A creak of the stairs alerted Sherlock to a visitor. The hard soles against the wood sounded out the oxford shoes. The slower pace revealed a tall but not-fit man. Sherlock met Mycroft at the door before he could knock and wake the doctor sleeping on the couch. The elder Holmes glanced at John's curled form with a curt smile, and let himself be ushered into the kitchen, where he spoke in hushed tones to his brother.
"I'm sure you've heard about Mummy."
Sherlock snorted and nearly raged before he remembered to reign it in. "You know I don't keep tabs on family. Unlike some of us."
"She's dead, Sherlock." Mycroft's fingers tightened imperceptibly around the handle of his umbrella.
The detective was silent then. He scowled at the burns and scrapes in the kitchen table. He fidgeted and glanced around, anywhere but at Mycroft, until the overbearing silence forced him to look up. "Well what do you want me to do about it?"
The elder Holmes sighed softly. "Come to her funeral this Friday. You
Sherlock slouched another fraction of a centimeter, hunched over his laptop with a bloodshot gaze. The poor machine was running at full capacity, its fan working overtime to try to prevent a premature death by overheating. The screen glowed steadily into the rest of the sitting room for its third night straight. Sherlock reached a hand out to his side, reiterating his silent request with a snap of the fingers after a moment passed with his hand still empty.
John sighed and placed the horrific energy drink into his hand. "Is this really necessary?" He eyed the growing pile of empty cans with a growing sense of alarm. "This can't possibly be healthy, Sherlock."
Without averting his gaze from the level 82 shaman, Sherlock raised the eyebrow on the side John could see. "You know I only ever do ridiculous things out of necessity. Like getting into fist fights with you, or eating, or riding in a hot air balloon. If it weren't the only way of getting to this hacker, I wouldn't be doing it. He
Alternative Solutions (My first Steampunk)
"There's GOT to be a way around it," Sherlock raged softly from his corner of the flat, lifting his magnifying goggles away from his eyes to rest in a tangled black nest of curls. The tiny chart of the underground facility stared elusively back at him, its secrets no less divulged than they had been an hour ago. "But there's nothing for it," Sherlock sunk into a state of lamentation in his armchair, legs outstretched until his saddle-print boots nearly intruded on John's personal space.
"The bases are air-tight, not even Mycroft could sneak someone into one of them. They've got double and triple backups on everything, a checkpoint every three yards. There's no way in and no way out without being privy to the fifty-digit sequence of a puzzle that only their approved pilots have memorized."
John looked up over his bulky newspaper, one eyebrow quirked.
"Not that I couldn't easily memorize it, of course," Sherlock snapped hastily as he glanced at his fobwatch for a split second, "But the p
With each passing moment as John passed through the hallways, the wary old veteran wished more and more that he'd been able to bring his gun. Its reassuring pressure against his back would have been a welcome addition as the shouts and jeers clamored in at him from all sides. The guard kept to a tight path down the center of the halls, away from any potential grasp of the prisoners behind the bars.
After what seemed like a marathon of a trek through the facility, John found himself at the enclosure of the most dangerous convict in the entire prison; one Sebastian Moran. The ex-colonel didn't even acknowledge his existence as John approached. The shaggy locks John had grown accustomed to during their year of friendship had once again been sheared back, as once they had been in military days. His eyes seemed sunken in and lifeless, with no purpose left to kindle his usually passionate obsession with an assigned task. Moriarty was gone, his career was gone, his target was taken from him,
John sat up straight in his armchair as Sherlock stomped up the stairs with a couple bags of groceries. The doctor had to remember to close his mouth as he watched the introvert bring the goods into the kitchen and store them properly in the refrigerator, even going so far as to dispose of the oldest experiments in the back, which had started to mould over the previous week.
John stammered for a second, then gave up on wording and followed Sherlock into the kitchen. Curling his arms around the detective's diminutive waist as the last item, a pint of milk, was shoved into the door, John let his chin rest on Sherlock's shoulder as he gave a firm squeeze of affection. "What brought this on?" He nosed gently behind Sherlock's ear, eliciting a soft rumble against his chest.
"Why, I'm certain I've no idea what you mean," Sherlock teased, "I was just being a responsible flat-mate, like usual." He curled his fingers in with John's, who leaned in against him gently until he was pinned against t