Sherlock Fic Quotes Omnibus #2 (Quotes 11-20)

[simonejester]

Ships this post: Sherlock/John (1), Sarah/John(3), Sherlock/John/Lestrade(1), Sherlock/Lestrade (2), gen (1)

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)

===

To think, he first thought this case would be boring. Not a murder, just a simple counterfeiting ring. Dull. Probably be over in two hours. Sherlock was never happier to be wrong. Not when the counterfeiter led to a drug ring, human trafficking group, and an international smuggling operation. In one night, Sherlock had successfully put the London branches of two major crime families out of business, and it all terminated in a thrilling chase across the roofs of London as the original suspect tried to make his escape. When they finally cornered him, John pulled his gun and very politely convinced him to come quietly. If they hadn’t been working, Sherlock would’ve jumped John right there. The only thing that could have made tonight better would’ve been getting a blow job while Anderson sobbed in the corner.

--After Case After Care, bu (AO3)round_robin.

===

“Molly says you’re a detective of sorts: sounds like an interesting job. What are you doing today then?”

“Testing semen samples, flagellating corpses and suffering through inane conversations, apparently.” Sherlock smiles toothily.

That goes right over Mike’s head. “God, must be terrible. What does the missus think of that?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “There is no missus.” Inwardly, he shudders at the thought. Marriage makes one soft-headed and likely to coo over infants, to best of his knowledge. The only good type of marriage, in Sherlock’s book, is the type that leads to a nice, bloody murder.

--

“You know, Molly always seems like a good sort-”

“Not my type.” Though frankly, having a new makeup trick every-time he walked in was no end of useful. The way cosmetics could transform a face was remarkable, he really ought to get a better study going on that. Sherlock mentally resolves to ask Molly for the loan of her cosmetics box. With any luck, such a request will kill two birds with one stone.

--Just Another Day, by (AO3)shirleyholmes, (gen)

===

‘My first suggestion, if you want to pursue this, is to work on your grammar.’

Lestrade made a struggling noise. ‘The sort of thing to which the boys at the office would not take kindly...?’

John frowned. ‘I think that’s right.’

‘Sounds like bollocks,’ said Lestrade firmly. ‘Grammar is bollocks.’

‘Speaking of bollocks,’ said John, trying to lighten the mood, ‘I’ve seen his by accident a couple of times—I mean, when you live with another bloke and all that—and I’m not an authority on the subject, but they were quite... nice.’

Lestrade snorted. ‘Nice?’

‘Well, from a medical perspective. I mean, healthy and well-proportioned for a man his age.’

‘Oh, good,’ Lestrade grumbled sarcastically. ‘It’s nice to know the object of my affections doesn’t have testicular cancer. Why don’t you palpate them for me just to be sure?’

‘You’re joking.’

‘If it would lead to him getting off with me, I’m not.’

John clutched his forehead. ‘I’m not going to jiggle his balls and propose to him for you, mate.’

‘You’re a bastard, John. A right bastard.’

‘And a crap doctor, as well.’

‘Yeah, that too.’

‘At least you know, now.’

--

‘Why haven’t you told him?’ John asked.

Sherlock scowled at him from over the top of his book. ‘Are you an actual lunatic? I haven’t said anything because I work with him.’

‘Yes, but what if you didn’t?’

‘He used to be married.’

‘He’s divorced now, you know.’

‘I know, I told him about his wife’s multiple affairs.’

John shook his head. ‘Classy, Sherlock.’

‘At least I didn’t make it up.’

‘Still, that was a prick thing to do.’

‘Oh, so I should abandon the object of my affections—such as they are—to a loveless, faithless marriage? Thank you, John, for your sterling relationship advice. Have you thought about writing a book? How To Be A Complete And Raging Berk, by John Watson, MD. You’d make millions.’

John rolled his eyes, smiling. ‘Look at it this way: at least I haven’t jiggled your balls.’

Sherlock looked alarmed for a moment, but laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose there is that angle to consider. I can proudly say that I have lived a life free of ball-jiggling from my colleagues.’

‘Unless you count Molly.’

Sherlock made a face. ‘That was one time.’

--If I Allowed It, by malacophilous, (Greg/Sherlock)

===

Really, John is so terrifically oblivious. Just yesterday I left a sheep’s heart on the tea tray and he didn’t even notice. Well, that is stretching the truth a bit. He did notice enough to shout ‘What the bloody hell is this, Sherlock’ at me from the kitchen while I was trying to work on my website. Let me tell you, as I know the straightforward facts of the matter, it is quite impossible to manage one’s sidebar when one’s flatmate is wearing a cable-knit jumper that practically has baubles on and is shouting about things from across the flat like someone calling the cattle home across the sands of Dee. Honestly it’s like a re-enactment of the Spanish Inquisition here, I am always the bloody scapegoat.

But, I mean, who wouldn’t understand that the heart was a symbol of my undying affection? I never use the tea tray, I did not put it there for my personal use. And it is a sheep’s heart, so in addition to being a heart which is so obvious it also says, I think quite nicely, ‘My love for you makes me go a bit stupid and bleaty and also I am herded by sheepdogs,’ which is touching, really, if one thinks about it.

Also perhaps ‘I can provide you with all the woolly jumpers you desire.’ That’s more of a selling point.

--

I hope he remembers to get milk. I have reminded him seven times already today, but sometimes these things don’t get through to the command centre in time for execution. There are times when I think that if I were to open John’s skull I would find wool in there rather than a brain.

A knitted brain.

A brain made of jumpers.

--

3:36pm

He also owns a stuffed bear that is missing an eye and appears to be held together with butchers’ twine and hope. This bear is a pretty tough character and looks as if it has been to hell and back. It has seen the seedy underbelly of the plush toy world. It was clearly sent down from its school for talking back to the masters and setting fire to things. This bear has seen horrors from which it cannot escape.

Honestly, it has such a forlorn, guilt-ridden expression that I want to put it out of its misery. It even hangs its head! Who would have a teddy bear like that? It has got a face like it’s just killed a man.

3:40pm

I have decided that this bear, in a flight of anger brought on by the treatment it received from its emotionally detached parents and also being made redundant at its arms trading job, has murdered another plush toy, possibly a rabbit that wears a waistcoat and pince-nez. It rose up against the aristocracy and showed them that it would no longer be oppressed. Now it’s on the run. The bear is hiding out here because the home of the world’s only consulting detective is the last place the plush toy authorities would look for a homicidal teddy.

--

11:41am

There appears to be a hole in the inseam of my pyjama trousers.

11:47am

I have discovered that my cock fits through the hole rather nicely.

11:49am

This would be very convenient if I had two cocks. One could go through the front bit, and the other could go through this hole.

11:52am

I wonder if John could fit two cocks in his mouth at once? I quite fancy he could. Mine is not exceptionally large so one assumes that a second one would be about the same, and I’ve seen John going at a sandwich and he practically unhinges his jaw like a python and wraps himself round it.

11:55am

This reminds me of that one piece of fan art that showed up on my forum, where Mycroft is eating me.

I don’t really know what to think.

12:04pm

Mrs Hudson just came up the main stairs and saw me sitting halfway up the stairs to John’s bedroom, one leg held in the air, my phone in my other hand, with my cock hanging out of the hole in my trousers.

‘IT’S AN EXPERIMENT,’ I said pre-emptively. This usually helps.

--

By the way, dear, you might want to put that away,’ she gestured in a politely vague way to my dangling apparatus, ‘it’s a bit chilly in here, you want to avoid shrinkage.’

Honestly, it’s like living in a madhouse. ‘Yes, Mrs Hudson, thank you.’

‘Or, if you prefer to have it out, I could knit it a sock.’

‘What a lovely thought.’

‘Or sort of spats, so there are buttons up the side and the end pokes out for when you have to use it.’

‘I will seriously think about it.’

‘I could show you some patterns.’

‘That would be lovely, but not just now.’

‘Whatever you like, dear.’

She really is as mad as a mad thing on loony tablets.

--

I am a patient man, but I take offense when people insult my staggering intellect. ‘I beg your pardon?’ I said, my tone cold and hard like a frozen fish stick, though obviously not covered in breadcrumbs.

--

‘Sherlock,’ he said, ‘you’ve been teasing me for weeks now. Weeks,’ he dragged out the word for emphasis, ‘of you jerking my chain, touching me at random times, dragging me into closets and clawing my clothes off, and I’ve had to keep a straight face while working with you, and working with John, all while the two of you are using me as a pawn in... in some kind of twisted gay sex competition, and you ask me to beg your pardon? Damn it, I’m not even gay, Sherlock, or at least I didn’t think that I was until you two started being all over me like glitter on glam rock and sucking me off during work hours.’

