is soft, but he won't be for long at this rate, Jesus. He has to tighten his hold on Sherlock's biceps.

'Of course I am,' Sherlock answers, voice like butterscotch against John's ear. Then he drops to his knees, and John nearly swoons like a Victorian maiden.

'Your family!' he hisses instead, unable to stop a hand from weaving into Sherlock's hair. Not to pull, not this time at least. This time, to just… be there.

'They're all occupied,' Sherlock replies, the words throwing heat against John's now-exposed hip. 'They may be feckless but they still have some propriety left.' He looks up at John, his lips hovering tantalisingly near the tip of the plumping cock he holds in his hands.

'Fuck,' John breathes. 'Go on, then.'

Sherlock needs no more permission.

John has had more illicit liaisons in his life, it's true, but for some reason (he knows the reason) he goes from half-mast to panting to mindless word repetition in a record amount of time.

'Sherlock--' He tries to keep his voice down, so it comes out much more desperate than he'd intended, but fuck it. 'If you keep-- Sherlock--'

He hears--and feels--an urgent sound come from his partner, and looks down, past those fucking eyes, to the hand speedily opening trousers and drawing himself out.

John probably whimpers, that's how fucking hot he finds that view, and in combination with Sherlock's admirable oral efforts, he speeds towards climax at a rate he's not achieved in years. There's a flash of a thought of inadequacy, but it's overcome handily by watching Sherlock fuck his own hand at a near-frantic pace. He does clutch Sherlock's hair, finally, as he comes down his gorgeous throat.

He hears a curse and opens his eyes just in time to see Sherlock ejaculate almost neatly into a handkerchief he must've pulled from his pocket.

He wants to laugh. He pulls Sherlock to his feet, heedless of their state of dishabille, and kisses him, hard. Well, as hard as he can before he does indeed start to laugh.

'I can't believe you did that,' he rasps as he barrels them through the bedroom door, finally. He feels stupid, giddy. Frothy.

'Which part?' Sherlock replies as they shed their already-unfastened clothes and fwump somewhat gracefully onto the bed.

'You bastard,' John groans without heat. 'Despoiling a handkerchief? Getting off where anyone could come walking on by? Proposing to me with your whole family around like a flock of posh geese?'

'What a ridiculous image.'

John rolls over to partially smush Sherlock, who wheezes slightly and wraps his arms around John's torso. 'I'll show you a ridiculous image,' John says, giving his best Randy Lad smirk.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. 'So soon?'

'Maybe. Okay, no, but I can still do some damage, ta very much.'

'Such as?'

John sobers. He drops his eyes to Sherlock's chin. 'You'll laugh at me.'

A long, graceful finger traces around his orbital socket. 'Don't let that stop you.'

'Berk.'

'Such as?'

John just breathes for a moment. Then he reaches out to touch a small nevus on Sherlock's collarbone, then travels the trail to another one. 'Oh, just…' He follows his finger with his tongue, tasting. 'Want to trace the constellations onto you.'

He hears Sherlock inhale, and feels it as his chest rises. Then John finds himself pulled into a long, deep, ridiculous kiss.

'By all means,' Sherlock finally says against his lips. 'I look forward to your very thorough survey.'

John releases a breath, and settles in to get started.

[<3]

#It's gonna be MAY 2024 #BBC Sherlock #MayPrompts2024 #May Prompts 2024 #Johnlock #Here there be sexytimes #Yarrrrrr

41 notes · View notes

starkraivennemad · 8 months

Text

Take My Hand

As a toddler Mycroft Holmes’ parents understood he was not fond of touch. He especially did not like to have his hands held. He constantly tried to have something in at least one hand to have a reason not to touch or be touch beyond necessities.

A repair was needed to a fence in back acreage. Now a curious aged seven, Mycroft followed his father and the groundskeeper across their land. Accustomed to the young boy’s presence, neither thought anything of it as hopped random stones to cross the wide creek. Mycroft easily hopped the first few stones, but nearly slipped into the water with his last attempt. He realized his young legs were not a match for the length of the adult men. It was not deep water, but it was nearing winter and he did not want to fall.

“Da!” Mycroft, carefully balanced on a stone, called to his father.

Mr. Holmes turned in surprise at his very independent son until he understood the problem. He reached out, Take my hand.

Mycroft reluctantly put his hand out, the chagrin of having to do so evident, even on his young face.

----

Mummy heard when the front door slammed. Her husband was about to yell when she held up a hand as two sets of footsteps ran up the stairs.

“Sherlock. Leave. Me. The hell. ALONE!” was bellowed from upstairs.

The insulting tones of a younger brother, who knew a lot- but not yet enough, followed.

“Of course he’s mad, you’re stupid! You kissed him; I saw it! And with your tongue in his mouth? Nasty! That’s why he hit you!”

Mummy was on her way up when something heavy in Mycroft’s room hit the floor and shattered.

“Sherlock! Go downstairs and help your father.”

“But Mummy…”

“Now, Sherlock.”

She entered the bedroom, closed the door gently behind her and carefully stepped around the shattered CRT monitor on the floor. Mycroft laid with his back to the door. He curled further in on himself, but did not otherwise acknowledge her. Still, she knew he was aware of her presence. She silently sat on the edge of the bed and waited.

“I didn't know it could hurt so much…” a muffled voice sniffled.

“Unfortunately, the first one almost always does, son.”

“There will not be another,” a broken voice snarled.

She had known it was going to end badly with her son and the closeted boy, but some things cannot be avoided in life, and one’s very first heartbreak was at the top of the list. Her own heart broke as Mycroft sobbed into his pillow.

Knowing he would never ask, after a while she simply put an open palm beside him. Take my hand.

She knew he would know it is there. Moments later an awkward hand silently reached out barely touching hers.

----

Hands on his umbrella, Mycroft said nothing as his -no longer a baby- brother’s Red rimmed verdigris eyes slowly fluttered open and tracked the hospital room until they met his.

“How…?” Sherlock’s normally baritone, a raspy shadow of its normally mellifluous self. He groaned as he tried to sit up.

“Why ask questions you know the answer to, Sherlock?”

Mycroft had flicked his eyes away, but knew Sherlock caught his wince. The beating had been brutal. Sherlock had deleted the details of how they got there from himself, but Mycroft dig not need Sherlock to tell him; he had already deduced it.

“This OD was accidental, a miscalculation…”

“Miscalcu-!” Mycroft nearly thundered before he stopped himself. The sudden silence, was one thing, but nothing could have prepared Mycroft for the tears that slipped from his own eyes. “Promise me, Sherlock.” Mycroft angrily wiped them away, “Promise you won’t do this again…” Mycroft’s voice broke piteously. “Please?”

Sherlock placed his hand on the guard rail near him.

Mycroft knew it was not a promise to stop, but silently asking: should he fall, again, would Mycroft be there.

Sherlock’s hand lingered there for a while silently begging, Take my hand.

Only when it seemed Sherlock was about to pull away, did Mycroft lay his hand over Sherlock’s.

“I’ll always be there for you.”

----

It was less than two hours since his parents left his office after a tongue lashing that Mycroft had not been privy to since A Levels. It helped to know Sherlock did not hate him for the keeping the secret of their little sister all that time. Still, his parents’ words had stung. With Sherlock taking their parents back home and Anthea still at Sherrinford straightening the mess left in Eurus’ wake; for the first time in a long time, Mycroft felt utterly and completely alone.

Even more so than when he woke up trapped in Eurus’ old cell.

He had sat on the floor because Eurus had destroyed the bed taking away the only comfort in that space. The floor was cold and he was not exactly young anymore. He was grateful when rescue arrived in the form of Greg Lestrade.

“Here.” Greg offered to help when Mycroft’s cold stiffened bones protested rising.

“I’m fine.” Mycroft used the bedframe to pull himself up.

“You're not alone, just so you know.” Greg had sighed as they walked out.

At the time Mycroft thought Greg referred to the eyes and ears that were always in that room.

Mycroft told Anthea she could go home and he was on his way home himself.

Somehow, he wound up in the carpark of NSY instead.

He does not know who, if anyone, told Greg he was there. He was just grateful when the man acknowledged his driver, then quietly slid into the backseat next to him.

Greg said nothing as the car pulled into traffic; just his presence was enough to chase the demons away.

Only then did Mycroft understand what Greg had truly meant that night.

“I’m not alone, Greg.” Mycroft laid his hand on the seat between them, his pinky grazed along Greg’s then stilled. “I know that now.”

Understandably unsure, Greg tentatively slid his hand closer so that their respective pinkies fully touched, but nothing more.

“And just so you know; neither are you.” Mycroft turned his palm up on the seat in offering, Take my hand.

“I know that now.” Greg smiled as he slowly slid his hand over Mycroft’s and grasped it.

@flashfictionfridayofficial

#flash fiction friday #FFF238 #bbc sherlock #mystrade #mycroft holmes #greg lestrade

136 notes · View notes

calaisreno · 5 months

Text

Rise

621 words / Prompt: Family

Today’s mini-fic is a little bit that didn’t make it into The Last Envoy. After the war, Sherlock returns and visits Mummy.

1946

Mycroft told me that Mummy was failing a bit, but that was not what I saw when I looked through the garden door and saw her snipping flowers to put in a vase. She looked like the woman I’d last seen four years ago, before I went to Oxford, still tall and straight, graceful and beautiful.

Four years seemed a lifetime. Years filled with separation and waiting, spent in places only war can create.

“Happy Birthday, Mummy,” I said, smiling.

She turned then, and I could see that her hair was whiter, her movements slower. She lay down the scissors and put her arms around me, still holding two roses. I felt her hands tremble against my back.

“My boy,” she whispered. “My dearest darling.”

She knew me, but in her mind I was always the son she’d lost, so many years ago. A bright little boy she’d called Sherlock, as well as the man Mycroft had named after that child.

“How are you?” I could see a brightness in her eyes and was glad that her mind was still active.

“I’m fine,” she replied, holding me at arm’s length now and examining me with that sharp gaze. “You look surprisingly well. Doctor Watson has been taking good care of you.”

“He has. Switzerland is a very healthy place to live. Up in the mountains, the air is crystal clear. I’m sure I’ll miss it and will need to visit again some day, but for now I’m happy to be back.”

We sat, and Rose brought us tea.

“Mycroft told me about your experiences. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. It’s heart-breaking that people can do such things.”

I did not speak; a question should not be answered until it is asked.

“How is John?” she asked.

“He’s fine. He would have come with me, but he had to be at the hospital today.”

“He’s a good man. I’m glad you have him.”

“I’m very lucky.”

We sipped our tea in silence. I could hear the bees humming in her flowers. Closing my eyes, I recalled the first time I saw bees travelling between the flowers in Mycroft’s garden. I imagined a day when I could no longer sit in Mummy’s garden, watching the bees and talking to her.

As if she could hear my thoughts, she smiled and spoke to me.

“I’m seventy-five years old today, Sherlock. With luck, I may have several more birthdays.”

“I hope so, Mummy.”

She gave me that familiar look, the one that means she wants to share something personal, words for my ears alone. “You once described to me how the Beta view time as an arrow, always travelling up, leaving the past behind. It’s a good way to look at ageing, which often feels like loss. I’ve decided that as the years pile up, I will rise above them, into the future.”

In my mind I sometimes felt myself looking back as my ship moved up and away from Beta, my home planet, until it sparkled, a tiny point of light in the trackless black universe. I remembered everything about my home, every one of the people who loved me. They were moving quickly into the past, growing smaller as I looked back. I was flying away from them, but still too far away from my destination to see the life I would have on a planet that couldn’t be seen from Beta. In my memories, they were always looking up, watching me leave them.

That is how it would be for this woman who had become my second mother. In my memories, she would always live.

One day, I would be a Memory too.

I smiled. “We all rise.”

—

For a bit of context, an excerpt from The Last Envoy, Chapter 2:

1938

“How old are you?” I asked.

She raised her chin, a sign of pride. “I am sixty-seven years old.” She leaned forward and patted my knee. I wasn’t sure what this meant. “You’re a lovely boy, Sherlock. I want to teach you something important.”

I smiled. “Thank you.”

“Women don’t like being asked their age,” she said. “I don’t mind because I’m an old woman and you are a lovely young man. You don’t know all of the social nuances, but you’re a quick learner.”

“Why do women not like to be asked their age?” It seemed to me that any human ought to be proud of living so long.

She sighed. “It’s a bit complicated. Men don’t mind saying their age. You must understand that the role of women in our society is to produce children and raise them. For that, we have to project youth and good heredity, as evidenced by our beauty. A woman hates to think that she is no longer useful, so we continue to foster the illusion that we are still young and beautiful, even when it is a ridiculous fantasy.”

“Why do you think you are not useful?” I asked. “Women are not just breeding machines; they have brains. You had an important job; you’re obviously an intelligent woman who would do a better job running the country than most men.”

She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “I do not disagree. But these are the roles that nature has given us and society requires. Perhaps one day, we will rise above nature and society.”

@totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes

#mayprompts2024 #the last envoy #my fics

50 notes · View notes

petite-madame · 2 years

Text

Fan Fictions inspired by my art

You’ll find below fan fictions inspired by some of my artworks. This list doesn’t include Big Bang, Reverse Bang or Fandom Trumps Hate collaborations. All the stories below were written kindly and spontaneously by the authors. ❤ Of course, this list is incomplete, it only includes the most recent fan fictions.

