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Mycroft stepped out of the car and headed in to the meeting he'd been looking forward to all week long, giving a little whistle as he twirled his umbrella in one hand. Only when he was alone, or sometimes with Anthea, did he ever let loose and show a bit of the emotions brewing under the thick layer of ice he held as his well-known facade. Those who were closest to him could sometimes read below it, if they were observant enough to pay mind to his umbrella. The grip he had on it could occasionally belie his state of being; a tight grip at the crook of the curve was worry or impatience, a loose trail along the handle with the fingertips was relaxation or accomplishment.
Mycroft had taken to carrying an umbrella with him when he was a small boy, dressed in the smart spats that Mummy had tucked him into. He'd been ever so eager to keep her pleased, and the umbrella was an easy precaution to keep his clothes (and appearance) prim and proper. Not every day in England may have been rainy, bu
It had been a particularly windy day, and Sherlock's hair had still not recovered its usual large curls. The detective had quickly tried to tame the black frizz before their meeting in the executive office of the insurance company, but had had little success. It was fortunate for their bank account, then, that their new employer didn't much care what Sherlock looked like, so long as he was able to prove that the fire had been deliberate insurance fraud.
It was about halfway down their trip from the top floor when the wind knocked out a transformer, and the power to the whole building suddenly died down. John glanced up and around in alarm at the emergency lights, quickly calming as he realized what had happened. He only hoped it wouldn't be long before the power returned, as the longer he spent in the confined space the longer it started to remind him of the hide-holes he'd had to crawl into in search of terrorists.
"Well," he quipped, trying to keep his tone light, "It's a good thing
John shifts in his sleep, turning over onto his left to let his right cool down. His dreams are erratic, that night, but not the horrifying, haunting images of war that usually occupy his REM. Tonight, they are bizarre and jumbled.
He and Sherlock are running through London, leaping from rooftop to rooftop until their feet are no longer touching the buildings, and John is just following right behind as he always does, not daring to look down at the city below them. They just barely miss the London Eye as Sherlock's great belstaff coat spreads open in the wind, keeping them aloft.
John is brewing tea and trying to spread jam on three slices of toast at once, and Sherlock is standing over his shoulder, shouting at him, how he's doing it wrong.
Suddenly, Sherlock backs away with a look of depressed horror in John's general direction, "I never wanted to be a sociopath," he starts, ripping off his suit jacket to reveal beneath it, not his tight purple shirt but plaid flannel- "I wanted to b
Oneword: Festival - the sequel
Sherlock sighed as the festival started to dwindle down, the attractions slowly shutting down one by one as the night grew later and later. Finally, the Ferris wheel came to a slow halt with the last two attendees at the bottom. The operator of the ride had been kind enough to let Sherlock remain on the ride, since it was not one of the ones in high demand, and his companion clearly needed the rest.
It had been a pleasant enough pause in his busy schedule, left to his own mental devices as John kept warm against his side, head draped over his shoulder with the softest of snores. Eventually as the temperature had dropped, Sherlock had carefully and protectively wrapped an arm around the doctor to pull him closer, centralizing their weight to keep the little car from rocking in the accelerating night wind.
With the gentlest of nudges, Sherlock had awoken John at the festival worker's request to leave at closing time. Despite all efforts, the veteran had still awoken with a start, glancin
Sherlock stood for a moment at the edge, swaying slightly as he peered down at the busy roads, more than three stories below the front of his shoes. Moriarty's body lay crumpled and empty behind him, but the genius criminal's master plan was still in motion. As much as Sherlock hated to cave in to the lies, he nearly stepped away from the edge to flee down the staircase.
The crowds below him continued about their busy day, oblivious to the turmoil in the darkly-clad man atop the roof of the hospital around which they all made their way. From so high up, Sherlock mused, they hardly looked like more than so many ants, crawling from food to queen and country. These were the people whose opinion he was so concerned with?
From the swarm emerged another little ant, paused in the middle of the well-defined pathways. The fair color of his hair, his shorter stature, the shape of his jacket, Sherlock could immediately identify the little insect as the only person in the world who really mattered
Sherlock awoke to the smell of something delicious. Butter, at the very least, and perhaps something chocolate? The oven was filling the flat with an enticing aroma which had Sherlock instantly out of bed and into the kitchen (thankfully remembering to put on a robe first). John had just removed a tray from the oven, lined with sixteen perfectly-browned crescent rolls, drizzled with melted chocolate. The very steam rising from their crisp surface seemed divine.