‘Er,’ I said. I did not think that anyone could pretend to straightness while casually employing similes of that nature, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

‘I keep having daydreams about you, and about John. I go into the office and it’s like a god damned porno playing in my brain. And whenever I try to get your attention to tell you to lay off distracting me when we’re out on a case, you ignore me. Not only that but you act like everything is completely normal!’

I hesitated on the point of asking if he couldn’t read my p-p-p-poker face, but I figured it wouldn’t go over well.

‘What the merciful fuck is going on with you, Sherlock? I can’t stand this anymore, not knowing. Do you want me or don’t you?’

I found myself momentarily unable to speak. I mean to say, I hadn’t expected this. To be perfectly honest I hadn’t thought that Lestrade would care. I mean, we’ve known each other for five years. We may or may not have had a thing when we first met. A torrid, raunchy thing that we carried on with wild, heedless abandon and a considerable amount of drugs, certainly, but it hadn’t been serious at any point. We parted on good terms and besides, we know loads about each other—I know about the rent boy thing, he knows about my crippling phobia of finding a ginger hair in my toothbrush, I know about his alcoholic ex-wife, he has carried me into the flat after I have fallen down the stairs with a fucked-up ankle and my cock hanging out of my pyjamas, I know about his weird experience with Anderson at the dinosaur exhibit, he knows that Mycroft and I don’t exactly hate each other’s guts and in fact had a certain amount of affection for one another in what might be termed a 4chan fan art way... basically what I am saying is that Lestrade knows me better than practically anyone, and I thought that when he got dragged into things he would take in stride with a cheerful ‘All right, jolly good’ and see it as just a trifling little favour he could carry out for an old friend and colleague.

Apparently he had taken it a bit hard. And by hard I mean with an erection.

--The Top-Secret Livejournal of Sherlock Holmes, by (AO3)malacophilous, (Sherlock/John, Sarah/John, Sherlock/John/Lestrade, Sherlock/Lestrade)

Ships this post: Mycroft/John (1), Greg/Mycroft (1), John/Sherlock (7)

“You know, there is one thing you can do for me,” he said when Mycroft had regained some of usual composure and was sipping at his second cup of tea while toying with a fondant fancy. Mycroft glanced up. What he saw in John's expression made him pause, cup halfway to lip. And there it was: that spike, that sudden thrill in the pit of John’s stomach and the soles of his feet. Not dead yet, mate. “You can fuck me,” he said.

There was a muffled cacophony as the attendant wheeled the tea trolley into a bookcase.

--Unconventional Weapons, by (AO3)Bold_as_Brass, (Mycroft/John)

===

"Mycroft." Greg's tone was a mixture of affection and annoyance. Affectionate annoyance. A perfect description of their entire relationship dynamic, actually, the ginger thought with a chuckle.

--Talk One More Time..., by (AO3)moriarteakettle, (Greg/Mycroft)

===

"Boy genius private eye. How cool is that? Really impressive."

"Extremely impressive," Sherlock agrees.

"Oi, his head doesn't need to get any bigger," says Bradstreet.

"The perfume you're wearing doesn't need to be applied to every one of your erogenous zones in order to be smelled from twenty yards off," Sherlock shoots back. "And why the notion of your breasts smelling like musk rose would be considered appealing is entirely beyond me."

"You want to work with me, you keep the breast remarks to a minimum," Bradstreet says evenly.

"If you want to work with me, and you do if you aren't stupid, which you are not, you'll shut up and we'll both listen to this man's story."

"Sherlock Holmes just said I wasn't stupid," Bradstreet drawls. She pulls out a small notepad and pen. "I'm going to have that fucking framed and hung over my bed."

"At least there plenty of people would see it."

--

Thank you, Sherlock says to the nothing in particular that he speaks to when most people would be talking to God, for giving me a whole case with him before it's too late.

--

"Do you always bring deadly weapons to dinner?"

"I don't see any dinner here," John says mildly. "Um. Do you?"

Sherlock grins as wide as ever he can.

"It was after the kidnapping," John explains. "I put it in my coat when I came over. Not to shoot you, mind. Just. I told you. I'm uncomfortable with kidnapping."

But you're comfortable with sex clubs, guns, and death threats, Sherlock thinks. You are a tiny little god.

--All the Best and Brightest Creatures, by (AO3)wordstings, (John/Asexual!Sherlock)

===

Sherlock is indispensable to John, and John knows it. That isn't a question any longer. But he is beginning to think of himself as a minor accessory in the pantheon of Sherlock's wild opera, the sort of character who lives and dies and is mourned for four measures if at all. It isn't that he wants to leave. It's that he thinks he'll probably be snatched away sometime soon. Which would be a shame, really, as he and Sherlock get on like a very successful bit of arson.

--The Paradox Suite, by (AO3)wordstrings, (John/Sherlock)

===

"I could...have something. For the sake of argument."

"Oh, but that's different. If you have something, I want it too."

And this is what Sherlock is still struggling to comprehend, why that statement in particular, which was really a harmless fact, dangerous only to Sherlock even in theoretical potential and never to other people, why should this offhand remark cause John's elbow to finally hit the tea mug and send it onto the kitchen floor with a smash. It wasn't a potentially unwelcome declaration of undying possession, and it wasn't even approaching what he wanted to say that morning, which was You must swear on your life never to leave me and never to stop looking at me the way you looked at me this morning, like I'm some sort of extraterrestrial miracle, because if I have to go back to the way it was yesterday, without having you, I will get a very long, very sharp, very, very Japanese knife, and I will--no, he hadn't said that. Nothing of the kind. Only I want it too. Which ought to be fine.

--The Death and Resurrection of the English Language, by (AO3)wordstrings, (John/Sherlock)

===

"Thames water, though I'll have to confirm it," he says happily.

"Jesus, it's like a pederast outside a primary school," Anderson scoffs to John. "How can you bear it? We might as well be watching him have a wank."

"For the record, I enjoy watching him have a wank just as much," John snaps, finally losing the reins.

The heads of four med techs swivel. Lestrade covers what looked like the start of a highly satisfied smile with a cough into his sleeve. Sherlock remains entirely still, and in the back of his mind John wonders why. But he's still too furious to bother asking.

Anderson, meanwhile, seems to realize that he's the one making the scene.

"Right," he says nastily. "Well, I had the wrong end, then. No offense." He holds out his hand.

"I'm not shaking hands with you."

"But," Anderson stammers. "Oh, come off it, I was only taking the piss. Why not?"

"Because Sherlock doesn't like having his things touched," John growls, exiting the room as fast as he can.

--Entirely Covered in Your Invisible Name, by (AO3)wordstrings, (John/Sherlock)

===

"I'm still angry, you know," John says, biting Sherlock's fleshy lower lip. "Torture is not on, Sherlock Holmes. Whether it's to do with Moriarty or not, whether you're the William Shakespeare of Atrociously Skewed Morals or not."

"I thought I was the Stephen Hawking of Fuckery."

"You've earned a new title."

--New Days to Throw Your Chains Away, by (AO3)wordstrings, (John/Sherlock)

Ships this post: John/Sherlock, John/Mary/Sherlock

"Doctor Anderson, I want to thank you for your actions on John's behalf."

Startled, Dave Anderson looks from the steady gray gaze to the outstretched hand. He takes a breath. Then extends his hand toward Sherlock Holmes.

The shake is quick, perfunctory.

Anderson clears his throat and turns away. "This changes nothing, Holmes. You're a smug tosser and a bloody amateur menace. Can't imagine why Lestrade or Dimmock put up with you."

Sherlock smiles grimly. "And you, Dr. Anderson, are an unmitigated arse who doesn't know his way around a crime scene and have single-handedly cocked up more forensic investigations than I can count."

"If I had my way, I'd have you arrested – and banned for life from the Yard. Watson must be mad, totally mad," Anderson tosses over his shoulder as he leaves.

Sherlock stands and watches him go. He says nothing – although it damn near kills him. But he rather smugly thinks that John would be proud of him for letting Anderson - this one and only time - have the last word.

"Won't ever happen again," he mutters.

--

"Do not tell me you actually walked here, brother mine. It's well over a quarter mile from the house. Or have you embarked on a new exercise regime that I was as yet unaware –"

"If you continue on that course, Sherlock, you will necessarily end your sentence with a preposition. It might upset the horses."

"Aw."

--Sherlock & John Rebellion of Angels: Acclamations, by (FF)Skyfullofstars, (John/Sherlock)

===

Sherlock reached for the box resting next to the sofa and slapped a fourth patch on his arm. He was going to solve this, dammit, or die trying. Most likely from nicotine poisoning.