Don’t hesitate to contact me if you ever wrote something inspired by one of my artworks (the ones posted at Petite-Madame, not my side accounts)

List under the cut...

- BBC SHERLOCK

Johnlock (Sherlock Holmes/John Watson)

Morning of Epiphany by Innerspectrum (Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - General audiences - Birthday fluff - 221 words - Sherlock wakes up his normal grumpy self, expecting the usual boredom, until realizes otherwise... ) - ARTWORK

A spoonful of Johnlock by Asterisko (Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - General audiences - Cuddling & Snuggling, sleepy cuddles, fluff, sharing a bed - 440 words - John and Sherlock spooning in bed, from John's and Mrs. Hudson's POV.) - ARTWORK

A Thousand Words by Silvergirl (Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Mature - The Empty Herse infill - Johnlock freeform - ~ 768 words - Standing there behind the just-closed door of the train, his palm flat against the glass and his face a study in naked sorrow and regret, was Sherlock.) - ARTWORK

Mystrade (Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade)

Cello by janto321 (FaceofMer) (Greg Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes - General audiences - Fluff, domestic fluff - 465 words - Greg comes home to hear Mycroft playing his cello.) - ARTWORK

You are the only one who sees me by Mimisempai (Greg Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes - General audiences - Fluff, established relationship - 1081 words - Greg comes home early from work and surprising Mycroft, he discovers something new about his lover...) - ARTWORK

The music of your heart soothes the wounds of mine by Mimisempai (Greg Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes - General audiences - Emotional Hurt/Comfort, established relationship, tenderness - 1036 words - Greg has only one hurry, being back home with Mycroft. Mycroft, has only one haste it is that his lover comes back to him.) - ARTWORK

Playing in the Dark by InnerSpectrum (Greg Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes - General audiences - Established relationship - Implied/Referenced Character Death - 360 words - Greg awakens to music in the dark house and is reminded Sherlock is not the musician in the family...) - ARTWORK

Misc

Compositions by afteriwake (Mycroft Holmes/Molly Hooper - General audiences - Pregnant Molly Hooper - Dead Sherlock Holmes - Developing Relationship - 654 words - Mycroft is composing a lullaby for Molly and Sherlock's son.) - ARTWORK

- MARVEL

Stucky (Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes)

The Life of Bucky Barnes by Stephrc79 (Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes - Mature - Fluff, angst, recovery Bucky, post CATWS, PTSD, etc...- 292 199 words - The ongoing story behind the pictures from the Instagram The Life of Bucky Barnes.This work is a series of ficlets that tells the story of each picture. As each chapter progresses, it will encompass one or two of the images, how they appear chronologically. These are inspired works for petite-madame with her blessing.) - ARTWORKS

Gold, Silver, and Virtue by Gfawkes (Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes - Explicit - Angst, mutual pining, smut, fluff, suicide attempt, alcoholism, getting back together, happy ending, etc... - 35 664 words - Bucky hesitated, his nerve faltering for a moment. When there was no reaction from the silver-haired man, he unzipped his jacket, wrestling with the dog tags, pulling them out. They clinked together and fell against the zipper; a siren’s calling meant for one man only."This bike belonged to Captain America. So either you’re a very shrewd collector of rare vintage superhero paraphernalia, or you’re hiding something.” In which the Captain doesn't return after the time jump into the past, but he does return to the Soldier.) - ARTWORK

- GOOD OMENS

Ineffable Husbands (Aziracrow - Aziraphale/Crowley)

Falling by sugarplumanderson (Aziraphale/Crowley - General Audience - Angst with a Happy Ending, Angst and Feels, Comfort/Angst - 2,345 words - An angel is Falling. Aziraphale and the heavenly host are witnesses. Aziraphale can't bear to watch the angel go through this on his own, so he intervenes.) - ARTWORK

#stucky #johnlock #mystrade #fan fictions #myart #ineffable husbands

358 notes · View notes

frost-queen · 1 year

Text

Outmatched //Part 8 (Reader!Holmes x Anthony Bridgerton)

Forever tag: @missmelodramatic, @merlin-dahlia @alex--awesome--22, @elllie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve,

@queen-of-books, @glimmering-darling-dolly, @denkisclown, @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr, @meyocoko, @bubblybrianna, @october-leaves, @m-rae23,@kazbekkarluvbot, @freyathehuntress,

@kneelforloki, @mamaj-right, @queensgirl718, @abaker74, @thescooby-gang, @readers-posts, @randomstory56, @aureolinb, @fictional-hooman,

@nyenye, @loliakeoghan23, @heyheyheyggg, @aizawash0e, @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy, @novas-dreamworld, @preciousbabypeter, @magical-spit, @heyheyheyggg

Summary: A new truth reveals itself as family bonds together with a plot to perhaps allow Lord Bridgerton to open his feelings up to you. Will he do so or will you remain unloved and unmarried?

Read part 1 & part 2 & part 3 & part 4 & part 5 & part 6 & part 7 & part 9 & part 10

“Father… when… when did you return?” – Mycroft asked nervously, stepping forwards. Sherlock took you by the wrist, subtly pulling you behind him. – “This very morning.” – Your father answered delighted. Mycroft aided father when he coughed loud trying to reach for his handkerchief. – “Father please, you should not be here.” – Mycroft insisted, holding him firm by the arm. Father waving his handkerchief around like a flag. – “It is only briefly…” – he coughed out, straightening his posture. – “Father.” – Mycroft turned his father towards him, making clear with his eyes he requested a private gathering.

“I’d like to have a word about.” – Mycroft motioned with his head to the unknown suitor in the parlor. He was observing the fineries in the parlor, hands folded behind his back. Mister Holmes’s smile faltered. – “Ah yes him.” – he spoke in a low tone. Mycroft quirked his eyebrow up, waiting for an explanation. Your father took a deep breath, coughing a bit. – “It was not intended I swear.” – he tried to explain, looking over at you. – “The truth papa!” – Mycroft insisted. Sherlock stepped forwards.

“As I like to know as well, father.” – Sherlock interrupted. – “That includes me too!” – you came standing between your brothers, arms crossed. All three scowling in your father’s direction. He swallowed nervously. He gestured for a member of the staff to enter. – “Will you be so kind as to escort the gentleman to his carriage.” – the maid nodded with a bow. Asking for the lord to follow her out of the parlor, outside. – “Father!” – Sherlock spoke loudly with furrowed brows.

Mister Holmes got in motion with a deep breath. Your brothers and you following him out of the parlor into the hallway into the study. You shut the door behind you. Mycroft and Sherlock positioned close to the desk. Your father revealed a letter from his inside pocket, laying it down on the desk. Both Sherlock and Mycroft reached for it, but Mycroft was the one to snatch it up first. – “I received it yesterday.” – mister Holmes started while Mycroft unfolded the letter. – “Your aunt was very specific in the matter.” – he added making you widen your eyes.

The mention of your aunt send a shiver down your spine. Mycroft desperately moved his grip on the letter while his eyes read down quickly. Words whispering out of his mouth. – “With none of my sons married…” – he sighed out coming to sit down behind the desk. – “The prospects of my health unclear.” – he continued pressing a hand against his forehead. You swallowed already having a feeling of where this was getting.

“The chance of losing your dowry.” – he leaned forwards, palms pressed against his eyes. Mycroft gritted his teeth, moving the letter away from his eyes. – “That deceitful woman!” – he hissed out. – “Mycroft!” – Sherlock called out. – “She is still your aunt.” – he made clear that Mycroft should not curse her despite her character. Mycroft puffed loud, tossing the letter onto the desk.

“She’ll have our dear sister engaged to Lord Hill.” – Mycroft made clear. – “Engaged. To be married?” – you repeated in disbelief. – “Yes of course Y/n. What other kind of engaged is there.” – your brother replied slightly annoyed. You turned your gaze towards your father. He lifted his head up, feeling your stare pierce right through him. – “Oh for heaven’s sake Y/n, don’t look at me like that.” – he breathed out with pain in his heart. – “It is what your aunt requires of you. She requires my daughter to be wed to this man for else she’ll take you away for proper preparations of finding a suitor.” – your father explained.

“I barely know him.” – you called back, getting in defense. – “Oh hush!” – he breathed out, silencing you. – “None of us can afford your aunts meddling. The prospect of this family relies on you Y/n. With Sherlock and Mycroft not wed, nor do I see them wed any time soon. It is up to you to do so. You are getting older my dear Y/n.” – you gasped silently knowing how he was close to comparing you to an old spinster. A woman unsuitable of finding a husband. – “He’ll offer you a comfortable home and protection.” – Mister Holmes continued. – “There is a lot to be thankful for.” – he made clear despite not liking his sisters proposal much.

“Father!” – you called out as he cut you off. – “You are five and twenty of age Y/n!” – he jumped up, slamming his fist on the table. In doing so he started coughing loud. Sherlock coming to his aid to assist in sitting down calmly. – “You’ll have no money and I’m…I’m frightened…” – he said after a deep breath. – “So please… don’t judge me daughter… don’t…” – his body started to shake from the intense feeling coming up. Sherlock wrapping a comforting arm around him.

“Papa please… you cannot allow this.” – you begged. Mister Holmes taking a deep breath. – “What if she were to marry someone else?” – Sherlock interfered. – “Sherlock!” – you called out, stepping towards him. Sherlock ignored your call, kneeling before his father. – “What if Y/n were to marry someone else. Someone she truly has a heart for would it please our aunt? Would it settle her with the comfort of knowing our dear Y/n is not lost. That she’ll have the prospects of a good home, money, and protection.” – he pleaded trying to offer you a way out.

A way out of a settlement set long ago by your father and your aunt. When the loss of your mother came, they set up an arrangement that your aunt would be in charge of your engagement when you would not be married within the first few years since your debut. Your father exhaled loud and deep. Mycroft setting his hands on the desk, looking over it. – “Would it father?” – he asked hopefully. You smiled with teary eyes at how well your brothers thought about you.

How they would take your opinion into matter. Something not so long ago seemed unattainable. Mister Holmes looked at both his sons. Then his gaze moved towards you far behind Mycroft. Standing quietly with your hands folded in front of you. Head lowered to the ground. – “I’ll… I’ll give it a chance.” – he told them. – “If this gentleman is willing to engage himself to her.”

Sherlock motioned with his head to the door. Mycroft and you nodding. – “I’ll request some tea to be delivered to you father.” – Sherlock spoke squeezing father’s shoulder tightly. Mister Holmes exhaled weary, clear it was weighing down on him. Mycroft and you were already making your way to the hallway. Sherlock joining after. He addressed a maid to deliver tea to his father before joining the two of you. – “What will we do?” – Mycroft asked. – “Not here.” – Sherlock responded, grabbing his brother and you by the elbow.

Pushing the both of you into the library. He shut the door firmly, even closing the curtains. – “I am under no circumstance to marry Lord Hill.” – you outed, crossing your arms. – “You won’t.” – Sherlock breathed out. – “What the did letter say.” – Sherlock asked his brother as the three of you joined together in a circle. For the first time in a long time agreeing on a matter. – “Simply that Aunt Mathilda has set in writing that our sister is to wed Lord Hill. The suitor of her choice because she is becoming of age of the agreement she made with father.

If she does not agree or is still unmarried by the end of the season, she’ll come for Y/n. Taking her away and comfort herself over her as a proper parent should in her words.” – Mycroft explained. – “She’ll take me away to mother me and force me into more matchmaking.” – you repeated to be clear. The panic slowly worrying you. Sherlock noticed it, taking you by the arm. – “She won’t take you away from us Y/n. You are a Holmes, and you are to remain here with us.”

Sherlock pulled you against him, wrapping an arm around you. – “What will we do?” – you asked frightened of your own future. – “It is quite easy.” – Sherlock responded. – “Anthony Bridgerton will have to marry you.” – he outed as you pushed yourself off him. – “It is undeniable how much you care for him dear sister.” – Sherlock continued as you had turned yourself away from them. – “All we want is for you to marry for love, I will not have you have a relationship like our aunt and uncle.” – Mycroft interfered. – “I am nothing like my aunt!” – you said snappy.

Sherlock and Mycroft moving their hands down. – “We know…” – you slowly turned back towards them. – “What if he does not propose?” – you questioned out loud. Sherlock took a deep breath, laying a hand on your shoulder. – “Then we’ll make him.” – your brother made clear. – “Can we even ask such a thing of him? I never want to force him… no matter the value of my future.” – Both your brothers approached, wrapping an arm around you.

“You are too kind for this world.” – Sherlock whispered. – “Witty and stubborn too.” – Mycroft added, receiving a slap against the back of his head from Sherlock. You laughed loud, hugging them tightly. – “I promise I’ll do my task as matchmaker perfect Y/n. No more slip backs.” – Mycroft spoke pinching your arm.

Birds were chirping loudly. The sun leaving a warm glow upon this very earth. Tents set up around a large garden estate. Suitors walking closely to their hoping beloved. The Bridgerton’s were present as well. You arrived arms in arm with both your brothers. At the sight of Anthony, you looked down at your own dress. – “You look lovely Y/n.” – Sherlock commented. Looking up to him, you smiled. – “Shall we?” – Mycroft proposed. Suddenly the doubts started kicking in. – “What if he does not want me in return? What if I make a fool of myself… perhaps it wouldn’t be that bad if Auntie would take me away.