"Ah, you're up," John smiled as Sherlock poked his head into the kitchen, already fixated on the sweets, "I was just fixing breakfast." He indicated a freshly-cleared table, covered with a spread of fresh fruit, eggs, and bacon. "I figured since you'd finished your last study, you could spare the kitchen table for at least one decent meal."
Sherlock only mumbled incoherently, largely ignoring the spread of healthier items as he leaned over John at the stove, resting his chin on a head of sandy hair as he inhaled the prescious su
John rose from his crouching position at the edge of the rooftop, his leg starting to ache a bit from the cold and his general sense of unease. Exhaling a thick fog into the frigid autumn air, he turned again to Sherlock with a sigh.
"Remind me again what we're doing up here?" His body let out a little shiver as the chill seeped into him. They'd already been up there for ten minutes, staring at the intersection below.
Sherlock adjusted his coat as it blew in the tailwind. "We're keeping watch for the murderer. He'll strike next at that inn across the street."
John stifled his protests about how they could have done this just as easily from the warm cafe below them, and instead shoved his hands into the pockets of his meager jacket. He wished he'd had a chance to check the weather report before they'd left, as the temperature seemed to be steadily dropping into the 10s. A sidelong glance at Sherlock, warm in his scarf and Belstaff beauty, (like all things) did not go unnoticed.
John had to wonder sometimes if Sherlock even realized what he was doing. When he had insisted that John's date with Sarah was the same as what he had suggested, had he intended that as a flirt? When he grabbed at John's temples, or stood too close in his personal space, was it due to a sense of comfort, or a desire for something more?
Not wanting to push either way, John decided to leave the flirtatious behavior unmentioned. He didn't mind that much, after all.
Sherlock is about to tug John away from the Bart's end-of-semester party when John wanders off suddenly. Sherlock follows him with his eyes, where he sees John approach one of the young female grad students, who maybe isn't as young as she ought to be, for a student. Working mother returning to school, by the looks of it. John is chatting her up quite nicely, Their conversation takes a turn, "So what are you doing tomorrow night?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes and he approaches John from behind. "John, please. You've recycled that line how many times now? No wait, don't guess, this will make the eighth time. And that's just in the three months that I've known you."
John sighs exasperatedly as his female-of-interest looks up at Sherlock, quite taken aback. "Yes, Sherlock, thank you for your input. Now if you don't mind?"
Sherlock continues, uninterrupted, "Really, John, you would have so much more success if you tried something original. For instance," Sherlock turns to the grad st
Case of the Fashion Show 2John listened to the song and shifted in his seat momentarily watching the models pass by. Then there was Sherlock putting his hand on John's knee. John put his hand on top of Sherlock's and shouted his name in surprise. He watched as Sherlock's mouth moved but couldn't hear the words because of the music blasting.
Mycroft stood from John's armchair as he prepared himself to leave, confident that he had Sherlock's assistance. As a final gratuity for cooperation, he reached into his coat pocket and slid out a glossy piece of paper, holding a gentle crease down its middle as he handed it out to his younger brother.
"It's a voucher for two," he explained, "It covers three courses plus drinks, but expires before I'll have an opening to use it." He smiled grimly as Sherlock gingerly plucked it from his grasp. "Now that you and John are running on nearly the same schedule, I'm sure you'll find time to make a visit."
Sherlock examined the voucher, unfamiliar with the address. "What sort of cuisine," he sighed, tired of Mycroft's bribery.
"Oh, the finest, a wonderful selection of French and German. We enjoyed it immensely, and the dessert choices were exquisite." Mycroft almost seemed to relax his guard, lost in the fond memory of a perfectly-moist black forest cake.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "We?" He
1420 MHzHe keeps a list wadded in the depths of his front, left pocket: where he holds his keys, and the forgotten/abandoned shell of a lone pistachio. The list is his biography, written in the shape of Argentine Spanish:
Me gustan los tomates en verano.
Yo amo a mi novio.
Nos besamos. (Mi novio chupa mis dedos de los pies.)
Las estrellas cantan sus canciones.
Mi nombre no es Eduardo.
Vivo con Jacobi ahora.
His pants are wadded, now, on summer-warmed hardwood; his shirt is draped over the back of a cane-back chair, the most incongruous of antiques in Jacobi’s tech-nerd lair. Headphones clamp his ears, and fill his head with the lisping whisper of interstellar hydrogen, broadcasting itself at a neat 1420 MHz. Bedroom is the wrong word for a place like this, despite the sorts of furnishings one might expect. There is a bed, a dresser, a bookshelf and two nightstands cramped with magazines, graphic novels. An alarm clock
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