--

Another three minutes, running flat-out, brought him, finally, to Gate 43. There were people everywhere; people queuing to board, people hugging and kissing goodbye, and he was never going to find John in this mess.

“John!” he yelled desperately.

Nearly everyone within a twenty-foot radius turned to stare at him, and he glared at them.

“Are any of you called John? No? Then kindly piss off,” he snarled, causing most of them to avert their eyes. Then, again, he called “John!”

At least six men looked back at him again, one saying tentatively,

“Um, yes?”

“Oh, for fuck’s -” They wouldn’t have this problem if John had been the one calling for him in a crowded airport.

--Baby Please Don't Go, by (AO3)kim47, (John/Sherlock)

===

Sherlock touched him. His cold finger sent a shiver across John's naked back. "What did she--what is that?"

"If you've been very good, and gave money to charity, and rescue stray puppies, and live a good life," John started, as Sherlock scowled and Tai giggled, "then sometimes, just sometimes, a lady comes all over you." He licked his arm. Salty. Womanly.

--

Bored Sherlock, in pyjamas and dressing gown, lounging on the sofa with his head on the coffee table and his legs up the wall, holding the pink dildo to his chest. He looked up at John. "I tried this," he said. "I didn't like it. It felt like a cold stick of glass up the arse."

"Well, it's an acquired taste, things up the arse," John said.

"One that you have?" Sherlock asked. He examined John's face. "Yes, you do."

John nodded. "I'm secure in my masculinity."

"I suppose a large penis doesn't hurt there."

"Is it?" John asked disingenuously. "Never measured."

"Liar," Sherlock said.

"Yeah," John agreed, grinning.

--

John told Ella all about the incident, of course. Got more CBT in return. (Cognitive behavioural therapy. When he told Tai he was doing CBT with Ella, she spit tea across the table. Turned out that meant something else in her line of work.)

--

Sherlock says the books are shelved; they're shelved by subject, and we have more subjects than shelves. My arse, I say, but arguing with Sherlock is like arguing with the television. It makes a noise, but it's not listening.

--

"I've been giving it a great deal of thought. What I desire, what he desires, what our bodies allow. I want to sodomize him," Sherlock said, and the heat in his voice gave John such an instant and powerful erection that he saw stars. Sherlock smiled, a quietly triumphant smile. Tai took Sherlock's arm and leaned on his hip.

"That looks like a man who wants a fucking," Tai said. John shut his mouth, tried not to look so eager--then thought of Sherlock's words in the park, and looked more eager. He spread his legs wantonly. He expected some tickle of fear, some thread of "only lady-boys get fucked by other men" to arise from his reptile brain, but it didn't come. He was John Watson, and he liked touching Sherlock, and he liked things in his arse, and he liked the idea of Sherlock in his arse. He saved the shame for things that were shameful.

--

"I'd better make sure to come before the chair breaks," John said with a bit of a laugh, and Sherlock snuffled around his mouthful of cock in answer, and John came smiling.

Sherlock spat into a cup. He stood and took it to the kitchen, ceding the chair to John. John relaxed.

"By God, you're fertile. Your sperm are nearly jumping off the slide," Sherlock said a few moments later. John got the giggles again.

--Indecorous, by (AO3)Basingstoke, (John/Mary/Asexual!Sherlock)

Ships this post: Greg/Mycroft preslash (1), Greg/Mycroft (4), John/Sherlock (5)

Mycroft's rise through the ranks of the Civil Service had been so meteoric that it had been a while before even he appreciated where he was heading; not MI5, or M16, but the small, select, rarely acknowledged section who coordinated the work of the Intelligence services, the government, and the civil service.

Because brilliance allied to youth was rarely taken seriously by those who mattered most, Mycroft slowly developed his own style both in dress and manner that added gravitas and the impression of age to his appearance, although he thought he must have been born looking middle-aged. He learnt to adapt to the expectations of those with whom he routinely dealt, in the process learning more than he gave away. As he continued along the crooked path to power, the role he had chosen to play subsumed him - but then he had always excelled at the roles selected for him; the only difference was that this time he got to choose.

The work was complex, demanding and more satisfying than anything he had known. Chess with human pieces was so much more agreeable than the board game because human beings were so delightfully unpredictable, even in their predictability. The 'average' man could behave in the most unexpected ways; trying to anticipate every eventuality, especially when politicians' egos were involved, was particularly interesting, not least because he had never thought of himself as a 'people person'. He even developed social skills enough to ensure his work did not suffer, an achievement which brought him a degree of sardonic amusement.

--Puppet on a String, by (AO3)kazvl, (Greg/Mycroft preslash)

===

"In London I drive a taxi. The old-fashioned black cab rather than the newer model. It's anonymous, can go anywhere and the modifcations aren't immediately obvious. In the country I use a four-wheel drive. Equally anonymous. If dull." --Mycroft

--Intimacy Issues, by (AO3)kazvl, (Greg/Mycroft)

===

(Fri 3:54pm)
But you told me you were in college...

(Fri 3:55pm)
Yes, well, I would still be in college. There was a... situation.

(Fri 3:55pm)
So... you got expelled?

(Fri 3:57pm)
Something like that.

(Fri 3:58pm)
What happened?

(Fri 4:00pm)
It’s a tedious story and I’m a little busy.

(Fri 4:04pm)
Right, yeah. I’m not really sure why I expected you to share that. I don’t even know your name.

(Fri 4:06pm)
Sherlock.

(Fri 4:06pm)
What’s that?

(Fri 4:06pm)
My name. It’s Sherlock.

(Fri 4:07pm)
Your name is Sherlock?

(Fri 4:07pm)
Thank you for repeating what I just informed you.

(Fri 4:09pm)
It’s unusual, that’s all.

(Fri 4:11pm)
And I’m sure your name is something incredibly common and uninteresting.

(Fri 4:13pm)
... John.

(Fri 4:13pm)
Case closed.

(Fri 4:14pm)
Oh, shut up.

--

(Mon 5:57pm)
Why don’t you try something else?

(Mon 5:59pm)
It’s for my mum. It was either this or jewellery. And I’m not the creative type.

(Mon 6:02pm)
I see. I have to admit, the thought of you knitting is quite hilarious.

(Mon 6:05pm)
Just you wait. This will be the manliest sodding scarf in existence. It’ll shoot lasers and drink beer and punch sharks in the face.

(Mon 6:10pm)
…I have never had a conversation about a scarf punching a shark in the face before.

(Mon 6:13pm)
This is why I make your life better.

--

(Tues 1:03pm)
You keep smiling to yourself.

(Tues 1:06pm)
Why are you looking at me? You should be taking notes, or Mr Reynolds will eat your head again.

(Tues 1:09pm)
I’m just warning you, you look like you’re grinning at your crotch and people are starting to notice.

(Tues 1:13pm)
I can’t really help it. I just have a very pleasing crotch.

(Tues 1:14pm)
Okay too much information. But it’s interesting how the thought of Sherlock has your eyes wandering down to your groin area… I wonder what that means?

(Tues 1:15pm)
I have a sharpener in my hand and I’m not afraid to lob it at your head.

--

(Sat 5:42pm)
Why would you live life to the full when you can have your ankle fucking chewed off by a rabid dog jesus christ it looks like I’m hobbling home.

(Sat 5:42pm)
From complacent to grumpy old man in 2 seconds flat.

(Sat 5:43pm)
Hang on, the owner’s coming over. He better be bringing bandages made from unicorn hair because this thing stings like a bitch.

(Sat 5:45pm)
You’re a future doctor John, surely you know that unicorn hair bandages only work on exit wounds.

--A Finger Slip, by (AO3)Pawtal, (John/Sherlock)

===

"Co-ee! Mycroft! Mycroft Holmes!"

He paused, his umbrella mid-twirl, then turned with a degree of reluctance to find himself facing a diminutive women of uncertain years and poor dress sense.

"Martha?"

"That's Mrs Hudson to you, dear," she said placidly. "Martha Fisher as was. You were right about Mr Hudson, even if I didn't thank you for the information at the time. He was - is - a thoroughly bad lot. But handsome... You'd think I'd learn.

"Don't you look smart," she broke off to add, fingering the edge of his open overcoat. "And I said you'd slim down, didn't I? Pity about the ginger, of course. But now your hair's receding it's hardly noticeable."

"Thank you," said Mycroft, reminding himself that it didn't do to take Martha's batty act at face value.

He glanced over her shoulder to his smirking security detail and raised an eyebrow.

Sobered in a heartbeat, they had the sense to move out of earshot.

--The Dating Game, by (AO3)kazvl, (Greg/Mycroft)

===

"[...] By the way, have you murdered Sherlock and forgotten to tell me, only I haven't seen him for nearly two weeks?"