It would certainly rid me of everlasting shame.” – you tried to stay humorous about it, but deep down you feared it might become truth. – “Hush!” – Mycroft breathed out. With each step closer to the Viscount, your heart thumped louder. It would take one more step for it to fall out of your chest. Swallowing nervously it felt as if you couldn’t think properly. Then you spotted Lord Hill. You signaled to your brothers with a head motion. Sherlock and Mycroft both nodded.

They let go of your arms, walking steady over to Lord Hill. You watched as they grabbed him each by an arm, pulling him away before he could even reach you. Alone and frightened you made your way over to the tent where Lord Bridgerton was. Palms sweaty as you moved them behind your back. – “Miss Y/n.” – Anthony bowed as you curtsied. – “How… how… are you feeling?” – he asked nervously.

Curling up a nervous smile you replied. – “Much better, my lord.” – Anthony smiled hesitantly, letting his gaze settle down. Hands behind his back. Blinking quickly before settling them upon you once more. Was he perhaps feeling nervous as well? You looked briefly away, unsure how to act around him so suddenly. Before it was quite easy. Whatever came out of his mouth, you responded to it. Not afraid to insult the man if he needed a proper lesson in keeping his ego in check. Now that things have changed, you were more hesitant to speak.

Not wanting to scare him off. A wave of relaxation washed over you when his mother approached. The same seemed to be the fact for Anthony. – “Miss Y/n what a delight to see you.” – Violet spoke. – “Anthony has spoken many times of you.” – she confessed as you watched Anthony’s expression tensed. – “Mother.” – he hissed out, trying to keep up his smile. – “Is that so?” – you teased with a chuckle. – “I do pray only good.” – flashing a smile at the Viscount. – “Oh most certainly he did.” – Violet responded as Anthony looked nervously away.

“He told me all about how good of a shooter you are Miss Y/n. Although I did not expected a lady such as yourself to exile in the matter, but my son had high praises of you.” – she continued to compliment you and her son. You smiled. – “Lord Bridgerton is an excellent shooter himself and player of cards too.” – you responded. – “He bested me once.” – Anthony cleared his throat, meddling himself into the conversation. – “Twice.” – he smirked, holding the amount up with his fingers.

You held up the number of three with your fingers. – “Shot three birds.” – you clicked your tongue with one eye closed. Anthony started chuckling. – “Do remind me Miss Y/n how many points was shooting a peacock?” – he asked. You started laughing. – “I do not know, perhaps we should ask lord Enfield.” – Anthony and you were smiling at each other. Violet observing with a smile of her own. She was not needed anymore. She left quietly as Anthony and you moved closer, loosening up.

Anthony took in a deep breath, almost haven forgotten how delighted it felt to laugh in your presence. He noticed his younger siblings running over. – “Please excuse me.” – he said meeting them half-way. Your smile faltered reminded once more of your future that seemed not so bright. You tried picking up hints of lord Bridgerton’s mutual affection. Trying to see if he would be in character to propose any time soon. Yet it didn’t seem like it. You took your leave from the tent, coming to sit down at a bench.

Watching Lord Bridgerton play around with his younger siblings. It made you breath out short with a smile on your lips. Seeing how tentative he was around his siblings. Exhaling deep, you fidgeted with your fingers on your lap. Till the end of the season you had. If you declined Lord Hill. The very suitor your aunt set you up with. Perhaps you had taken all the chances at love that you deserve. All declined to be left with nothing more.

You got back up, slowly approaching the crowd once more. Remaining in the background, not participating in any games or conversations. Your eyes became teary when you saw your brother Sherlock approach. – “Any luck?” – he asked. You shook your head with a forced smile to stop yourself from crying. – “Then I simply will have to do more.” – Sherlock spoke out to reassure you. – “Brother please… you cannot force him… he does not love me… not romantically. Not good enough to propose.” – you told him blinking your tears away.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around you. – “I know you are frightened sister, yet I promise you I won’t let you go down the path set out for you.” – you hugged him tightly, closing your eyes. Mycroft joined moments later to escort you inside. The sun had begun to set as it announced the ball. Everyone entering with loud chatter. It didn’t take long for dance cards to be filled in and dances to begin. Violet furrowed her brows, gathering with her other sons by the candles.

“Benedict why is Anthony not dancing with Miss Y/n?” – she asked confused. Benedict pulled his shoulders up. – “I do not know mama, was he supposed to dance with her?” – both of them watching Anthony dance with another young lady. Clearly getting annoyed and agitated by how unsuitable his dance partner was. She was rather clumsy in her dancing and too short for his height. The dance had the visual of being clumsy and sloppy rather then graceful.

Violet looked around for any sign of you. The dance came to an end as she clapped mindlessly, occupied in looking around. She found you in the crowd, moving to the dancefloor with a gentleman. You had accepted Lord Hill’s request of dance as he led you up to the floor. Anthony who was just finished stepped away from his dance partner, coming face to face with you. His eyes widening at the gentleman holding your hand. He stepped back but kept following your movement with his eyes.

He joined his siblings sight still staring in disbelief. You curtsied as Lord Hill bowed. There was no smile on your lips when you danced. Hands held against each other as you circled around with him. They lowered as you stepped in a circle around. Your eyes falling briefly on Lord Bridgerton. He gasped silently at how pitiful you appeared. As if all the sunshine had been sucked out of you. Lord Hill placed your hand on his shoulder, moving a hand to your lower back. Waltzing he let the music take over. Performing the steps numbly as if someone else was operating for you. Lord Bridgerton keep his gaze constant on you.

Violet noticed it how yearningly her son was staring at you. How infuriating it was for him to see. A loud rumble outside startled you. It snapped you out of the pitiful dream you were having. – “Miss Y/n is everything alright?” – Lord Hill asked having come to a stop. You were breathing loud, looking over your shoulder to Lord Bridgerton. To his mother and his siblings. Turning your head you looked at your own family. Then back to Lord Hill. This was not what you wanted. Far from.

-----------------------------------------------

Read more of my fic’s on my Masterlists!

303 notes · View notes

nightingale2004 · 5 months

Text

Sherlock BBC next generation: Johnlock version

Athena Jessica Watson Holmes

Faceclaim: Emily Rudd

Athena is the biological daughter of Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes and older twin of her brother Hamish Scott Watson Holmes

Is the oldest twin by 10 minutes and 32 seconds

She takes after Sherlock but has a bit of Irene in her

Both Athena and Hamish were left on Sherlock's doorstep shortly after they were born

Similar to Sherlock, her deduction skills are flawless (in her words)

Considers John to be her parental figure and compatible with her father than Irene

She doesn't call Irene her mother, only by her first name

Unlike Sherlock, she actually likes learning astronomy

She has a love for art, fencing, and playing violin

She secretly pickpockets the entire London police, including Greg (it's her source of entertainment every now and then)

She hates socializing and finds "normal people" very, very.......boring (her sister, John, Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Greg are the exception)

She is fiercely protective of her siblings

Mastered the art of shutting off her emotions (in her opinion)

Loves experimenting with body parts or dead bodies with Sherlock

Loves to accompany both her dads to crime scenes

She has no filter

She is an extremely quick learner

Has her own mind palace

Is very skilled in martial arts

She takes ballet and art classes (mostly to avoid boredom)

Goes to the library..........a lot

Is a chemistry and science genius

Makes fun of her uncle Mycroft (Sherlock's idea)

Secretly keeps in contact with her aunt Eurus

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hamish Scott Watson Holmes

Faceclaim: Asa Butterfield

Younger twin of Athena and youngest son of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler

Unlike his twin, he's more sensitive than her and a little more empathetic to people.

Sherlock and John got an Irish setter for their kids and named him Redbeard

He takes after Sherlock in personality but looks like Irene with a hint of Sherlock

He is also very intelligent, like his father

He plays violin, piano and cello

He prefers to observe the crime scene from a distance

When he is in thinking mode, he becomes exactly like his sister and Sherlock

He is Molly's favorite

He knows how to shoot from a crossbow and a long bow

Hamish and Athena destroy their father at clue

He is a little slow on deductions, but he is still good.

Math genius

Extremely adventurous

He shoots arrows and darts at the wall when bored or frustrated

Hamish and his sister's visit their grandparents when they can

Both Hamish and Athena get Lestrade's name wrong every time

Both the Holmes twins correct their teachers if they something wrong in their lesson (which to them, is all the time)

Both John and Sherlock made the twins promise not to say their deductions out loud to their teachers or anyone involved in their educational journey (to avoid suspension or expulsion)

Prefer to be called high functioning sociopaths

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

Rosamund "Rose/Rosie" Mary Watson Holmes

Faceclaim: Meg Donnelly

Rose is the youngest Holmes in her family and considers herself and her father the only normal and sane ones in the family

She is John and Mary's daughter and Sherlock's stepdaughter

Despite not being related by blood, Rose loves her older siblings very much

Both John and Sherlock taught all their children self defense

She inherited her dad's love for creative writing

Rose has her own blog and even makes posts on her social media about her family and their adventures

Loves reading John's stories

She is sometimes jealous of Sherlock and her older siblings and their intellect

Every time she meets a boy, Athena and Hamish make a deduction about him or chase him away

Has a love for the medical field

Hates when bullies or most people make rude comments or remarks about her family

She and John cook

Rose has a picture of her mom

♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤☆♤

+ Mrs. Hudson's grand daughter

Allison "Ally" Martha Hudson

Faceclaim: Virginia Gardner

Allison is the granddaughter of the late Mrs. Martha Hudson

After Mrs. Hudson passed away (R.i.p to the legend Una Stubbs 🙏 you will be remembered). Ally's mom inherited the famous 221b Baker Street building, and now both Ally and her mom moved to London permanently and kept the building running

Allison was originally born and raised in America, but both Ally and her mom would visit Mrs. Hudson to spend some time with her

Allison loved her grandmother very much and held her close to her heart

Loved hearing her grandmother's crazy stories

She knows the Holmes family and has babysat the twins and Rosamund whenever she came to visit over the holidays

Sherlock and John see Allison and her mom as part of their family since Mrs. Hudson was family to them and their kids

Ally feels like she's the Holmes kids' mother and big sister most of the time

Hates it when the twins shoot her wall and keep crazy stuff in the fridge

Knows how to handle a gun

She is a divorce child

Weeks after her parents divorced, she never saw her dad again, and Ally spent a month over with Mrs. Hudson

She loves getting involved with the Holmes kids and their adventures

Reminds them constantly that she is NOT THEIR HOUSEKEEPER

20 notes · View notes

ten-cent-sleuth · 1 year

Text

A Galling Yoke, Part 1

Next ->

for the Cutting Communication or Can’t Talk Right Now square on my July Break Bingo card

See this post for main info, including a masterlist and synopsis. See this post for warnings.

Word Count: 1.9k

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x f!Reader

Rating: Teen (and really only that ’cause angst tbh)

“Ma’am?”

You looked up from your needlework and smiled at Mrs Rogers, who was currently dusting your sitting-room windowsill. Such work was naturally a maid’s, but your housekeeper enjoyed your company and you hers.

“Yes, Mrs Rogers?”

“I believe I hear knocking below-stairs.”

You let a bit of impertinence tinge your smile. “’Tis perfectly respectable calling hours.”

She gave you an exasperated look but, with that Rogers forbearance you so admired, refrained from rolling her eyes. “I see your family crest on the street, ma’am. Two gentlemen have alighted from the cabriolet.”

Perking up, you set aside your needlework. “William?”

Mrs Rogers leaned back to take a furtive glance out the window. “I could not say, ma’am. Neither of the gentlemen cuts the familiar figure his lordship does, but I could be mistaken. It has been an age since Lord Pashbroke visited us.”

You nodded with a frown.

As much as your brother’s fortnightly visits had irked you, you were still his older sister, so you still fretted when he had failed to show his ugly mug all autumn. You knew the end of this year’s Season had been rough on him—he had gone back to the family estate, back to your father, yet again without a bride—but you didn’t imagine that would keep him away. If anything, he ought to have been visiting all the more frequently to escape your father’s disappointed glowers and unhelpful lectures.

Just the thought of having to put up with those made your lip curl with displeasure, even though it had been over a decade since you’d been under your father’s authority.

Your butler swept into the room, sparing Mrs Rogers a soft smile before turning to you and reading the calling-cards in his hand: “Lord Coltidge and Mr Holmes.”

A slight gasp slipped past your lips, and as Mr Rogers stepped aside to let the two gentlemen enter the sitting-room, only the decades-old and deeply ingrained strictures of decorum moved you to your feet. Your guests returned your curtsy with bows, the former’s being shallow and almost begrudging, the latter’s being low and almost humble.

Your butler cleared his throat. “My lady, may I introduce you to Mr Holmes?”

You were too dizzy to know if you had actually nodded, but you must have, for Mr Rogers went on—

“Mr Holmes of Baker Street, younger son of the late Mr Holmes of Ferndell Hall. Mr Holmes, this is the daughter of Lord Coltidge, Lady—”

Before even a syllable of your name could get past the man’s lips, Sherlock—Mr Holmes, you admonished yourself—had the nerve to smile and say, “Little petal.”

Your every muscle tensed, your butler’s jaw slackened, and your father’s head whipped around to stare at his… Yes, what was Sherlock to him? Friend? Guest?

In the interest of finding out, you forced out a light chuckle. “Worry not, Father,” you said. “If you recall, Ferndell Hall is neighbours with our family’s estate in Shropshire. As such, the Holmes brothers and I are…acquainted.”

