Ships: Sherlock/John, gen, Sherlock/Mycroft, Mycroft/Sherlock/John and variations thereof, Mycroft/Moriarty)
He is about to turn six and his mind won’t stop, unless he’s sleeping and even then, he dreams in bright colours; vivid, clear details; a jerky half-linear fashion that only breaks up if he’s distressed or overheated in his blankets. He remembers almost all his dreams. He feels like he’s constantly searching, running to connect the dots and he can’t sit still, he might miss
something otherwise. He stays up as late as he can, fighting off drowsiness, something might happen while he’s sleeping and that is impossible, he won’t allow it. He occasionally forgets about food until Mycroft or Mummy snags him and plunks him into a chair. He runs and runs and runs and runs. His mind is big and it echoes and he’s dropping coins in the well to make noise.
“So many problems can be solved with the proper application of fire.”
Sherlock scowls, eyeing Mycroft up and down. “So you’ve come to fetch me. Like a stray pet.”
“Well, you did wander away and roll in something undesirable.”
“I don’t need a bell, or a leash,” Sherlock says and Mycroft smirks.
“That would certainly make our already unique brotherly relations more interesting.”
“Don’t be perverse in the middle of a police station, Mycroft.”
Lestrade is struggling to subdue the killer as an awkward Met rookie fumbles with the handcuffs. The killer’s screaming about how he’s the father, the little girl is his, that fucking rat-bastard Roger was in the way, he loved Michelle, he didn’t mean for her to die, and Sherlock is reviewing their chess moves, studying the board in his mind.Crime of passion. MH
The homicidal impulse hasn’t left his system.You’re about to be the victim of a crime of passion. SH
I cannot wait. Explain it to me like a good villain before you kill me. MH
I don’t have time to explore your hidden kinks, Mycroft, I’m at an arrest. SH
“What’s that hammering, who’s hammering, why are they hammering,” Sherlock says, hand to his head, stepping careful, barefoot, to the window and Mycroft crosses his arms as his brother without a stitch of clothing on ducks out the window to see and he’s shivering as he says, “Ah, boards.”
“Your intelligence clearly knows no bounds,” Mycroft says, waving at Sherlock as he jitters his way back to the bedroom, “since you don’t think to put on clothes when you haven’t any windows.”
“I have windows, Mycroft, they’re just useless at the moment.” Sherlock gives him a patronising glare. “Besides, you’re wearing my pyjamas. Give them back.”
“Why, you have other pairs.”
“I want those.”
“You want these because I’m wearing them.”
“That should be reason enough.”
--The Physics of Present Tense
, by (AO3)paxlux, (Mycroft/Sherlock)
Rolling over he began to shake Sherlock, knowing Mycroft might actually wait for the man to wake up on his own if he didn’t. “Sherlock, wake up. Your brother is here.”
“Nice to know,” he muttered, before covering his head with his pillow.
“No, no, no,” John said, yanking it away from Sherlock. Shaking him harder, he added, “If I have to have a pantsless conversation with Mycroft, you do too.”
“If you want, I can hand you your pants,” Mycroft offered.
“You know, if I’d have known that getting a concussion would get me this kind of attention, I would’ve done this ages ago,” he joked, since it felt as though it was fairly rare for him to get the comforting. He was a doctor, after all. His whole career hinged on making others feel better.
Going back to carefully massaging his scalp, Mycroft said, “You can’t possibly be surprised that we’re concerned for your well being.”
“No, but it is nice having you both here. What do I get for getting shot?”
“An evening alone while Mycroft and I torture that person to death,” Sherlock said far too quickly.
“Right. Won’t get shot then.”
It didn’t actually matter where Sherlock Holmes was, he was always someone John occasionally just had to walk away from. And perhaps it was the strange onslaught of cases that had begun to come their way after Sherlock and his recent fame, but John knew that if he spent one more minute trying to talk the man out of one of his riduclous ideas, he might just drown the man. After all, that’s what holidays by the beach were for, to some extent; killing people in open water with no one noticing.
--The Holmes Dilemna
, by (AO3)jdmcool, (John/Mycroft/Sherlock and variations thereof, Mycroft/Moriarty)
He spun, staggered and grabbed the doorframe.
John pinched the bridge of his nose. Even in this state – and Sherlock was willing to concede the concussion – he could tell John was upset about something.
"First off," John said, "it's 3 am. Secondly, unless you want me to have Lestrade arrest you for indecent exposure, I would suggest you find some clothing other than your coat and scarf, and thirdly, Sherlock, what in fuck are you on about?"
Sherlock froze. He had wondered why it was a bit nippy around the dangly bits.
"His name is George. Hers is Ann," was his only reply, as the Smileys winked at him from the wallpaper.
"Oh, bugger, you're not going to shoot the other one, are you?" John whinged.
--Meet the Smileys
, by sc010f
From what John knew, Sherlock cared very little for sex. John had never witnessed any interest, never walking in on him at an undue moment. If only John was so lucky himself. He’d given up counting the times Sherlock had walked in on him, to the point where John didn’t even bother to lock the door anymore when he took care of business in the shower because Sherlock was invariably there, lock be dammed.
The first time it had happened, John had been mortified and angry, and slightly creeped out. But after a point, it became just another one of Sherlock’s peculiarities, not all that different than the head in the fridge and the eyeballs in the microwave or Sherlock’s lack of tact and knack for saying the inappropriate. And it wasn’t like John wasn’t used to it from his time in the army. People either lost their modesty, or they didn’t wank.
--The End of a Dream
, by (AO3)heeroluva, (Sherlock/John)
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