Mycroft gave a private smile at Lestrade's poorly concealed concern. "Sherlock's in Florida."

"Oh," said Lestrade blankly. "It never occurred to me that he would take a holiday."

"He's working."

"Blimey. That could set back Anglo-American relations by a decade."

--Joining the Dots, by (AO3)kazvl, (Greg/Mycroft)

===

Lestrade downs the foamy dregs in the bottom of his glass and signals the bartender for another. "Has he done that thing yet where he leaves dishes in the chairs where you usually sit—"

"—so you have to take them to the sink for him!" John interrupts. "Yes! He does that to me all the time. He knows I'll end up washing them just to keep them from piling up. I've half a mind to dump them on his bed, but then he'd probably sleep in mine, the git."

Lestrade shoots him a sidelong look, but all he says is, "Yeah, he does that to poor Molly with coffee mugs when he stays late at Bart's. Makes my blood boil, watching her clean up after him while he completely ignores her. Sometimes I wonder if he actually is a sociopath."

John swallows a generous gulp of his beer and then taps the glass thoughtfully with a fingernail. "He's not a sociopath; not really, anyway. I know he likes to say that he is, but I think that's his way of protecting himself."

"How does convincing everyone you're a manipulative bastard protect you?"

"Well, if no one ever gets close to you, they can't work out how to hurt you. Sherlock makes sure no one can break his heart by keeping everyone at a distance."

John realises what he's said a moment too late. They fall into an uneasy silence. Talking about feelings while a football match is on violates every man code in the book. Lestrade rubs the back of his head awkwardly and makes a comment about how Fulham's Midfielders must have shown up drunk, they're playing so sloppily.

--With All My Heart, by (AO3)QuinnAnderson, (John/Sherlock)

===

“Just drink your drink and wash that smugness right down your gullet. Oh… and I’ve got the first slot on my roster filled.”

“Really, do point them… oh. I apologize, Gregory, however I believe I must exercise governmental privilege and confiscate your choice.”

“You can’t do that!”

“I will file the appropriate paperwork with a special national security endorsement. I assure you, he now belongs to me.”

“Fine. But don’t blame me if all your mysterious black sedans get towed tomorrow.”

“Excellent abuse of power. I see you have been learning.”

--Fingers Might Talk (Expanded), by (t)eventhorizon451, (Greg/Mycroft)

Ships this post: pre-Greg/Mycroft, Greg/Mycroft

Sherlock ate chocolate by the pound, lay about for days immersed in a book and the weight melted off of him like warmed butter. Mycroft wondered if it was possible to schedule an appointment with the Almighty to discuss his notion of fairness…

--

“What did you do?”

“I called your defiler and attempted to persuade him to forego your instructions and make himself present immediately, but he refused. Not even the knowledge that you were waffling like a confused terrier over your outfit could force him to accede.”

Mycroft dropped heavily on the bed next to his personal demon and laid his head in his hands.

“Yes, you should be upset. He is a bounder if he will not relieve your distress over your grotesque appearance.”

“I am going to kill you. I am going to evict your soul from your body. Your flesh shall be feasted upon by the hounds of hell and I shall deliver it in silver bowls to their lair personally!”

--

“Why, Sherlock… why would you do this to me?”

“Test the strength of his commitment to you? I would think it would be obvious.”

“You hate me.”

“Quite the contrary. You are very useful to me and if he dissolves your ability to function because of some cruelty or slight, I shall be highly inconvenienced.”

Mycroft cut his eyes over to look at his brother, whose own eyes were fixed firmly to stare straight ahead. Only Sherlock could say that he cared and make it sound dismissive and insulting. And Mycroft was not sure he would ever want that to change.

--

Mycroft? What’s first?”

"[...] Mycroft wondered if was appropriate to hold his soulmate’s hand as they explored his home and decided that it was very appropriate. It would do for the staff to fully understand the nature of their relationship since some of them might be hired away to the employ of the newlywed couple.

“My lab!”

“Sherlock, we are not…”

“Come on, Mycroft. Let’s check out the little man’s playroom.”

“It is not a ‘playroom’ you insipid cretin. It is my laboratory, where I conduct important research.”

“I’m sure the world will thank you.”

“Doubtful. Humanity is an ungrateful beast.”

“Price of genius, I guess.”

“That is the first intelligent thing you’ve ever said.”

“Had to happen sometime.”

--

Lestrade waved the server over and paid the check then leaned back in his chair to wait on His Majesty. Who had left his notebook on the table. Lestrade had never asked about what the boy wrote when he was filling pages with scratches, so he pulled the book over to take a quick, and only slightly guilty, peek. There was a lot of information packed in there, but a couple of snippets especially caught his attention.

The hut is miniscule, but not entirely lacking in interest. The space is fully used and evidence of familial activities is plentiful and diverse. It cannot be called unclean and is not obviously in a state of disrepair, indicating an attachment to the structure and its appointments. There are numerous photographs in prominent positions, chosen for maximum visibility. Many of the photographs are of Lestrade at various stages of development. Lestrade’s personal space reminiscent of his personality – uncomplicated, but only partially predictable. Limited possessions, but choices prudent for level of income. No frivolous expenditures of significance, in keeping with quality of remainder of shack.

Lestrade was surprised to find that his house passed some degree of muster. And that he was actually referred to by name.

Second recreational day with Lestrade can be considered agreeable. Activities were acceptable and Lestrade is not uncompanionable or completely unable of following conversation, provided it is leveled appropriately. Is willing to compromise, though does negotiate well for his degree of naiveté. Based on sum total of interactions, I will not object to further outings.

And wasn’t that the sweetest thing Sherlock could possibly say. Lestrade pushed the notebook back into position and reflected on Sherlock’s notes. He’d not been put off, really, by the ‘hut.’ Actually he’d seemed to focus heavily on the lived-in quality of their place, which made an odd, but sad sort of sense. Sherlock and Mycroft’s home was anything but lived-in. And, now that he thought about it, there weren’t photos anywhere. Portraits, yes… but none of the stupid photos his Mum had all around. It was quiet, too. The few people he saw milling around were quiet as stones as they went about their business, unlike his house which always had people going in and out, staying to eat or watch telly or just sit and chat for an evening. And it was interesting to have some of that data the kid was always going on about for the fact that Sherlock didn’t consider him a total wreck. Good to have a little fuel for his own growing soft spot for the lad.

“I have contracted cholera!”

That soft spot seemed to actually be in his skull, however.

--

“Piss off you little demon.”

“Those who speak the truth are usually derided by those who cannot bear the righteousness of their judgments.”

“That’s it. You’re free to stay on the phone, but I’m now going to recite a love poem dedicated to your brother and…”

And Lestrade could hear Sherlock’s dramatic disgust in the click that ended their conversation. That kid would go far one day, provided someone was on hand 24/7 to keep hold of his leash.

--The Shop Boy, by (AO3)EventHorizon, (Greg/Mycroft, teen AU)

===

It wouldn’t be the strangest thing in the flat, he thinks, peering toward the skull, now sitting beside a stuffed fox squirrel that must be at least seventy years old. He suspects the squirrel is there to keep the skull company, now that John goes most places with Sherlock.

--

[...] Lestrade is glad, not for the first time, that his phone is waterproof to a depth of fuck-it-you’re-going-to-drown-anyway.

--

“You sound like Sherlock.” He grins into his half-glass of Burgundy.

“Bite your tongue.”

Bite it for me, memory supplies, automatically, in the voice of one of his old mates, the voice of Cliff.

--

Right. Making out on the street is a very bad idea, for at least half a dozen reasons. The Underground is off to the left, but neither of them turns that way. It is easier to walk, to keep walking. The quiet between them is the sound of footsteps on wet pavement, and Lestrade blinks away rain, sees Mycroft watching from the corner of his eye.

He’s trying to decide what to say next, what the right choice is, when a car slows beside them, keeps pace.

Mycroft mutters something Lestrade is pretty certain is Latin for balls. He doesn’t remember much useful from primary school Latin, but he does remember the dirty words they weren’t supposed to learn.

The window comes down, and there is Anthea in the passenger seat. “You forgot your umbrella, sir.” She looks Lestrade up and down, and he feels vaguely like he’s just been caught necking on the sofa. After curfew. With the vicar’s son. He’s missed that feeling, pushes down the grin that threatens.

--One Word for It, by (AO3)sheffiesharpe, (Greg/Mycroft)

Ships this post: Greg/Mycroft, John/Sherlock, pre-Greg/Mycroft

Mycroft twisted in his seat to see if there was anyone in the booths next to the bar, but Anthea chose that moment to throw a coaster at him.