The word tasted bitter on your tongue, and you averted your eyes when you glimpsed the hurt in Sherlock’s own.

“Yes, acquainted…,” he said, all his audacity from moments ago deflating. “I—that is, Mycroft and I—took to calling her ladyship little nicknames. Childish things.”

Turning his nose upwards, your father sniffed. “Childish indeed. You would do well to remember I have brought you here for business, not pleasure.”

Sherlock seemed unaffected by Lord Coltidge’s reprimand, his focus weighing down on you instead. To regain your equanimity, you turned to your servants and nodded in dismissal; Mrs Rogers offered you an encouraging smile before ushering out her husband, who was harrumphing quite dramatically at being asked to make an introduction that had, apparently, been unnecessary.

Gesturing for your callers to sit, you returned to your own chair.

“What business, Father?” you asked, pointedly looking at Lord Coltidge and not the other man in the room. “Could William not have made this trip rather than trouble you with the journey here? I imagine Mr Holmes has quite the schedule, being expected all over London for his cases.”

Sherlock’s gaze sharpened. “You pay attention to my work, ah—” He faltered, and you realised his uncharacteristic stumble was because he had almost called you your Christian name. “My lady?” he amended quickly; your heart twisted, both wanting to leap in gratitude and crumble in disappointment that he and his brilliant mind had so swiftly figured out your desire to act with more formality than the two of you were accustomed to.

Had been accustomed to.

Mr Holmes must be reminded of that, you resolved.

“I hardly have to pay,” you quipped, “when your exploits—and, now, your sister’s exploits—are the talk of the ton every few weeks.”

The look on Sherlock’s face was unfamiliar to you, but before you could puzzle out what it meant, your father’s stern eyes berated you for your impertinence. Demurely—and resentfully—you folded your hands in your lap and looked down at them.

Lord Coltidge hummed nasally. “I see you have felt William’s absence; I concede he has not been himself. ’Tis my concern, however, not yours. No, your concern is this: I have received troubling intelligence that our dear Edmund’s death may not have been the accident we believed it was.”

Ice water soused your already fried nerves. Edmund. Our dear Edmund. Shall I never find peace from him?

“Naturally, I have engaged Mr Holmes’s services to look into the matter. You shall help him in whatever way he requires, madam.”

You clasped your clammy hands together to keep them from shaking. “Of… Of course, Father.” Blast your trembling voice!

“It has been so many years since his passing”—over a decade, your mind specified; over a decade of a widow’s freedom—“but Mr Holmes assures me that this shall be no obstacle. You shall be grateful to him, for he is being generous in taking on this case so unlike his others. I should have realised such generosity was because of a prior connection.”

Your father’s voice turned disdainful; you did not dare look up to gauge whether he was disdaining you or Sherlock.

“Indeed,” he continued, his tone suddenly and surprisingly darkening, “I do not expect this to be a terribly puzzling case.”

“I am—happy, to take it on, nevertheless,” said Sherlock rather hurriedly. Even without looking, you knew his gaze was darting between you and Lord Coltidge. “May we— May I begin, my lord?”

As your father stood and made his way to the door, you finally permitted yourself to raise your eyes. Instantly, they met Sherlock’s; to your surprise, he looked away first.

“Good day, daughter,” your father said, his back already towards you as he exited the sitting-room. You allowed your lip to curl in displeasure once again; had you not seen for yourself just how proper Lord Coltidge could be when he had an audience worth pleasing, you would have thought the man genuinely incompetent at basic courtesy. But no, you knew his rude leave-taking was entirely designed for you.

Yet you had bigger concerns than your father’s scorn. Namely, being left alone with one Sherlock Holmes.

Standing up with all the ladylike poise you did not feel, you regarded your old friend. You had not seen Sherlock in a decade and a half—not even heard from him, which was an abrupt adjustment after years of sharing everything—not since the train platform where promises destined to shatter like tungsten were forged, but he had not changed overmuch. Though his manner of holding himself had matured and his form now filled his stature more neatly, his soft hair still curled disobediently across his forehead and his dark eyes still drank in everything in his view with neither dispensation nor discrimination. His character could not have changed all that much, either, if you could still recognise your childhood companion in his diction, in his appraisal, in his society.

You clung to the hope that you had changed enough for the both of you.

“What do you require, sir?” you asked.

“It has been a while, petal,” he said at the same time.

You winced with the belated understanding that he had been inspecting you as tentatively as you had been him. He winced with the, you presumed, embarrassment of learning you did not intend to reinstate your old familiarity even in your father’s absence.

“I apologise,” he said, his brow furrowed. “It…truly has been a while, your ladyship.”

Yes. For better and for worse, it had.

“I should like to see your husband’s effects to begin,” he went on, regaining his footing with every word. “Have you kept any with you?”

With a nod, you led Sherlock out of the sitting-room. “The master’s chambers and Edmund’s study are largely untouched. A solicitor went through them to carry out his will and a maid ensures they remain clean, of course, but his personal belongings are quite undisturbed.”

“Good. Very good. That maximises the insights I shall gain from perusing them, although—”

You glanced at Sherlock, his hesitation rather unlike him. “Although?”

Blinking slowly at you, he did not speak for a few moments. “You must have been truly fond of him.”

In spite of yourself—or, truthfully, in spite of your quality lady’s education—you scoffed. “What an idea, Mr Holmes. Even my father, who thinks himself wise enough to give me exactly what shall make me happy, no matter whether I asked for it, does not entertain the notion that I was fond of Mr Sulyard.”

Scowling now, Sherlock argued, “I have often noted that when a parent loses a beloved child tragically, they maintain the child’s nursery bed and chest of toys exactly as they had it.”

“I am not a parent, and I did not lose a beloved child,” you countered. “Simply, I did not want to give Edmund any more space in my mind than necessary. Have I need for his bed or his chest of toys? No. Therefore, have I need to spend time and effort on clearing them? No.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but you cut him off with a grand sweep of your arm.

“And here we arrive at his study,” you announced. “Ring for assistance if you would like to see anything else today. As my father said, I shall help you in whatever way you require, so you may visit multiple days should this afternoon not suffice. Concern yourself not with calling hours—I shall instruct my butler to let you in at any time of day, and you need not greet me. Good day, Mr Holmes.”

Not waiting to see if he would try to get another word in or whether he would bow to your insolence, you curtsied and turned on your heel.

As soon as you were a safe distance from the study, far enough away to not feel suffocated by the knowledge of Sherlock’s presence, of his nearness, you leaned against the wall and squeezed your eyes shut. A visit from a hovering younger brother would indeed have been preferable to this—to the reopening of a thousand wretched wounds.

Thank you for reading. I hope you will keep up with the coming chapters! I’ve got plenty in store for y’all haha. Please let me know if you would like to be tagged. :) Feedback is always welcome!

#sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock holmes x you #henry cavill sherlock x reader #enola holmes #a galling yoke #the dimensions of fandom

127 notes · View notes

anonymousewrites · 7 months

Text

A Study of the Heart and Brain (Book 3) Chapter Nineteen

Father Figure! Sherlock Holmes x Teen! Reader

Chapter Nineteen: Helpless Detective

Summary: (Y/N), John, and Sherlock go up against Magnussen.

Mouse Note: One more chapter to go!

(Y/N), John, and Sherlock sat stiffly in the helicopter. It whirred through the air towards Magnussen’s house, and the closer they got, the more (Y/N) fidgeted in their seat. They wanted more information, but without facing Magnussen, there didn’t seem to be anything to know. That being said, (Y/N) kept running through everything they knew about Magnussen. There had to be something they missed, something behind Magnussen still being so confident in himself and his abilities…He still felt in control of the situation. (Y/N) didn’t like that. Not at all.

The helicopter arrived in front of a mansion—Magnussen’s home. It descended to the long, wide lawn and landed. Several security men came closer to escort the group inside while more stood waiting on the patio. Of course, Magnussen was not the only danger. He was a mental challenge, but the security was there for physical protection as well.

(Y/N), Sherlock, and John were escorted inside. They passed through a greenhouse of exotic plants before arriving at an elevator. The lift took them one story up and opened to reveal a loungeroom. Magnussen sat comfortably on a long white couch with whiskey in one hand. He was at home, in his element, perfectly comfortable and in control of the situation.

Sherlock, (Y/N), and John came a stop in front of him, and he looked up. Satisfied with their arrival and appearance, he nodded to his men, and they retreated back downstairs. The four were left alone to begin their discussion.

“I would offer you a drink, but it’s very rare and expensive,” said Magnussen. He was opting to start with condescension.

Trying to get a rise out of us, thought (Y/N). They wouldn’t let him win. They’d remain in control of themself.

Sherlock took the first step and sat down away from Magnussen. He pulled out Mycroft’s computer and put it between them. Magnussen smirked in satisfaction. Sherlock looked around the room and paused. He suppressed an angry reaction and schooled his features.

“It was you,” he said.

John and (Y/N) turned to see what he was looking at. (Y/N) narrowed their eyes, and John’s eyes widened. Projected on the wall was a video of the incident so many months ago. It showed Sherlock rescuing (Y/N) from the bonfire over and over, endlessly.

“Yes, of course,” said Magnussen. “Very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr. Holmes. The drug thing I never believed for a moment, and, anyway, you wouldn’t care if it was exposed, would you?” Sherlock didn’t respond and just kept watching the video. “But look at that—look how you care for poor little Mx. Moriarty. The kid in distress.”

“They were leverage,” said Sherlock, narrowing their eyes.

(Y/N) crossed their arms. It made sense. The skip code Sherlock had shown them called them “(Y/N) Moriarty.” Magnussen was the only one who called them that. It fit perfectly. It was clear it had all been a message to Sherlock, and now it was clear: Magnussen was telling Sherlock he knew his pressure point and setting up for this. This was all him.

So how do I take on someone who saw every decision and knew he’d get here? thought (Y/N). It meant they were all in danger. It meant Sherlock wasn’t in control, even if he was trying to be.

“Oh, don’t worry. I would never have let them burn. I had people standing by,” said Magnussen, but (Y/N) didn’t believe him.

“You son of a bitch,” snapped John.

“I’m not a murderer,” said Magnussen, and, seeing a perfect opportunity, he continued, “Unlike your wife.”

John’s jaw tensed, and he had to fight not to snap.

Magnussen stood and walked to the wall. “Let me explain how leverage works. For those who understand these things, Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful man in the country. Well…apart from me. Mycroft’s pressure point is his junkie detective brother, Sherlock. And Sherlock’s pressure point is (Y/N) Moriarty. (Y/N)’s pressure point is John Watson, their uncle. John Watson’s pressure point is his wife. Of course, John Watson is also a pressure point of Sherlock, and Sherlock is a pressure point of (Y/N), but it all works out in the end for me.” Magnussen allowed himself a slight smirk before becoming clinically detached again. “I own John Watson’s wife…I own Mycroft Holmes. He’s what I’m getting for Christmas.”

“It’s an exchange, not a gift,” said Sherlock.

Magnussen picked up Mycroft’s computer. “Forgive me, but I already seem to have it.”

(Y/N) didn’t like how much control Magnussen had in the moment. They wanted to do something, but they were just standing there, silent. Helpless.

Just like with Moriarty, said their mind.

(Y/N) winced and tried to push the thought away.

“It’s password protected,” said Sherlock, referring to the computer as Magnussen ran his fingers over the back. “In return for the password, you will give me any material in your possession pertaining to the woman we know as Mary Watson.” He spoke firmly and clearly.

“Oh, she’s bad, that one. So many dead people. You should see what I’ve seen,” said Magnussen.

“I don’t need to see it,” snapped John. He had decided to follow his heart and love Mary, who clearly loved him back. He’d been a soldier. She’d been an assassin. They were done with lies to each other and ready to just be a family.

“You might enjoy it, though. I enjoy it,” said Magnussen pleasantly.

“Then show us,” said (Y/N).

Everyone turned towards them. It was the first time they’d spoken at the meeting.

Magnussen put the laptop down and leaned forward. “Show you Appledore?”

“Show us your Appledore,” said (Y/N). “If you can.” They saw something pass in his expression, gone as quickly as it came. If you can. He’d seemed…amused? Perplexed? Impressed? There’d been something in that.

Good. It means I’m getting closer.

And as much as (Y/N) hated being like Moriarty, there was one thing they very much shared with him. They were snakes. Sherlock charged head-on into challenges, but (Y/N) waited. They spoke when they needed to. They let the reactions of others guide them. They gathered all the clues they needed to trap their enemy—their prey. (Y/N) was not a Moriarty. But in a battle of minds, they were a true competitor, a strategic mastermind waiting to strike.

(Y/N) would figure out Magnussen. Then, they’d tear him down in whatever way was necessary to protect their family. Magnussen wanted to keep insisting they were a Moriarty? Fine. It wasn’t their fault he forgot that the name wasn’t just an irritation. It was a reminder of all they could be and refused to be. They decided how they acted. And now, they’d be a snake.

“We want to see the vaults,” said Sherlock, trying to get Magnussen’s attention off of (Y/N). He didn’t like it; he didn’t want (Y/N) in harm’s way. “We want everything you’ve got on Mary.”

Magnussen relaxed again and calmly looked at Sherlock. (Y/N) watched him. Once again, he was in control of the situation. So, the difference in their statements meant something.

Magnussen leaned back and patted the laptop. “You know, I honestly expected something better from you, Sherlock.”