'Can I help you, my dear?' Mycroft asked, too used to her behaviour to be bothered. He'd met her his first day at university. He'd sat alone outside near the fountain closest to his dormitory to enjoy his lunch, people-watching as usual, when Anthea suddenly plopped down beside him, declared him interesting, and promptly started a conversation. By the end of the hour Anthea was his self-declared best friend and Mycroft had never managed to get rid of her.

Not that he wanted to now, of course. He lived with her and had for the past year. In the beginning she'd been interesting but rather annoying. She was still annoying, but Mycroft loved her anyway. She had an eidetic memory, slapped people who insulted him, and could force Sherlock to stop throwing tantrums with a simple eyebrow raise. If Mycroft went for women he would have married her by now.

--

He really didn't know why he was here. The last time had been an apology to Anthea. This time Anthea had tossed clothing at him, stated they were going out, and hadn't told Mycroft where they were going until they were pulling up in the cab.

Again, Mycroft cursed women everywhere. Smart, sneaky bloody women. Really, how they hadn't taken over the world yet was beyond him... or maybe they had and men didn't realise, because women let them think they ran everything, and had secret meetings laughing at the stupidity of the other sex.

Mycroft blinked before frowning down at his glass. Either he'd drunk way more than he thought he had, or Gregory Lestrade had thrown him so much that he really was starting to daydream about the fairer sex plotting world domination.

'I need more alcohol or less,' Mycroft stated out-loud.

--Prisoner of Society, by (AO3)IBegToDreamAndDiffer, (Greg/Mycroft, John/Sherlock)

===

'Now come, I want a cigarette, and I need to go over my English Literature homework.'

'Ooh, can you go over mine, too?' Greg asked.

'Yes, Gregory.'

'And maybe my Science homework?' Greg continued. ''Cause I reckon I got about twenty of the worksheet questions wrong.'

Mycroft frowned as they walked across the grass, heading towards the smokers' corner. 'How many are there?' he asked.

'Twenty,' Greg answered.

Mycroft sighed and rubbed his eyes while Greg just smiled. 'You'll be the death of me, Gregory,' the younger teen informed him.

'I'll shag your brains out before you go,' Greg vowed, pressing a hand to his chest dramatically.

Mycroft just shook his head.

--Give Me A Label (I'll Make Confetti), by (AO3)IBegToDreamAndDiffer, (Greg/Mycroft, background John/Sherlock)

===

“Come with me.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Come on… you can watch that I don’t drop dead from a heart attack and I can enjoy playing in the snow. Win-win!”

“Gregory… I have quite a volume of work to resolve and…”

“Liar! You just said we could watch dildo porn.”

“....”

“So get your coat and shoes and meet me outside. Once I’m done, we can settle in front of your fuck-all big flat-screen and watch all the dildo porn you want. You can even tie me naked in my chair, your personal favorite of our current collection nestled deep inside my arse and I’ll be completely helpless to stop you doing anything you want to make me cry, scream and lose my mind.”

“I shall make haste.”

--

“It is rather hard to hear you through your insulatory winter blanket. I shall assume you desire assistance to return to your feet, since I believe I see your hand jutting upwards from your pristine white shroud.”

“..tard.”

“Now, now, Gregory… no need for such language. Here, give me a moment… Ah. There you are.”

“That was cheating.”

“Was there a prohibition against it?”

“I want an army of snow warriors on my side next time.”

“I apologize, my dear, but they have all pledged their loyalty to the reigning Snow King, and I do believe that is me. Now, you could do with a hot shower and I shall send someone out here to complete your task.”

“Yeah, right now… a shower sounds great.”

“Oh, and Gregory? Do not bother with getting redressed. I believe ‘cry, scream and lose my mind’ was what you requested?”

“All Hail the Snow King.”

“And you would do well to remember it.”

--The Snow King, by (t)eventhorixon451, (Greg/Mycroft)

===

“Being out in the sun for a few hours isn’t going to kill you. Besides, I did bring you some sunscreen. SPF Bugger This for that fair skin of yours.”

“I do appreciate your thoughtfulness, my dear, however, I am content where I am.”

“In the shade.”

“Yes.”

“Covered head to toe.”

“Very good.”

“With my SPF Bugger This on your face anyway.”

“It is moisturizing. I am quite sure I read that on the packaging.”

“While I’m out here having no one to play with but myself.”

“Well, if you do choose to play with yourself, Gregory, I will not offer any objection. This is a private beach, after all.”

“I should! Just make you sit there and watch me having all the fun and there where would you be?”

“Captivated.”

--

“You are a devil, Mycroft Holmes. Fine. I’ll just be out here swimming and making castles and looking for shells and writing filthy poetry in the sand and I’ll do it all by myself because you are absolutely no fun.”

“Heavens, when did I adopt such a petulant child?”

“A year ago tomorrow.”

“Ah yes… and let us see if I can remember the event. My tie is too tight, why can’t I have cake now, but it’s only my third glass of champagne, why won’t they play Free Bird, Sherlock’s stolen my ring… “

--Sunshine on my Shoulders, by (t)eventhorizon451, (Greg/Mycroft)

===

“I hate you.”

“No, you love me, but I do not love your ties. You purchased them based on practical concerns and that is not appropriate for a tie. If you cannot choose properly, then you shall not wear one.”

“I get it. You want to take me tie shopping.”

“I… I could, I suppose.”

“What the hell? That surprised you.”

“You are mistaken.”

“No, that’s the same look on your face as when I said you could spank me. What’s really going on here, Mycroft?”

“Nothing.”

“I disagree. Give it up.”

“Gregory, this is ridiculous…”

“Mr. Holmes, do not make me consider you a hostile witness.”

“Oh, do file that away for later, won’t you.”

The Suspicious Disappearance of Ties, by (t)eventhorizon451, (Greg/Mycroft)

===

Mycroft makes a sound, somewhere between thoughtful and disapproving. Lestrade didn’t know that was possible, but that’s what he hears. Mycroft sighs. “You’re still mourning the tragedy of Sirius Black, are you?”

Lestrade almost spits his mouthful of wine. And he laughs before he makes his face as serious as he can. “Wrongful imprisonment. Of course that’s a tragedy. That’s always a tragedy.” He is completely committed to that. Half of what he does, half of why he appreciates Sherlock, is making sure the wrong people aren’t saddled with blame.

Mycroft’s mouth widens into a smile. “What has the Yard done to deserve you?” Again, it doesn’t sound like a question, and Lestrade almost tells him to fuck off for taking the piss, but Mycroft’s face is perfectly sincere, as sincere, it seems, as a Holmes can make it. Lestrade is pretty certain that, after dealing with Sherlock, he can recognize a Holmes being a twat. Mycroft doesn’t appear to be being a twat just now.

--

Sherlock has disconnected the speakers in his office more than once, when he felt Lestrade wasn’t trying hard enough to find him something really complicated and gruesome to work on. I can’t conjure up dismemberments at whim, he’d said. Then what bloody good are you? was Sherlock’s response. That might have been the point at which Sergeant Donovan’s countdown-to-Sherlock’s-first-murder started. But that’s been years and it hasn’t happened yet, and now Sherlock’s got John to dissuade him from that sort of thing.

--Educate Yourself, by (AO3)sheffiesharpe, (pre-Mystrade)

Ships this post: Sherlock/John (3), Mycroft-centric gen (3), Greg/Mycroft (4)

"I was right about the countryside," Sherlock pants, half-smiling.

John grins widely. "Oh, la di da, Sherlock was right about something, sound the alarms, prepare the cannon salute, polish the dress uniforms and ready the ceremonial sabers. What, you want a biscuit every time you're right about something? There would be no biscuits left in the world. Be a dear and call nine nine nine? My hands are full."

--

It's morning, according to the light, which is a honey colour Sherlock associates with bees who have been mucking about with clover as opposed to, say, buckwheat or lavender or alfalfa.

The light, Sherlock realizes, it quite flattering to the arm he is observing.

Sherlock is beset with a strange feeling of deja vu. Didn't he wake up yesterday with an army doctor, and now, again, does this mean the process is to be repeated, the sleeping tangled together ad infinitum? If so, is that a reward for all the cases he's ever solved in his life, and if he keeps solving cases and keeps Moriarty at bay, will he continue to have a living breathing John in his bed?

Their bed? Could it be their bed now?

--

"God," John whispers, "I'm getting off just from you staring at me, you mad git. Permission to make my first wish?"

"Granted."

"I don't want to be the only naked man in this bed."

John, the sleuth thinks, is a clever fellow. Sherlock unties his drawstring and obliges, followed by his shirt. He sends them down to be with John's clothing on the floor. He likes to think of them there, together, mingling, while he and John do the same on the bed above.

--All the Best and Brightest Creatures, by (AO3)wordstrings, (Sherlock/John)

===

“Why is he so wild?” she says mildly. Mycroft can indistinctly hear screaming from outside, the poor gardener being accosted once more, caught up in one of Sherlock’s worse fits. The weather is warm and he is young and temperamental.

“I can only imagine,” Mycroft says, licking his index finger and noisily flipping the page.

“You were never like this as a child.”

“Yes, well, I’m not him.”

Mycroft’s mother smiles fondly at this, but her eyes are still fixed onto her youngest son. There is always a warmth to her when she watches him, a satisfaction that at least one of them has broken out of complacency to become wild and thoroughly untamable.

Heir apparent, is Sherlock Holmes, whose mother gazes at him with a hope, a benediction.

“No, you’re not, are you,” she whispers.

Mycroft returns to his reading.

--

What Sherlock suffers through bouts of boundless activity and wild anger, Mycroft suffers in lonely silence.

--

“School can go to hell.”

Mycroft lets out a long, weary breath of stagnant air. “My dear boy, you really must stop expecting the rest of the world to bend to your every whim and eccentricity,” he says.

“Why shouldn’t they?” Sherlock spits. “I’m better than the rest of the world.”

Quietly, Mycroft tips his torso forwards and says, “No. You are not. Neither of us are. We are not ‘above it all,’ Sherlock, we are smack in the middle of it.” He curls his eyebrows and frowns. “You are still a human being, after all.”

Sherlock sneers and stuffs his hands into his trouser pockets. A princeling with one eye on the throne and the other in the clouds. His expression is dark and Mycroft knows it all too well. “You’re just jealous,” Sherlock says. “Because I’m not afraid to be me and you’re too afraid to be you.”

A strange and hollow ripple runs from the top of Mycroft’s head to the tips of his fingers. He swallows and blinks, swallows. And. Blinks.

“Being human sounds dreadfully dull anyhow,” Sherlock continues. “What are people good at other than eating and shitting and having sex with each other—”

“Sherlock.”

“It’s true and you know it.”

It is, and he does, but that doesn’t make it sting any less.

--Sonata Form, by (LJ)cj_ludd18, (Mycroft-centric, Sherlock, gen)

===

“Make yourself absent!”

“Make yourself an adult.”

“Sounds like you two know each other pretty well.”

Two heads whipped around to find a very amused Lestrade standing a few steps away enjoying their performance.

“Go away. If you approach more closely, you might become tainted by his villainous exudate and lapse into a meddlesome and useless existence reminiscent of his own.”

“Now I’m guessing you’re related. This your kid brother, Sherlock?”

“Oh very good. I have not seen him rendered speechless since our cook’s young daughter gave him a kiss. I believe they were five at the time and he required a full day to recover from the shock. It remains in memory as the most restful day of my life. Mycroft Holmes, at your service. And I do have the misfortune of being the elder sibling.”

“Really, you’re his older brother? Huh… well, that explains a lot.”

“Oh? Do clarify.”

“Well, the little bastard obviously suffers from a massive inferiority complex and now I understand why.”

Mycroft prided himself on never being caught off guard, but nothing was stopping the bark of laughter that escaped his lips and the one that followed upon seeing Sherlock’s vermillion and very indignant expression.

--

“Yeah, well, I think you’re not giving me the full story, but that’s ok. It’s only our first meeting after all.”

“And if we have a second?”

“Well then… may have to apply some of my own deductive powers and dig a little deeper.”

“Is that a challenge, Detective Inspector Lestrade?”

“Why do I get the feeling you really like a good challenge?”

“Oh, you are intuitive, aren’t you. Very well, I shall toss down the gauntlet when next we meet and we shall see how successful you are at navigating my labyrinth of lies and subterfuge.”

“I’ll bring my compass and flashlight, then.”

“Excellent. Shall we say this evening?”

“Sounds great, I…”

Both men stared at each other with wide eyes and tried to put together the pieces of how they suddenly agreed to a night out after knowing each other for five minutes.

--First Impressions, by (t)eventhorizon451, (Greg/Mycroft)

===

"Gregory. I am very glad that you did send me those messages. And I understand imbibing alcohol to cope with the pain. I would simply feel better if you were not alone when you did it. So come over and you may help yourself to my liquor cabinet, as much as you wish, but please try to stop before you become sick on anything nice."
Greg laughed. He was certain that Mycroft didn't own anything that wasn't nice.
"What if I do?"
"Then I will clean you up and put you to bed and tomorrow I will glare at you most fiercely."
"Sounds fair. Okay, let's go."

--

"Interesting choice." Greg told him around a mouthful of noodles as he recognized what film Mycroft had started playing.
"I'm sorry, I haven't seen the film adaptation. Is it not good? We can watch something else."
"No, this is good."
"Then why interesting?"
"Because I felt like I had to comment on your choice?"
"Well, I found it interesting that you own The Importance of Being Earnest."
"Really, why?"
"Because I felt I had to comment on your selection."

--because i love you)last night, by (AO3)krisjo, (Greg/Mycroft)

Ships this post: Greg/Mycroft, John/Sherlock

“Greg, are you okay? No sordid tryst with Morris on the credenza?”

“No, his credenza stayed in his pants where it belonged.”

“Gregory, a credenza is a type of sideboard, a long narrow—“

“The fucking veneer is fine.” Was this pouting?

--

Unfortunately, there weren’t many self help books for middle aged gay assassins and the men who love them.

--

“He’s very imposing. Let me ask your father.” She didn’t bother to cover the phone and Greg got an earful of his question and his father’s familiar mumble.

“Your father says, always apologize. Pretend it’s your fault. Richard Lestrade, you did not do that in our fifty four years together. I will do you an injury with this roasting pan.”

--

It seemed only minutes later that a wonderful dream began. Mycroft was behind him, pressing little kisses down his spine. One hand was in his hair, the other was sliding inside his boxers and…”Hey, stop that,” he said far louder than he meant to. “Mycroft? Is that you?”

“Yes, Greg. I’m sorry that I startled you. I’ll stop.” My’s voice was heavy with fatigue.

“I didn’t mean stop in a bad way, just making sure that it was you before things went any further.”

“Who else would it be? Is there something I should know?”

“When someone puts a hand in my pants unannounced in the dark, I like some confirmation.”

--

“Greg, it’s too much.” He knew what Greg’s salary was, and he knew what flowers cost even though he only ever sent them to his mother.

“Nothing’s too much to show you how I feel, My. Did you notice that I picked the ones that were your colors? A real English beauty you are, all peaches and cream.”

There were muffled sounds of laughter and chatter, and Greg’s voice, rough and quiet. “Shut it. If you’d give more thought to your own marriage, you wouldn’t be spending half your nights on the sofa.”

There was a chorus of jeers for the unfortunate one who was having problems. Then Greg’s voice was firm again. “I love my husband. I’m proud of him. If you can’t cope, there’s the door.”

Mycroft didn’t know how to take in such unwavering public affection. He was still waiting for someone to tell him that he had been the unwitting participant in a mockumentary.

--

“Whatever else you’ve got to say, you’d better say it in here. Lestrade is smitten.”

“That’s just it. Why? He’s either rich or good in bed.”

Mycroft burst from the stall. “I am rich and a damn good shag but he married me for my enormous cock.”

There was a long pause as Mycroft edged toward the door, wondering if Greg would ever forgive him, when a hand clamped on his shoulder.

Walter gave a shout of laughter. “Microphone, you old sod, you’re welcome in my evidence room any time. Have your silver fox bring you down next time you’re at the Yard.”

--

“Will there be fucking?”

“Do you want fucking?”

“Smart man, stupid question.”

--

Still, so he wouldn’t lose his nerve, he made out the label for Mummy Holmes’ album.

Mycroft Age 45 Month 10.

He had purchased an ornate greeting card in one of the shops and used the back of some packaging to practice what he might say. What he wanted to say was, “I think you know where to put this.” But he didn’t mean the library.

He did want the album there, a third one on My’s shelf to counterbalance the hundred or so of Sherlock’s. He finally settled on, “I hope you will keep this with My’s other albums, and I will send you more from time to time so you might want to make some room. Thank you for giving birth to such an amazing man. I promise that I will love and cherish him for the rest of my life.”

She had given birth to him, but her contribution had ended there. The gift alone would make her furious as it was photographic proof that My was happy without her. If there was any true kindness in her, she would enjoy it nevertheless. She deserved a chance to start treating My better. Greg thought of his own mother who would pore over every picture and ask questions and laugh in all the right places and shed a tear of happiness at being included.