The Holmes spoke calmly. “I think you’ll find the contents of that laptop—”

“—Include a GPS locator,” finished Magnussen, still completely at ease and one step ahead. “By now, your brother will have noticed the theft, and security services will be converging on this kind. Having arrived, they’ll find top secret information in my hands and have every justification to search the vaults you want to see. They will discover further information of this kind, and I’ll be imprisoned. You and your pets will be exonerated and restored to your smelly little apartment to solve crimes as a psychopathic ‘family.’ Mycroft has been looking for this opportunity for a long time. He’ll be a very, very proud big brother.”

Too knowledgeable of what will happen to not have planned for this, thought (Y/N). So what does he know that we don’t? They would figure it out. They would.

“The fact that you know it’s going to happen isn’t going to stop it,” said Sherlock.

Something else will, though, thought (Y/N).

They hated to doubt Sherlock’s intelligence, but they saw Magnussen in a way he didn’t. They were a teenager still finding their way in the world. They saw adults as learning opportunities for what to avoid and what to follow. Sherlock saw Magnussen as an equal. (Y/N) saw him as someone who knew something they didn’t, something they needed to learn. It meant (Y/N) was at a disadvantage to Magnussen, but it meant they could see their disadvantage, and that was the first step to overcoming it.

“Then why am I smiling?” remarked Magnussen coyly. “Ask me.”

“Why are you smiling?” asked John.

“Because Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves and everything he holds dear,” said Magnussen. He stood. “Let me show you the Appledore Vaults.”

He strolled to a pair of wooden doors. John, (Y/N), and Sherlock followed. “The entrance to my vaults. This is where I keep you all.”

He pushed the doors open. Revealed was a bare, windowless, white-painted room. It was barely a few feet in width and depth, akin to a closet. There were no hidden slots for files, nothing. It was just a barren room.

John frowned and looked around. “Okay—so where are the vaults?”

“They’re standing with us,” said (Y/N), putting everything together as they saw the perfect room for someone to sit and think in without interruption.

They were pleased to see Magnussen’s face fall for a second at not getting to announce it himself. They had found the truth sooner than he got to enjoy himself. But it was still too late, since they, John, and Sherlock had walked into an exchange without the truth that what they were searching for didn’t exist in the material sense.

Too late, crowd Moriarty’s voice in their head, and (Y/N) bit the inside of their cheek.

Magnussen faltered before grinning. “My research was right. You are a clever one.” He tapped his temple. “The vaults are all in here.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. It was the one thing he hadn’t considered.

“A Mind Palace,” said (Y/N). “That’s why you look like you’re reading your glasses. That’s why when I said ‘Show us, if you can’ you were amused. I was getting closer to the truth—only you see your vaults. You’re going through the files in your mind.”

“Sherlock, you really have to be careful with this one. Mx. Moriarty is getting quicker than you,” said Magnussen, grinning. “Yes, a Mind Palace. ‘How to store information so you never forget it by picturing it.’ I just sit here, I close my eyes, and down I go to my vaults. I can go anywhere inside my vaults, my memories. I’ll look at the files on Mrs. Watson.” He closed his eyes and raised his hands. His fingers twirled in the air like he was flipping through papers. “This is one of my favorites. Oh, it’s so exciting. All those wet jobs for the CIA. Oooh! She’s gone a bit freelance now. Bad girl. Ah, she’s so wicked.” He moved as it closing a filing cabinet and opened his eyes. “You see?” He smiled. “Poor Sherlock. Mx. Moriarty got to it before you. Still a bit late though. Maybe should’ve talked with them before coming here. Oh, well. I knew you wouldn’t to ‘protect them.’ What a protective parent.”

Sherlock’s hands curled into fists. He’d failed and walked right into Magnussen’s trap. He hadn’t realized the truth. And because he’d tried so hard to protect (Y/N), he hadn’t seen Magnussen knew what he’d do.

“So there are no documents. You don’t actually have anything here,” breathed John, eyes widening.

“Oh, sometimes I send out for something if I really need it, but mostly I just remember it all,” said Magnussen, quite pleased with himself.

“I don’t understand,” said John, shaking his head.

“You should have that on a t-shirt,” said Magnussen.

“You just remember it all?” said John.

“It’s all about knowledge. Everything is. Knowledge is owning,” said Magnussen. He was victorious, but he was simply pleased with himself. He didn’t seem relieved or joyous. He had known he would win; he had always been confident of that. This wasn’t a surprise to him. His victory was commonplace because he always manipulated everyone else.

(Y/N) had seen that expression before. It was more crazed then, but (Y/N) still hated it. They despised the self-satisfaction Magnussen and Moriarty shared in their eyes as they looked at the people they trapped in their webs. (Y/N) would do anything to change that expression.

“But if you just know it, then you don’t have proof,” said John, confused.

Magnussen scoffed at his “stupidity.” “Proof? What do I need proof for? I’m in the news, you moron. I don’t have to prove it; I just have to print it.” He walked away from his study and buttoned his jacket officially. “Speaking of news, you three will be heavily featured tomorrow—trying to sell state secrets to me.” He tutted like a disappointed parent, and the icy anger in (Y/N) grew as the similarities between him and Moriarty crystallized further in their mind. “Let’s go outside. They’ll be here shortly.”

He hadn’t been concerned about Mycroft coming because he knew he wasn’t the one who would be arrested. There was no information or dirt to find on him. It would all be pinned on Sherlock. And John. And (Y/N).

“Can’t wait to see you arrested,” said Magnussen, walking to the elevator and leaving them behind.

John looked at Sherlock and (Y/N) desperately. “Sherlock, (Y/N), do we have a plan?”

(Y/N)’s mind was whirring, trying to find a way out. They had to do something. They had figured out Magnussen, but it hadn’t done anything. They were still helpless.

“Sherlock, (Y/N)?” repeated John.

“I can’t—I don’t,” said (Y/N), trailing off as their mind went in a thousand different directions and hit dead-end after dead-end.

“Sherlock?” said John.

“What have I done?” said Sherlock quietly, looking at (Y/N). His kid. The kid he failed. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, but he couldn’t move closer. He couldn’t. He’d failed his child. “I’m sorry.” He turned away and walked towards the lift. It was time to face all the consequences he had brought to the people he cared about. He had destroyed the lives of those who he loved and all that he held dear.

The group was silent as they exited the elevator and walked out onto the patio. It was dark now, and the wind whistled across the hills.

Magnussen watched them approach, still triumphant and ready to rub their failure in. He looked at John, who had steeled his features like a true soldier facing defeat. He refused to show fear.

“I just love your little soldier face,” said Magnussen. “I’d like to punch it. Bring it over here a minute. Come on. For Mary. Bring me your face.”

John reluctantly walked closer. What else could he do? Magnussen could release all his information on Mary. He was at Magnussen’s mercy.

“Lean forward a bit and stick your face out,” commanded Magnussen. John obeyed. “Now, can I flick it? Can I flick your face?” John gritted his teeth, and Magnussen grinned. He raised his hand and flicked his middle finger against John’s cheek. “I just love doing this,” he chuckled. “I could do this all day.”

Moriarty played with people that way. He played with me that way, thought (Y/N). They narrowed their eyes and took a slight step forward.

Sherlock held their shoulder before they did anything else, not wanting Magnussen to turn his attention to them. He had failed them so immensely, but he had to try to protect them from anything more.

“It works like this, John,” continued Magnussen, flicking John’s face over and over. “I know who Mary hurt and killed. I know where to find people who hate her. I know where they live—all in my mind palace, all of it. I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down, and I will unless you let me flick your face. That is what I do to people. This is what I do to whole countries, just because I know.”

Magnussen grinned. “Can I do your eye now? See if you can keep it open, hm?” He flicked John’s eyebrow, and John closed his eye instinctively. “Come on. For Mary. Keep it open.” John couldn’t, and Magnussen laughed. “It’s difficult, isn’t it? Janine managed it once. She makes the funniest noises.”

The sound of helicopter blades beating the air interrupted the conversation. Mycroft and the security services had arrived. The consequences of Sherlock’s actions were there.

Armed marksmen approached from the grounds while the helicopter hovered above. A spotlight switched on and landed on the group of four on the patio.

“Sherlock Holmes, (Y/N) (L/N), and John Watson—stand away from that man,” ordered Mycroft from the leading helicopter.

Magnussen looked over at Sherlock. “Here we go! Look at what you’ve brought, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes went to the ground, and (Y/N)’s heart tightened as they saw his defeated face. No. They wouldn’t let this happen. They couldn’t. They had to protect Sherlock.

“Appledore is just your mind,” said (Y/N).

“Don’t feel too bad that you didn’t figure it out earlier,” said Magnussen, smiling. “Sherlock just thinks he’s so clever that no else can be. But a Mind Palace is as helpful as physical files when I can print all that I know.”

“Sherlock Holmes, (Y/N) (L/N), and John Watson. Step away,” commanded Mycroft.

“It’s fine. They’re harmless!” said Magnussen triumphantly.

Harmless. Helpless. Harmless. Helpless. Harmless, helpless…

(Y/N) wanted to shut up the voice in their head. They wouldn’t be helpless.

“Guys, what do we do?” said John urgently, desperately.

“Nothing! There’s nothing to be done! Oh, I’m not a villain. I have no evil plan. I’m a businessman, acquiring assets. You happen to be one of them!” declared Magnussen almost gleefully. He looked at Sherlock. “Sorry. No chance for you to be the hero this time, Mr. Holmes. Not for you, not for John, not for Mx. Moriarty. Not this time.”

Not this time. Not like the time with Moriarty, thought (Y/N). When I was helpless.

Helpless, harmless. Helpless, harmless. Helplessharmless…

“Sherlock Holmes, (Y/N) (L/N), and John Watson, stand away from that man. Do it now,” demanded Mycroft.

(Y/N) stepped towards Magnussen, pulling away from Sherlock and passing John. Magnussen looked at them in amusement.

“Trying to figure out where I’ve failed? Where there’s a loophole?” he said. “Sorry, Mx. Moriarty. There’s nothing for you to do.”

(Y/N) looked at him evenly, and Sherlock and John furrowed their brow.

“Moriarty pushed us into a situation with no solution,” said (Y/N). “My dad got us out of it.”

“I’m not Moriarty,” said Magnussen. “I’m worse.”

“I know,” said (Y/N). They smiled, and Sherlock stiffened at the look in their eyes and expression. Cold. Calculating. Snakelike. “But you made the exact same mistake he did.”

“Oh?” Magnussen arched a brow, gazing at them condescendingly.

“He forgot that the Holmes is willing to do anything for the people they love,” said (Y/N). Their smile turned to a smirk. They raised their hand, and the gun they had taken from John’s pocket flashed in the helicopter’s spotlight. “And I’m (Y/N) Holmes.”

Not harmless. Not helpless.

Bang!

Taglist:

@stilesstilinskiforlife-blog

@im-making-an-effort

@ilse235

@schrodingers-intelligence

@awsedrftgyhujikol

@lxserthxngzzz

@forever1313

@mentallyunstablemanlover

33 notes · View notes

darkhorse-javert · 5 months

Text

Chitter-chatter Tittle-tattle

@flashfictionfridayofficial

I come home to Baker Street one early afternoon. I had been out since the early evening before, called by a case that proved more complex and critical than it might have been expected, thus needing my constant attention. But all had come well in the end, and thus did I climb up our stairs to the sitting room.

Holmes was in his accustomed chair, a cup of tea in his hands. Extraordinary the first. But he was not alone,

A young man, darkish haired and lanky-framed, twisted on the settle to look as I entered, and rose to his feet courteously.

"Ah Watson" Holmes says, his voice bright, "This is Hereward, my nephew. Hereward, Doctor John Watson, formerly of the RAMC."

He gestures his hand from me to the young fellow and back again, apparently considering that introductions enough. Young Hereward came around the sofa end offering his hand which I shook, though he shook more heartily.

"Very pleased to meet you Doctor, very pleased." His eyes are bright, very warm and enthusing. Not been in London long, for certain, and young, not yet twenty, or barely so. There is slightly a resemblance to Holmes, perhaps enhanced by the half-grown nature of the lad. Length of limb, a little in the set of the cheekbones. I glance at Holmes and send a look.

Hereward is the eldest son of my eldest brother," Holmes continues smoothly, as I cross and set my bag on the table. "He has come up to London to try his way in business for a time."

"Uncle Mycroft has found me a situation in a good merchant-firm, to give me a half-year trial." Hereward expounds, still on his feet and nearly springing with excitement at the prospect he pronounces.

"Very promising," I allow, nodding, hoping to continue to muffle my overwhelming bewildered state, compounded by tiredness, until I can bead Holmes for proper details.

Hereward beams at me, springs around the settle and sits down, surprisingly calmly, to pick up his tea.

He says a sentence in a language which seems to be a muddle of Latin and Greek.

Holmes - taking a sip of tea at that moment- starts, chokes, spits back his mouthful, and falls to spluttering wheezing coughs He hunches over, coughing into his sleeve, somehow managing to set the cup awkwardly but safely on the side-table in the midst of it. After a little I move over and pat him hard on the back, he clears his throat

"Thank you." The words come out part-bark, part-croak, but Holmes breathes more easily. His head comes up, and he stares sharply at Hereward, says something else I don't understand, except that it does sound more like Greek.

But what little I know Greek, besides the medical applications, was not my grandest subject in my schooling, and I am left a blank as to the conversation, except that young Hereward does not seem particularly rattled by Holmes' tone. He replies again in the same Mongrel tongue, voicing something that might (or might not be) 'Mycroft', shrugging.