--

“Friend of mine that works A and E tells me that the bloke that brought him in carried him several blocks because the ambulances won’t go there and nobody would help him because the homeless are afraid of establishment and establishment’s afraid of them.”

John kicked the row of chairs and Greg squirmed as it sent an inappropriate vibration to his inner depths. “Who did it? I should get someone over there.”

John’s eyes switched from angry to scared. “It’s not a homicide yet. Have a care, you bloody vulture.”

Greg had a terrible urge to laugh. John slumped down on one of the chairs and again Greg felt as if a Christmas parade were marching through the tunnel of his ass.

“I’m sorry, mate. You didn’t deserve that. If they know who stabbed him, they aren’t talking, and he can’t tell us.”

“Let’s agree that whatever you need to say to me is fine. Because anger will get you through the wait, and I’m no stranger to it.”

“Thanks. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Shall I get the tissues and give you a hug?” Greg said it jokingly but really wanted to give John comfort.

“No, save the tissues for your wanks, poofter.”

“And the same to you.” Greg had felt a wee bit of anger at that in spite of his offer for John to use brutal honesty.

“I’m done with the yelling for this round. Best get that plug out and go for tea, if you would.”
“How the hell did you work that out?”

“No, you work it out before it gets stuck in there because I don’t care to perform a plugectomy in the Gents.”

--

John rushed in where wise men fear to tread. “He’ll be moved when he’s stable, Lady Holmes.”

Greg and John had agreed months ago that they would not call her Mummy under any circumstance. If she’d had a clue she would have realized that it was a reflection on the distance they felt toward her. There was a certain subversive thrill in keeping her from getting her way in this one small matter.

--

It was a fucking long day and he hadn’t even had his mid morning tea. He had crushed the spirit of an unsinkable man. It was time to strangle a kitten and tell some children that Father Christmas was a dirty lie. Maybe on his lunch hour he could take a walk in the park and look in prams telling women their babies were ugly and then kick some squirrels into the pond, goose some geese with his brolly. Let a gander have a sore arse. Misery loves company.

--

“What are you writing about?” Clint Stinson wanted to know.

“Turn of the century village life. A new vicar comes to the parish and stirs things up.”

“Turn of the century. You’ll have to come back and interview Stump over there. He lived it.”

“You were shaving before I was born, ya daft prick.”

“Daft but still able and wishing you the same.”

“You and the horse you rode in on.”

--

“I’ve got to be up at four to catch my flight.”

“When did this happen?”

“Anthea emailed you while I was still in the meeting. I told you last night.”

“Were my eyes open? Did I say anything?”

“You said, ‘My plans are shot to hell.’ And then you growled and grabbed my cock, but you fell asleep in midstroke.”

--

“After our lie down, maybe we could watch some more Wind in the Willows?”

“You really liked it? You aren’t just being kind?”

“I’m your furry friend to the end.”

“You are definitely furry.” Greg ran a worshipping hand down My’s chest.

“Is there wind in your willow?” My caressed Greg’s sleepy cock only to have Greg express wind most decidedly.

“You did ask, love.”

“I did and now my plans of giving you an after breakfast blow job are dashed to bits.”

--

My leaned over for a kiss. “You really did fuck the angst out of me, sweetheart. I’m happy. Can you believe it?”

“I can because you make me happy. We are sickening.”

“I shall get a special dispensation from the Queen to be as cloying and twee as we see fit.”

--Newlywed Blues, by (AO3)Maggie_Conagher, (Greg/Mycroft, John/Sherlock)

===

Finally, after an eternity of locked eyes and in-held breath and muscles so tightly tensed they were poised to explode, the man pushed himself languidly off of his resting place and sauntered slowly over to the waiting cab. He moved with carefully contained grace and power, and the breath seized in John’s throat once more to see the tantalizing hints of long limbs and lean body offered by the gaps in his coat. Realizing too late what was about to happen John fumbled at the button to lower the window with clumsy fingers, cursing his ineptitude and hoping that he didn’t seem like too much of a naïve clot with no idea what he was doing. The fact that he was a naïve clot with not the first clue of how to proceed into this unfamiliar territory didn’t help that charade in the slightest.

--

“Get in, then. You have a name?” he asked gruffly, trying to maintain at least the barest minimum of dignity in this ridiculous situation.

With another smirk he slid into the cab in a flurry of long coat and even longer limbs, dragging his hand suggestively along John’s thigh as he did so. “Sherlock.” The name barely even registered as that devilish hand burned its way across John’s leg, sending every nerve ending alight with sensation and clouding John’s mind with one thought and one thought only.

YesmoreyespleasegodYES.

By the time Sherlock had settled himself in the seat across from John he had finally recovered his composure, or at least regained the use of his brain enough to adjust his trousers slightly and clear his throat roughly. “Evening, Sherlock. I’m John.”

The smirk that had danced over those gorgeous lips quirked momentarily into a full smile, brilliant in its intensity and so fleeting that John could not even be sure that he had seen it. “How very appropriate.” And with that wry statement the door of the cab slammed shut and they pulled away from the island of flickering lamplight into the darkness of London’s streets.

--

“You want proof that my mind is clear enough to have sex with you?” The caustic smirk returned and he stepped closer once more, looming into John’s space as eyes suddenly bright and alive flicked up and down his body in with rapid movements. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous, words spoken with absolute conviction and a force that made John want to pull away and throw himself at this incredible man all at once. “You are an army doctor, recently returned from service, likely in the deserts of either Afghanistan or Iraq. You are slowly going insane from the boredom of being invalided by an injury that is in your mind, and you hate yourself for it. You crave danger and excitement again, which is why you have come to me, of all people, of all prostitutes, to feel that rush of danger again. You want to dominate me, to control me, to own me. Am I right?”

John could not breathe. He could barely think, his brain spinning, stuttering, stuck on one thing and one thing only. “Yes. God, yes. But how –“

“I see what others do not, and I observe what others miss. My job is to please people, and I’m good at it. Now come here and fuck me the way I know you want to.”

--Filthy/Gorgeous, by (AO3)MirabileLectu, (John/Sherlock)

Ships this Post: Greg/Mycroft, Sherlock/Greg, Greg/John, Sherlock/Victor

“Welcome,” he says, takes the beer that Lestrade has brought, gives him a look for spending a bit too much time re-wiping his shoes on the mat in the hall, the it’s a floor, honestly look. And that may be true, but it’s a nice floor, all of it warm, bright wood. It’s not new, but it’s beautifully cared for. In a moment’s glance, that’s the impression that Lestrade has of all of it: neat, precise attention to a lived-in space. Nothing could be farther from Sherlock’s negligent chaos, and Lestrade has a flash of suspicion that Sherlock’s disorder is actually a learned behavior, a marker of difference.

--

“What do you do, exactly?” he says.

Mycroft puts down his glass of wine, steeples his fingers. “I do what the Prime Minister, Her Majesty, and Parliament can’t.”

Lestrade cracks a grin. “That’s an awful lot.”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s face is perfectly serious. He doesn’t otherwise elaborate.

Which is pretty much exactly what John had said. Lestrade suspects that the real gravity of that will sink in somewhere around four o’clock in the morning some night, and he’ll wake up in a cold sweat. Or at gunpoint. Right now, though, he nods, rolls a little more of the fino across his tongue. They’re working their way through Spanish wines, mostly so Lestrade can spring the best of the Aguilar y Cruz vineyards on him when the occasion fits. Sherry isn’t his favorite, and neither is the Cava that he’s pretty certain is going to impress Mycroft when they get there, but wine’s a safe topic. He could talk about that.

What he says is, “And you?” to Anthea, who is largely ignoring them, but she seems fond of the sherry and the spiced almonds.

She glances up from the section on carburetors. “I work for him.” The page turns, and that’s that.

“Private contractor,” Mycroft says. He eats an almond in two bites.

Those two words make Lestrade feel significantly less worried for Mycroft’s sake and a lot more worried for everyone else’s. He likes it like that.

--

“Finished the second-to-last of the series, so it’s book club time.”

“Ah,” Mycroft says. He offers Lestrade a strawberry, and even though he already ate, he leans over, nips it from his fingertips, just to do it, to have a reason to lick away the bit of red juice clinging to his skin. Mycroft stares at his own hand like it belongs to someone else before he clears his throat. “Were you surprised by the conclusion?”

Lestrade shakes his head. “Some arsehole on the Tube ruined it for me.” Right after the book came out, actually, before he even started reading any of them. Someone else popped the bloke in the gob for it. Lestrade pretended not to see.

“Bastardry of the first order.” His mouth is so serious.

--Timing is Everything, by (AO3)sheffiesharpe, (Greg/Mycroft)

===

“She knows what size pants I wear.” Among a lot of other things, apparently. This pair of underwear is green, too. He’s pretty certain he knows why now.

Mycroft glances at him. “I know that, too.” He tries to look casual about it. “Anyone with a basic grasp of spatial relations could extrapolate that with a scant bit of observation.”

Lestrade raises an eyebrow. “I think that’s Mycroftish for ‘I’ve been looking at your arse’.”

Mycroft’s cheeks flame. “I—”

Lestrade hooks his ankle around Mycroft’s, pulls his foot away from the rungs of his chair so their feet are touching beneath the table. “It’s okay. I’ve been looking, too. And not because you needed some spare togs.”

--

The no-one-is-possibly-that-stupid look on Mycroft’s face surpasses even Sherlock’s most intense version. Lestrade didn’t think that was even possible. Some detached corner of his brain wonders if Sherlock knows Mycroft can do this better than he can.

--No One Volunteers for This, by (AO3)sheffiesharpe, (Greg/Mycroft)

===

"[...] Did you steal a tailor’s darling? Because he looks it.” And he does: Mycroft’s suit is its usual perfection, the blue a shade lighter than navy, just perched at the edge of what Lestrade would consider daring for a suit.

“Yes. The Met had to confiscate everything on Savile Row, and this terribly handsome man just happened to be there. Might have appropriated a bit of the evidence.” He knows Mycroft is hearing everything he says.

--

“Hope your ears haven’t been ringing,” Bob says, as Mycroft sits again. “Because we’ve been talking about you.” Bob has his elbow on the table, his glass hanging from his fingers, though he keeps one free enough to point to Mycroft. “And it’s time to get down to the brass tacks, Mr. Holmes.” The glass is put down, and Bob leans forward. “You’re clearly doing well for yourself, you’re educated, you’re interesting, you can dance—and fuck you, by the way, for that, because I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

Mycroft laughs and it’s genuine—which is good. But Lestrade can see Mycroft’s lap, the curl of his fingers on his own thigh. And he understands: he’s not entirely certain where Bob’s going with this. He thinks it’s one of two options. Which is to say: fifty percent chance of this becoming more than a bit awkward. Bob goes on.

“You’re smarter, better looking, and more successful than Greg’s got any chance of being.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to argue—which is adorable, even though everything Bob just said is true—but Bob holds up a staying finger.

“And I want to know, Mr. Holmes, one thing.” Bob reaches across the table, his hand an inch from Mycroft’s chest. Lestrade can see Anthea’s head turn toward them, her first step. Bob flicks Mycroft’s periwinkle-edged pocket square. He pulls his hand back. “Tottenham. Really?” He folds his arms on the table. “All that going for you. But this?” A slow shake of his head. “Greg said you weren’t even raised on that rubbish, which means you made that choice, all on your own. How do you live with it?”

A few yards away, Anthea turns back to her conversation with the girls, a bit of a grin on her face. After a second of silence—and Lestrade’s actually worried that Mycroft’s offended—Mycroft nearly whoops with laughter before he covers his mouth, composes himself.

--This Is Something Else, by (AO3)sheffiesharpe, (Greg/Mycroft)

===

Lestrade starts to wear a ring on his left hand.

It’s a simple gold band that belonged to his grandfather, and its sudden appearance goes unremarked upon by his usually observant team - most likely because they are afraid of the answers they would get should they ask him about it.

He wears the ring to avoid the usual questions and the bothersome interest displayed by some - though, admittedly, it occasionally brings up a new host of impossible-to-answer questions. It sits on his nightstand in the evenings and on his finger during the day, so it’s a surprise when one morning he puts the ring on and feels an unusual tug against his skin. He removes the band and inspects it; he finds nothing at first. But then he runs the pad of his finger along the inside surface, and realizes that it’s no longer completely smooth. Holding it up to the light, he sees that the ring has been expertly engraved. The writing is minuscule, and he reluctantly pulls out the reading glasses he denies owning in order to see what’s been done to it.

We found each other, and that is wonderful.

Sherlock steadfastly denies any and all tampering, but it’s around that same time that he starts telling people he’s married to his work.

--Nor the Years Condemn, by (AO3)ImpishTubist, (Sherlock/Greg)

===

Now, Mycroft’s posture was relaxing, and his head was resting on Greg’s shoulder, his face turned away. “So... if you ever felt that... you understood me...” he said, in the tone of someone poking a body to be sure it was dead.

“Yes. I’d close London down and throw the biggest party the world has ever seen, and I’d get pissed off my arse, and drag you to bed and fuck you like it was going out of style. Because there’d be no more tomorrows, after that.”

--Drunk Mycroft, version 1 by (AO3)Marmosette, (Greg/Mycroft)

===

But Lestrade is a lapsed Catholic, having left his faith behind with his childhood. It was a phase, one that he eventually grew out of, discarding it as rational people do when illusions no longer offer sufficient explanation for the world around them.

--The Fall of Gods, by (AO3)ImpishTubist, (Greg/John, Sherlock/Victor Trevor)

Ships this Post: John/Sherlock, Greg/Mycroft

[John to Greg] 'So come on, be straight with me... well, be gay with me, do you fancy him?'

--

[Mycroft] 'I am annoyed.'

[John] 'About...?'

'About you believing that I have romantic feelings for one of Sherlock's acquaintances.'

'Friend, he's a friend.'

'Is Sherlock calling him that?'

'Sherlock has trouble admitting that you're his brother.'

'Yes, well...'

'And that I'm his boyfriend. He just kind of rambles on when people ask before finishing with, 'He's the most important person in my life'. Kind of sweet, really.'

--

[John] 'Mycroft, please sit down.'

[Mycroft] 'No, I don't believe I will.'

'Don't make me force you.'

'... you are going to force me to sit?'

'I've killed people before, remember?'

'So have I.'

'I bet I've done it more recently.'

'You would lose.'

'Well then, you try to leave and I'll try to stop you. Let's see who wins.'

'...'

'...'

'Fine.'

--

[Mycroft] 'Have you always been this annoying?'

[John] 'Pretty much but I think Sherlock's brought out my inner brat.'

'I agree with you there.'

--

[Sherlock] 'But yes, Mycroft is gay; completely so.'

[Greg] 'Good.'

'I would think so, what with you wanting to sleep with him. Being gay means he won't kick you out of bed... unless you're rubbish in bed, are you rubbish in bed?'

'Shut up, Sherlock.'

'Make me.'

--

[Greg] 'I'm suggesting we date. If, in a few weeks, you want to call me your boyfriend or partner or whatever, then that's just fine with me.'

[Mycroft] '... really?'

'Yes, Mycroft. I like you; you're funny, handsome, charming... what's not to like?'

'I work long hours, have a terrible relationship with my brother, and have far too much power.'

'Everyone has a terrible relationship with your brother.'

'Not John.'

'John's shagging him, he doesn't count.'

'That's thoroughly disgusting.'

--

[John] '... Sherlock, why are you holding your head like that?'

[Sherlock] 'I'm deleting the last five minutes from my brain and then I'm going to sleep in my mind palace tonight.'

'So... Chinese?'

'How can you possibly think about food?'

'Hey, I just saw two good looking men having sex, I'm not in the least bit disgusted.'

'...'

'Don't look so jealous.'

'I'm not jealous.'

--

[Mycroft] 'Here you go.'

[John] 'Don't want it.'

'Stop being a child.'

'I'm not.'

'Yes you are.'

'Am not.'

'I grew up with Sherlock; I know when people are acting childish. Now drink your tea.'

'... fine!'

--Words, by (AO3)IBegToDreamAndDiffer, (John/Sherlock, Greg/Mycroft)

===

You grinned, John! Fireworks and flowers and long warm summer nights, with a lovely side of serial murder!

--

“That is... actually... rather sweet.” You seemed baffled, amused. Why? Am I never sweet to you? I should be sweet, should be saccharine-and-honey-sweet, should bring you flowers and chocolates and dedicate each moment of my life to making sure each one of your needs is met flawlessly. Of course, I am complete rubbish at this; how do you stand me? How can you take this awkward apology and make it seem as if it’s the best thing you’ve ever heard?

--

Lestrade had accompanied us as well, and the four of us made our way awkwardly up the stairs to the flat. Mrs. Hudson came fluttering around, offering tea and cake, and we arrayed ourselves about the place; Mycroft stole your chair, as usual, and Lestrade took mine, so that left the sofa to us. I immediately lay down with my head in your lap, and Mycroft made tutting noises while Lestrade tried not to laugh and Mrs. Hudson looked at us as if we had been her idea in the first place.

--Testimony, by (AO3)reluctantabandon, (John/Sherlock)