Holmes humphs.

"Will you be staying here?" I ask generally, to break the deadlock, wondering as I so so, how it would be managed. Either Hereward or I in here on the settle with blankets, most likely. If me thus, pray that the lad is not perceptive enough to notice the stiffly tidy, barely used, state of the room supposed to be my lodge.

"No, Uncle Mycroft is putting me up - or putting up with me - until I have my feet and perhaps lodging with my fellows." Hereward shakes his head lightly, glances at the clock and rises neatly. "I think I should be going back. Thank you for the tea, Uncle Sherlock." He inclines his head in a nod to me. "Very Pleased to make your acquaintance, Doctor Watson."

I return the gesture, and Holmes rises to his feet, accompanying his nephew across the room to the door.

On opening it Hereward places his hat atop his head, then paused and says something in a very low tone to Holmes, close to his Uncle's ear. Holmes claps him lightly, familiarly, on the shoulder, waits as Hereward moves away and down the stairs hall-wards. Only then does he close the door.

"So, that is your nephew?" I ask.

"Hereward, son of Sherrinford, himself first born Holmes son; he keeps the gentry element of the family, whilst Mycroft and I may make our own paths as we wish." Holmes reels off casually. He looks more closely at me. "Watson did you eat last night?" My shrug is followed by a halloo downstairs of "Mrs Hudson!!!! Bread and biscuits!"

---

It is much later, in the dark of our room and bed, with Holmes curled around me, that I ask, "What on earth did he say, Hereward? It was in no language I understand."

"Holmes Patois, my Watson," He says softly. "Invented by Mycroft, taught to me when we were children, picked up by Sherrinford out of necessity. Latin, Greek and French for starters, a little of each with each other's grammar rules as well." I hear the smile in his voice, feel it in the hold of his arms around me. "And Sherrinford kept it up."

"What did he say?" I press

"That he agreed I had found myself an excellent, and handsome, Penelope."

Penelope, a loyal wife. I roll in his arms to face him. "Your family know about," -I wiggle my fingers that are above the covers, meaning the bed, the one room- "Us."

"Mmm." Sherlock says "Mycroft has not been entirely obtuse in his letters home, and neither Sherrinford or Hereward are stupid."

#granada holmes #victorian husbands #granada sherlock #granada watson #holmes x watson #flash fic friday

8 notes · View notes

lisbeth-kk · 3 months

Text

Sherlock fandom. (TW: domestic violence)

Building Walls

Both had been scared as boys. John of the dark, Sherlock of the light.

John’s vivid imagination made up monsters under the bed and kidnappers in the woods around the tent when the Watsons went camping.

“Fear is a weakness,” John’s father growled when his son was shaking and sobbing, terrified of the horrors of the darkness around him.

The solution was to beat the fear out of John while using spite words like coward, squeamish, queer, faggot, weak.

It took some time before it worked. For every stroke from his father’s hand or belt, John’s protecting wall was reinforced with a new brick, until his father was satisfied, and John’s fear had dissipated. So it seemed anyway.

***

Sherlock was a night owl from an early age but was forced to live in the light where others could see his aberrant behaviour. His cousins, aunts and uncles all called him freak, queer, weak, abnormal.

He just wanted to be left alone with his experiments, which he preferred to conduct in the dark hours.

“Fearing the light is a sickness,” his mother told him, and caught him in an iron grip before he could abscond and ordered him to sit in the conservatory with her and his cousins for hours.

When he finally was released, his head throbbed, his eyes stung, and he felt bone tired. He cried when he woke in the morning, realising that he’d been too exhausted to escape sleep.

“You must not let them see your weakness, brother mine,” Mycroft advised him, so Sherlock built a wall around himself and called it his Mind Palace.

***

In the dark Afghan desert, John met many soldiers who were afraid of what they could not see, and with good reason. He knew he should be terrified, and deep down he was, but he had a responsibility as a captain. His wall was strong and didn’t crack until a bullet came out of the velvet night and found his shoulder.

Back in the radiant city that was London, John’s wall crumbled. His mind was a dark hole even if he was surrounded by light.

“Nothing ever happens to me,” became a mantra he lived by, until he met Mike Stamford, and later Sherlock Holmes.

The brief and totally ridiculous encounter in the lab at Barts, lifted a vail, and a glimpse of sunshine entered John’s mind.

***

For years Sherlock lived in the blissful darkness, but people still interfered and made his life miserable. His mother and brother in particular. So, he sought out company that at first was a relief, but later put him on the path towards addiction and destruction.

Stumbling over Greg Lestrade’s crime scene, high as a kite, but still capable of observing and deducing what had happened, saved Sherlock’s life. For the first time in years, someone was interested in the knowledge he possessed; signs that a victim had been poisoned, different traces of mud or ash.

“Get clean, and I’ll call you when we’re out of our depths,” Lestrade said.

Mycroft probably ensured Lestrade’s promotion after that, when Sherlock explained, and begged Mycroft to take him to rehab.

The incongruous scale Sherlock used to categorise the crimes Lestrade called him about, wasn’t all about how interesting a case was, but had more to do with the time of day. Only a serial killer could make Sherlock attend a crime scene in broad daylight. The darkness was his friend, and his dramatic persona thrived and added mystery to it all when he whirled around in his beloved Belstaff and polished Italian shoes.

John was like the sun and should frighten Sherlock with his warmth and incandescence. Instead, Sherlock felt an instant calmness fall over him when his fingers brushed John’s as he took the phone John offered him the day they met.

***

John’s fear of the dark night vanished when he saw Sherlock together with Jeff Hope, and his hand was steady when he shot the awful cabbie.

Sherlock’s case scale suddenly changed, and he and John turned up at crime scenes at all hours, even when the sun shone bright and clear.

The only fear they had left, was losing each other.

----------------------------------------------------------------

@flashfictionfridayofficial @totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @helloliriels

@raina-at @meetinginsamarra @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @topsyturvy-turtely

@jolieblack @peanitbear @phoenix27884 @bs2sjh @brandiwein1982

@meandhisjohn @a-victorian-girl @221beloved @ninasnakie @shy-bi-inlovewithregandmoony

(Tell me if you want to be added or removed from the tags)

#flash fiction friday #sherlock fandom #sherlock #john watson #bbc sherlock #johnlock #sherlock fanfic #FFF260 #fear is a sickness

86 notes · View notes

inevitably-johnlocked · 11 months

Text

Five Fics Friday: October 20/23

Happy Friday Everyone!! Hope y'all had a great week, and are looking forward to starting off the weekend with this fantastic suggestions I've got for you this week!! Enjoy!!

RECENT MFLs

On The Dangers Of Semi-Skimmed by loveanddeathandartandtaxes (M, 1,536 w., 1 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-S4, Domestics, Masturbation, Accidental Voyeurism, First Time) – “I don't mind,” John blurts. Sherlock looks at him. “If you were to come up to my room for - anything.”

The Girlfriend Mixup by helloliriels (NR, 3,300 w., 1 Ch., || Pub Night Out, POV Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt John, Mutual Pining, Love Confessions, John Calls Sherlock Love, Angst With Happy Ending) – Sherlock was used to John getting his girlfriends mixed up, sure. He just wasn't used to being included IN that bunch...

John Hamish Watson Lestrade by MidnightMonster (G, 4,731 w., 1 Ch. || John is Lestrade's Son || ASiP, Alternate First Meeting, Older Sherlock, Younger John, POV Sherlock, Protective John) – John is Lestrade's son and is 23 years old training to be a doctor and planning to be an army-doctor. Greg's concern about John being a soldier however is pushed into the background when a new problem presents itself. Sherlock Holmes. He is worried that Sherlock will hurt John or get hurt because of him in some way. But despite his concerns and efforts of keeping them apart it seems that they can't be kept away from each other.

Serviceman Series by PrettyArbitrary (E, 15,567+ w. across 4 works || Omegaverse AU || Group Sex, Military, BAMF John, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Dubious Consent, Worldbuilding, Light Bondage, Public Sex, Rough Sex, Omega John) – Don't you dare look down your nose at John Watson for his service. He's proud to be an army omega. You'll never know how good he has it.

Expectations by rosenritter (M, 27,901 w., 9 Ch. || Omegaverse AU || Post-TRF, Mpreg, Knotting, Established Relationship, Mating Cycles, Angst wand Humour, Babies, Families, Bittersweet) – Several months after setting his brother loose on the trail of Moriarty's network, Mycroft Holmes receives a tip about John Watson, who has made himself scarce after the Fall. What he finds has the potential to render Sherlock's mission a no-win scenario. Sherlock left something behind before he fell from St. Bart's. It's the one last thing John has left to really live for and the odds are not in his favor. Part 1 of Expectations and Epilogues

#five fics friday #johnlock fic recs #my fic recs

32 notes · View notes

starkraivennemad · 4 months

Text

What's Said And What's Heard

They didn't know it yet - it was their last minutes being alone…

First came the hurt…

"Mummy! What in heavens name could possibly have given you thought of such a connection?" Mycroft Holmes scoffed at the very thought. "He and I? That's utterly preposterous!" "Excuse me?" It was not so much the words spoken, but how they were delivered that caused Greg to lash out. "Oh yes, completely ludicrous. What a pauper can't look at a prince? I can help with that. Maman? Let's go!" Greg glad they had arrived at the booth but had not sat. He grabbed his mother's hand. "Gregory!" "Lestrade." "Greg, wait." Mycroft, Sherlock and his mother called out. Greg ignored the latter two to face a stricken looking Mycroft about to speak. "Don't bother, Holmes." Greg had hidden his feelings from the intimidating man for over a year because of this very fear. I’m not good enough. Hearing it confirmed in words stung. They stung deeply. He’ll never be mine… "Greg!" His mother tried. "Mère, no." Were he not upset and already turned away, he would have noticed her surprised face at being addressed formally, something he only does when he is very upset, as he gently, but decidedly pulled her at her hand. We’re leaving.

Followed by the embarrassment…

"Gregory Michael Lestrade, that is ENOUGH! Unhand me now, young man!" Giselle Lestrade thundered once they were out of the restaurant and in the car park. He had parked near the divider wall between self-parking from one entrance and valet parking from the other side. Whoa! Haven't heard THAT tone since… Academy? He immediately released his hold on her. He had not realized how tight was his grip until she shook her hand. Shite! What are you doing, Greg! "Maman, I… I am so sorry!" He tried to reach for her hand, but she snatched it away. "I don't want to hear it, Gregory. You are lucky we were such a nice place, and I did not want there to be cause of a bigger scene than what was already happening. What is going on in that thick gob of yours?" Fuck it all! This weekend had gone so great, now it's ruined! Head down in shame, Greg ran a rough had through his silver hair, setting it awry. "I can't." "The way you just manhandled me? Boy, you better try!" Greg winced at her words and shook his head. Giselle Lestrade raised her son to fear no one. Then again, his mother had not come against the likes of one Mycroft Holmes. How could he explain someone like Mycroft Holmes? He was an uber intelligent man who suffered no fools. Mycroft will claim he occupied a minor office in the British government and had the documentation to prove it, but after nearly a decade of knowing - Greg certainly knew better. There was nothing minor about Mycroft's true occupation as a global political player of such immense power the world is better in not knowing existed. Mycroft can bring monarchs and presidents to heel with raised brow. Calculating and ruthless, Mycroft was a man willing to make the hard decisions no one else could and execute them for the sake of Crown and Country. He was also a man of droll, yet cutting wit who loved his parents who did not always seem to understand him. Adores his not-exactly-a-baby brother who lives to give him grief at every turn as only a little brother can. The man who publicly scorned sentiment and romantic entangles with a motto of caring is not an advantage. The man whose plentiful condemnations were as cutting as his rare compliments Tall, posh with legs for eons in his three-piece bespoke, pocket watch wearing suit of a man he was madly, but secretly in love with. The man who emphasized the preposterousness of that love ever being reciprocated moments ago. The man I just walked away from. "You wouldn't understand, Mère." Greg sighed as he leaned against his car. "Would it have anything to do with how deeply paupers love princes?" she asked softly. Greg knew by the question his mother had gleaned the answer. Of course, she knows. She the only person who can read me better than Mycroft. And she heard what he said… She leaned beside him against the car. “When did my brave copper of a son become a coward of the heart, hmm?” She was about to say more when voices were heard on the other side of the wall.

But then the surprise…

"Idiot boy! I'm not asking why you haven't told him. I'm sure you've concocted a hundred reasons why not. I'm asking how you, you who sees everyone and everything, have not seen it for yourself?!" Violet Holmes fussed. "Believe me, Mummy. He has excelled at hiding his feelings - even from himself." Sherlock drawled. Oh, HE’s one to talk! "Oh, don't you dare! Pot/Kettle, little brother, Pot/Kettle." "Oh, don't you dare try to change the focus, Mikey." Violet chastised. "And Liam hush! I'll get back to you your doctor fellow another time, don't speak out of hand again." "Yes, Mummy." Sherlock demurred. So, I'm not the only son to completely ruin Mother's Day brunch. Nice to know the Holmes Boys get taken to task by their mum too. “This is about Mikey being intimidated by Greg.” Violet continued. What? Greg looked at his mother and knew by her look of surprise he had not misheard. Mycroft intimidated by me? I am the one who is intimidated! “Oh, I am sure my brother has unconsciously tried his best to intimidate Greg.” Sherlock scoffed. “Are you aware, Mummy, that Lestrade and John are the only people outside the immediate family not cowed by his Iceman glare? I’m sure he’s tried to ward him off with his trademark Caring Is Not an Advantage lark – Ow! You kicked me!” Only because Greg had to stop himself from laughing out loud did it occur to him; he was listening in on their conversation. And I definitely should not be. Best to go before my feeling are hurt even more. “I did say stop speaking out of turn.” Violet huffed, “Besides, Mikey is correct, caring is NOT an advantage…” “Thank you, Mummy.” Mycroft said smugly. “Don’t thank me. I raised you to be wary of the pitfalls of love, yes, but not to disdain it altogether. Since when are you such a coward?” Without even looking at her, Greg saw the smug look on his mother’s face. He was not really cognizant of having moved until he had turned the corner.

Succeeded by the confession…

“Disadvantage or not - didn’t stop you from falling in love with me or I you, did it?” “Gregory!” Mycroft spun around at the sound of Greg’s voice behind him. Greg will treasure the day he caused surprised looks on not one, not two, but all three of the Holmes geniuses. “Maman was giving me the well-deserved what for too.” Hands in his trouser pockets and blushing profusely, Greg tilted his head towards Giselle who joined him. “Sherlock, I know you can charm when you want to. Do it now and please take our mother’s back inside for brunch. Your brother and I will be in shortly.” “I will…” Whatever nonsense was about to fall from Sherlock’s lips evaporated as four sets of eyes glared at him. “I will do my best.” “You better.” Greg gave him no quarter, blithely ignoring the scowl from Sherlock, and the raised eyebrows from the mothers and the three returned to the restaurant. “Sorry for listening in… I…”. “No, before you say another word let me speak, please.” Mycroft approached Greg. “You walked off before I could explain. The preposterousness of out being together was because I never imagined some like you would ever have interest in someone like me. It was NEVER that I have not sincerely wished for such between us. Mummy saw how much it devastated me to realize I had accidentally hurt you and why.” “And I thought someone like you would never be interested in someone like me. Your words, the way I took them sealed it. Maman saw how much I was hurt by you and why.” Greg smiled at his mother, then at Violet. “Nice to know you can’t hide from your Mum any more than I from mine.” “I’m beginning to see neither mother raised cowards, just two blind idiots.” Greg smiled gently. “But I think we’re both seeing clearly now – yes?” “Quite so.” Mycroft returned the smile.

Adding in the touch…

Eyes locked on each other; Greg realized it took Mycroft a moment for it register his hand was being gently tugged. Mycroft looked down to see Greg’s strong fingers slowly grasping to hold his. He and Mycroft have shaken hands countless of times. This was the first time ever they have touched. “You…. You are the first person in YEARS, outside of family or physicians, to touch me…” Mycroft exhaled in wonder. “And to be blunt – you’re… oh sod this!”

With the kiss…

Greg is not sure what surprised him more. Mycroft using such a phrase as Sod this(!) or the kiss suddenly planted on his lips. Okay, he lied – the kiss absolutely was the bigger surprise. Oh, but a much, MUCH more welcome one! “Hello…” Mycroft was quite pink about the ears when they came up for air. “Hey yourself” Greg could not have wiped the smile from his face had his life depended on it. “I feel behooved to inform you that was seen not only by the valet, but at least two security cameras and…” Mycroft pulled out his buzzing phone without looking. “Oh?” Greg grinned was plastered in place as he spied the nearest camera and waved. “Tell Anthea she can give me The Talk on Tuesday.” “Why Tuesday?” Mycroft asked surprised. “Today IS Mothers’ Day and I don’t know about you, but I’m damn sure not telling Maman to fend for herself until she heads back tomorrow .” Greg headed back inside the restaurant. ”So, Anthea will have to wait until Tuesday.” “I do not say this often, Gregory, but I’m not following.” Greg turned around in time to appreciate Mycroft’s sardonic eyeroll in acknowledgement that he was in fact currently following Greg into the restaurant.

Concluding with, the promise…

“You want to tell your mother you abandoned her on Mother’s Day to get railed by your VERY soon-to-be lover? Because once I get your in bed tomorrow, Mycroft Holmes, we’re not getting out of it before Tuesday.” Greg winked. Greg grinned as Mycroft stumbled nearly going offline again. Whoa! Got Mycroft to short-circuit twice in one day! “Follow me now, love?” “Yes, I follow, love.”

…Before the rest of their lives together.

-----------------------------

Comment on AO3

@calaisreno @MayPrompts2024

#MayPrompts2024 - Prompt 9: Intimidate, Prompt 14: Eavesdrop

#mayprompts2024 #mystrade #bbc sherlock #greg lestrade #mycroft holmes #sherlock holmes #mystrade monday prompts

19 notes · View notes

my-head-is-an-animal · 1 year

Text

The Sitter

Mycroft Holmes x Bethany Wheeler (OFC)

Story Masterlist

Chapter 7 - Christmas

Sherlock had been shot and Mycroft’s heart plummeted for a moment, but Anthea was in constant contact with the hospital and it seemed he was well on his way to making a full recovery. John, Mary and Bethany were all there to make sure he was okay and the mention of Bethany was in fact the only reason he didn’t go to the hospital himself.

The dreaded phone call to their parents was something Mycroft should have been well used to by now, but somehow it never got easier. He explained the situation and tried to do so calmly, but they were his parents and would never react well to Sherlock being shot.

Mycroft knew about Mary and the fact that she had once been a freelance mercenary, came as a marginal shock, he’d never seen the faces of A.G.R.A. but knew that Lady Smallwood had been the one to deal with them, until of course everything went wrong and they stopped using freelancers.

His main concern had been Bethany and how much she liked Mary, he couldn’t have been sure that she wasn’t in any danger, but while there was a possibility, he would remain watchful.

Mycroft thought on the night they shared for months after that, all the way up to Christmas when his mother had insisted that they spend Christmas Eve until Boxing Day at his parents house. He groaned and said he wouldn’t be able to stay over Christmas Eve, but he would stay Christmas Day to Boxing Day.

‘Fine, but you will spend some time with your family.’ His mother said, sternly, not that she needed to be, but she could be very persuasive. ‘Now, what about this woman that’s coming?’

‘Mary?’ Mycroft frowned, lifting his gaze from his desk momentarily. ‘What about her?’

‘No, not Mary.’ She tutted. ‘Bethany. Sherlock said she would be here over Christmas as her parents are in Brazil. I told him he simply needed to bring her round, it’s no good spending Christmas alone.’

Mycroft felt his whole being groan internally. He sighed and took a deep breath recomposing himself, but he’d taken too long to reply.

‘Well, that’s that then,’ she was almost smiling. ‘You’ll come and see her and tell her how you feel and finally we’ll get to spend some time with both our sons.’

‘How I feel? And how is that? I didn’t check.’ Mycroft said, sarcastically.

‘Mikey! Now, stop it!’ It was a misjudged step on his part. ‘Don’t be such a prude. You’ll turn up and you’ll be the epitome of a gentleman and that’s that. Do I make myself clear?’

Mycroft sighed again. ‘Of course.’ He conceded, there was no point arguing with his mother, she’d always get her way.

Once he’d put the phone down, Mycroft ran his hand over his face and sat back in his chair. He’d managed to avoid speaking with Bethany for months, he’d kept an eye on her and Sherlock had told him how she was doing in school, but that was pretty much it. She was working on an assignment that she needed to head to Bart’s for, Mycroft had ensured that there just so happened to be an expert in forensic research there for her to question if need be. He hoped she didn’t find out.

‘Everything alright, sir?’ Anthea wandered in to collect some files he’d been reading over.

‘Fine.’ He grumbled. ‘Please cancel my appointment on the morning of 26th, I have been summoned home.’

‘Yes, sir.’ She said and left him immediately, though he didn’t appreciate the slight grin she had on her face. ‘Oh, also we’ve sent flowers to Lady Smallwood as consolation for her husband’s suicide.’

‘Yes, fine.’ He said, not caring in the slightest, but being grateful that Anthea did her job well.

Mycroft had sent Bethany a brief text that morning, he preferred to prepare her for Christmas and give her an excuse not to go if she felt uncomfortable.

I suppose I shall be seeing you for Christmas. It is unfortunate that your parents are not around for you to spend the day with them, though I’m sure my mother will make you feel welcome nonetheless. – MH

It was a while before she replied.

Merry Christmas to you too. – BW

It was hard to decipher whether she was being sarcastic or not, but she wasn’t by nature a cruel woman, so he preferred to think she was just being kind regardless of her true feelings.

It then came time to think about whether he should have gotten her a gift or not. Mycroft wasn’t good at that sort of thing, but she wasn’t just anyone, she was everything he believed he couldn’t have.

The time leading up the Christmas Day was busy and irritating and everything Mycroft didn’t need it to be. He was agitated and annoyed and nothing was going his way. Magnusson was unusually quiet and it unnerved Mycroft, he was up to something and he didn’t like it.

Mycroft had a car drop him off at his parent’s house in the countryside at eight in the morning sharp, he feared the wrath of his mother should he have turned up a minute later.

‘Mikey!’ She came out of the house, very pleased to see him and gave him her usual motherly hug and kiss on both cheeks. ‘It’s good to see you, my boy. Come on inside, it’s ghastly out here.’

Mycroft entered into the loving home his parents had always kept and heard the sound of laughing coming from the kitchen. He felt his heart drop when he saw the distinctive dark frizzy hair belonging to Bethany, he knew his gaze lingered too long when even his mother started chuckling.

‘Behave, won’t you, Mikey.’ She said, as he hung his coat up next to the grey one he recognised. ‘She’s smart, that girl of yours, very smart indeed-‘

‘She’s not “my girl” I don’t care what story Sherlock has invented.’ Mycroft said sternly.

‘Well, she won’t be with that attitude.’ His mother didn’t appreciate his tone at all. ‘I’ll admit, she’s a little younger than I thought, but very mature and has a wonderful sense of humour.’ Mycroft begged his mother to get to the point with his sigh. ‘Come through and have some tea, will you?’

Mycroft sighed and prepared himself for what would be a difficult couple of days. He followed his mother through to the kitchen and found his father telling Bethany a story that had her full attention. She was stunning as usual in her black leggings and loose, cream cable knit jumper, well-worn from the looks of the frayed edges and loose threads, but she looked warm and comfortable and he supposed that was as good as he could have hoped for.

‘Merry Christmas, Mycroft.’ John said, standing to one side. He hadn’t even noticed he was there until he spoke.

‘Merry Christmas, John.’ Mycroft smiled politely, but he could see the slight grin on his face. Rolling his eyes, Mycroft gathered that just about everyone knew about the way he felt for Bethany.

‘Morning Mycroft.’ Mary said, trying to squeeze past him. Mycroft stepped aside, behind where Bethany was sitting to accommodate her and smiled politely again.

‘Sit down, Mikey,’ his mother ushered him, indicating the free seat next to Bethany, luckily, she was still engaged in conversation with his father. ‘Mary, over here darling, don’t exert yourself too much.’

Mycroft begrudgingly took the seat next to Bethany, hating the looks he was being given by everyone around him, including Sherlock who was grinning in the corner.

‘…but to be honest, I’d always preferred the line dancing.’ His father finished his story, making Bethany laugh. ‘Anyway, good morning, Mycroft, it’s good to see you.’

‘And you, apologies I couldn’t make it last night, work was somewhat demanding.’ Mycroft tried to make an excuse, but his father knew better.

‘Not me you have to apologise to, dear boy.’ He chuckled standing up to help his wife.

Bethany hadn’t looked at him, but he was only half sure who his father was talking about, his mother or Bethany.

‘Beth, have you finished your assignment yet?’ Mary asked, after Mycroft took a little too long to talk.

‘No, I was going to do a little work on it today when I get time.’ Bethany replied, sipping her tea. ‘How are you Mycroft?’ She asked when everyone’s attention was elsewhere.

‘Fine, and yourself?’ He tried to be nice and somewhat inviting as his mother set down some more tea.

‘Same as always.’ Bethany’s smile was entirely hypnotising. She looked good, she looked healthy and happy and up for another adventure. Her frizzy hair had been trimmed, making it look just a little wilder than normal, but it only served to amplify her bright features.

The morning went on and everyone listened to his parents tell stories from their holidays and other things they’d done with their retirement. Bethany leaned back in her chair, sipping her tea and Mycroft watched her at any moment he thought he could get away with it. She told a few stories of her own around her time hiking in Austria, despite already having heard the stories, Mycroft listened to those ones with greater interest.

For the rest of the morning, John and Mary had gone for a short walk with his father while Bethany did a little work on her assignment. Mycroft had yet to move from sitting next to her but needed to do some of his own work for an hour or two.

‘Right, well why don’t you two take it into the dining room, it’ll be quieter in there.’ His mother suggested.

Mycroft wasn’t exactly sure if it was a trap or not, but then he never was certain about his mother’s intentions. However, Bethany smiled, grabbing her laptop, books and her cup of tea and headed through to the dining room to work. His mother gave him an insistent glance and he supposed he had no choice.

Bethany was already typing away when he entered, her thick-rimmed glasses were clearly the wrong prescription because she was squinting at the screen. He thought about pointing it out.

He settled opposite her and began working through his list of things to check. On occasion he would look up and see her concentrating on something in a textbook, she tapped her pen lightly against her lip, an unconscious move that had him replaying the kiss they shared, his thumb grazing the same lip and how soft it had been. Mycroft tried not to allow himself too many moments to indulge, but finally he’d had enough.

He stood up and went to his coat pocket, taking out a small box, gift wrapped in white paper with black ribbon. Mycroft made sure his mother was still fussing over Sherlock before returning to the dining room where Bethany had just finished her tea, about to dive into another paragraph in her assignment.

Mycroft placed the box beside her and returned to his seat. Bethany watched him with a slightly confused smile.

‘A Christmas present?’ She knew she didn’t need to ask.

‘It’s tradition.’ Mycroft said, nonchalantly as if this wasn’t incredibly important to him.

Bethany just laughed, shaking her head and picked up the small white box, she unwrapped it with some precision and Mycroft could feel his heart in his mouth with every movement.

He watched her open the box towards her and stare down, her face for a moment was expressionless and he thought he might have let world swallow him up. Bethany finally looked up at him and he could see her eyes filling with tears, she just half laughed and took out the silver pendant.

‘Serotonin.’ She chuckled. ‘Very good.’

Mycroft felt a little more uplifted. ‘Is it to your liking?’

‘What?’ She frowned. ‘Mycroft, you got me a present. One you’ve really thought about, how could I not love it?’

Mycroft felt his entire being deflate with relief. Finally, it felt like there was a way out of this awkwardness. He was on his feet in seconds, indicating she should do the same. Bethany moved her hair to one side so that Mycroft could put it on for her. The scent of ginger ignited his lungs once again, and he wished he was in his own home where he could kiss her again.

The pendant was one he had especially made, he didn’t want anything that would give away the depth of his feelings for her, but more by way of apology over the way he behaved before Sherlock got shot. It had two black gems at either end and a diamond in the middle, he knew she’d enjoy it’s scientific significance as well. He tried to calm himself enough so that he didn’t shake so much, but it took a little longer than he would have liked to attach the clip.

‘There.’ Mycroft said, finally clipping it in place and resisting the urge to run his hands over the skin on her neck.

Bethany turned around and smiled up at him, her arms coming up to wrap around his neck, the feel of her was as intoxicating as he’d remembered, the smell of ginger, the feel of her body pressed into his, everything was all that he craved.

‘Thank you.’ She whispered next to his ear, making shivers runs down his spine. ‘Would this be a good time to give you your present?’

Mycroft frowned and pulled back. ‘What?’

Bethany just laughed and disappeared for a moment. She came back with a box just a little bigger than the one he’d given her. It was wrapped in red paper, she had obviously wrapped it herself and he liked the thought of her taking the time to wrap something so neatly for him. She took her seat opposite him again and smiled as he carefully unwrapped the gift she’d given him.

It was a pocket watch, a vintage one as far as he could tell, from the twenties, but it had been restored and was in perfect working condition. It had gold plating with a dark wooden ring around the front, when he opened it, the clock face was clear and he could see the gears working inside. Roman numerals sat on a white ring around the edge of the clock face and it looked like there was a gap for a picture to fit perfectly on the inside of the latch. He figured most pocket watches in the twenties belonged to those who wouldn’t see their loved ones for some time, so it was only logical that there was a way of carrying them with them when they were apart.

Mycroft looked up at Bethany who was trying to assess his reaction. ‘Thank you.’ He breathed. Her face lit up as she realised he was stuck for words. Bethany lay her hand down on the table for him to hold, which he did immediately, not wanting to miss out on and opportunity to touch her in any way.

They sat together for a little while longer, hearing John, Mary and his father return from their walk. Thankfully they were both in agreement not to mention the gifts they’d given each other to anyone and Mycroft cleared away the paper, while Bethany tucked the necklace beneath her jumper and carried on working.

By the time he came back from subtly getting rid of the paper and putting the pocket watch somewhere safe, he found that Bethany was being ushered into the kitchen by his mother who insisted she stopped working and started relaxing a little more.

Mycroft didn’t dare argue, but it seemed that Bethany got along with his mother tremendously well and that pleased him to no end. She had the same spark that his mother had and assumed that was what bonded them so quickly. He eventually retired to the kitchen as well, just praying that the day could go quicker if he was in Bethany’s presence.

‘Oh, dear god, it’s only two o’clock,’ he groaned after another two hours of listening to his mother talk. He sat on the other side of the table to Bethany, so that she and Sherlock formed a triangular shape with him. ‘It’s been Christmas Day for a week, how is it only two o’clock? I’m in agony.’ At least it made Bethany laugh, that only settled him slightly.

‘Mikey, is this your laptop?’ His mother asked. He looked down a little exasperated.

‘Upon which depends the of the security of the free world, yes. And you’ve got potatoes on it.’ Mycroft tried for a snarky approach to entertain himself and possibly Bethany.

‘Well you shouldn’t leave it lying around if it’s so important.’ His mother said, again making Bethany chuckle.

‘Why are we doing this? We never do this.’

‘We are here because Sherlock is home from hospital and we are all very happy.’

‘Am I happy too? I haven’t checked.’

‘Behave, mike.’

‘Mycroft is the name you gave me, if you could possibly struggle to the end.’ He turned to Bethany who was grinning uncontrollably and gave her a quick wink while no one was watching.

‘Mrs Holmes.’ Wiggins approached the kitchen, handing his mother a glass of punch.

‘Oh, thank you dear,’ she said taking it politely. ‘Still not absolutely sure why you’re here.’

‘I invited him.’ Sherlock said, not looking up from the paper.

‘I’m his protégé, Mrs Holmes, when he dies, I get all his stuff and his job.’

‘No.’

‘Oh, well I help out a bit.’

‘Closer.’

Mycroft watched the odd man’s eyes bulge and wondered if he was entirely clean. ‘If he does get murdered or something-‘

‘Probably stop talking now.’

‘Okay.’

‘Lovely when you bring your friends round.’ Mycroft commented, again making Bethany giggle.

‘Stop it you,’ his mother finally intervened. ‘Someone has put a bullet in my boy and if I ever find out who, I shall turn absolutely monstrous.’ He believed her. ‘Oh, this was for Mary. I’ll be back in a moment.’

She left the kitchen and Mycroft exchanged a look with Sherlock. They both needed a cigarette.

‘So, are you two…?’ Wiggins asked, even alarming Sherlock with his boldness.

‘Excuse me?’ Mycroft sighed, shooting a warning glare to be very careful about his next words.

‘Well, you’ve been giving each other little looks across the table,’ he gestured to himself and Bethany. ‘Like star-crossed lovers-‘

‘Definitely not a good idea, Wiggins.’ Sherlock stopped him speaking, but Bethany was just watching in amazement at the balls of the man. ‘Mycroft?’ He said, getting up, grabbing his coat to head outside.

‘Indeed.’ Mycroft held Wiggins gaze before following Sherlock out. ‘Was there in fact a reason you chose to bring him here?’

Sherlock grinned, pulling out a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket. ‘He was lonely, I was feeling charitable.’

‘I’m sure.’ Mycroft said, lighting up.

‘Much like with Beth.’ He pushed Mycroft into giving him a warning glance. ‘Did she give you the pocket watch?’ Mycroft was about to ask how he knew. ‘I followed her one day while she was out shopping for some school supplies, I wanted to make sure one of us was looking out for her. She stopped by an antique shop.’ Sherlock lit up his own cigarette. ‘She didn’t go to Brazil to see her parents because she saved up to get you that watch.’ Mycroft looked at him surprised. ‘I asked her about it yesterday, said she was about forty pounds short to afford the flight. Of course, she didn’t want to ask her parents to cover because then she’d have to try and explain you and all her friends are students so forty pounds is a considerable sum of money in their books. If I’d known, I would’ve given her the cash myself.’

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, giving Mycroft a chance to think on why she would spend so much on a present for him, rather than go to Brazil, a country she’d wanted to visit for a while now, and see her parents for Christmas. Surely the warmer climate was preferable for her.

‘She’s kind, Mycroft.’ Sherlock sighed. ‘She’s just kind, that’s all.’

‘Perhaps too kind.’

‘You’ve mellowed since meeting her.’

Mycroft just took another drag of his cigarette instead of responding immediately. ‘I’m glad you’ve given up on the Magnusson business.’

‘Are you?’

‘I’m still curious though, it’s hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you hate him?’

‘Because he attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets.’ Sherlock snapped. ‘Why don’t you?’

Mycroft shrugged, his feelings on Magnusson weren’t quite so extreme, though he couldn’t claim to like the man at all. ‘He never causes too much damage to anyone important, he’s far too intelligent for that. He’s a businessman, that’s all and occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil, not a dragon for you to slay.’

‘A dragon slayer? Is that what you think of me?’

‘No. It’s what you think of yourself.’

‘Are you two smoking?!’

Both of them felt the fear of their childhoods take them by force as their mother shouted out of the back door. At the same time they turned around with different excuses.

‘No!’

‘It was Mycroft!’

She didn’t look entirely convinced and closed the door, allowing them to release the smoke they’d been holding onto.

‘What if it was Beth?’ Sherlock asked, just as Mycroft was deciding against the cigarette.

‘What?’

‘If he attacked Beth, would you stop him?’

Mycroft again, didn’t dignify the question with any kind of answer.

‘I have a job offer I should like you to decline.’ He said, taking a step away.

‘I decline your kind offer.’ Sherlock said, slightly baffled.

‘I’ll pass on your regrets.’

‘What was it?’

‘MI6. They want to place you back into Eastern Europe. An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months.’

‘Then why don’t you want me to take it?’

‘It’s tempting. But on balance, you have far more utility at home.’

‘Utility? How do I have utility?’ Sherlock scoffed at the notion.

‘Here be dragons.’ Mycroft was only slightly in the festive spirit, enough to have a little joke. He coughed a little and looked curiously at the cigarette. ‘This isn’t agreeing with me. I’m going in.’

‘You need low tar, you still smoke like a beginner.’

Mycroft shook his head, but turned as he reached the door, something about the way Bethany had gone to such lengths to get him a present, it told him to be kind today of all days.

‘Also, your loss would break my heart.’

Sherlock choked on the smoke. ‘What the hell am I supposed to say to that?’

Mycroft just shrugged. ‘Merry Christmas.’

‘You hate Christmas.’

‘Yes. Perhaps there was something in the punch.’ He made sure Sherlock knew that he’d found out he’d spiked it, a funny prank, maybe, but not quite enough to fool him.

‘Clearly, go have some more.’ Sherlock bit back, but he could see just a hint of appreciation that Mycroft didn’t actually want him dead.

He went back inside and ran straight into Bethany who was coming back from the bathroom. ‘Sorry.’ She said, blocking his way.

‘It’s quite alright.’ He said, suddenly wanting to thank her again for the pocket watch. ‘If I,’ he started, stopping her from leaving for the kitchen. He sighed and gently guided her towards the bottom of the staircase to a more secluded part of the house. ‘If I could just take a moment to thank you again.’

‘For what?’ She frowned a little confused.

‘For Christmas.’ Mycroft said simply, trying not to let his gaze drift to her lips too much, but he was sure she caught him.

‘You’re welcome.’ She chuckled, waiting for a moment. ‘Were you intending to thank me properly, or just use words?’

Mycroft felt himself go red, he wasn’t sure whether he was allowed to overstep the mark or not, but it seemed she was more than happy to let him kiss her.

‘Properly seems more appropriate to the season.’ Mycroft knew he was making a bit of a meal of things, but she made him incredibly nervous, especially when she was being so open with him.

Mycroft didn’t waste anymore time, anyone could have walked around the corner and out of all the residents inside the house, his mother was the least desirable of them all. He slowly took a step into her space, inhaling that ginger scent once again and allowing his mind to cloud. His hand found her beautifully smooth jawline and she let out the quietest sigh she could, like the mere fact that he’d touched her was a long since forgotten feeling.

Mycroft wished he had more time, but he let his lips drift over hers, her hands on his chest, eagerly awaiting the pressure they both wanted. He ran his thumb over her hipbone and listened to the sudden intake of breath, her hips must have been a sensitive spot for her, he wanted to find the rest. Finally, he pressed his mouth softly to hers, allowing them both a moment to absorb the moment for what it was, bliss.

Bethany was consciously staying quiet, and he could feel her trying hard to not alert anyone else to what they were doing. He knew he couldn’t stay there forever, but he wished there was more time to spend with her, kissing her, holding her close and if she would allow it, devouring her.

Mycroft hadn’t realised that they were pressed against the wall next to the stairs, but somehow it ignited him, made him feel the need for her all the more. He decided against his instincts to drag his teeth over her lip, but he did take the time to feel her body pressed into his, her every curve and feature memorised, burnt into his mind, never to be lost.

Eventually, he couldn’t risk the privacy they had any longer and pulled away, listening to her trying to catch her breath the same as him.

‘Merry Christmas, Bethany.’ He whispered, placing a soft kiss to her lips once more.

‘Merry Christmas, Mycroft.’ She whispered back smiling.

Mycroft took a moment to step away and watched her reset herself to look a little less like she’d just been kissing anyone pressed up against a wall, before heading into the kitchen. Mycroft took a moment to compose himself as well and did the same, following in behind her.

If you liked this, please consider supporting me ☕ thanks for reading!

#Mycroft Holmes #mycroft holmes x reader #mycroft holmes x ofc #mycroft holmes fanfiction #bbc sherlock

25 notes · View notes