and mycroft says yes

  • Sherlock: *lying on the sofa, in his mind palace*
  • Mary: *sighs*
  • Sherlock: ...
  • Mary: The posh boy loves the pathologist.
  • Sherlock: ...
  • Mary: Aren't you listening to me?
  • Sherlock: Nope.
  • Mary: You can't ignore it.
  • Sherlock: *still in his mind palace* Yes, I can. See? This is me. Ignoring it.
  • Mary: The silver fox has been barking up that tree for years.
  • Mary: Meat Dagger's keeping an open mind.
  • Mary: And then there's the consulting criminal-
  • Sherlock: *through gritted teeth* He's dead.
  • Mary: *scoffs* So am I. Doesn't stop me getting in your head.
  • Sherlock: *sighs; sits up* Fine. What do I do?
  • Mary: *shrugs* Not sure. But you might want to hurry up. Silver fox is taking hot doctor death to dinner.
  • Sherlock: *stands up* What? Why didn't you tell me?
  • Mary: *gestures* Coke-brain, remember?
  • Sherlock: *huffs; runs out the door*
  • Mary: COAT!
  • Sherlock: *runs back and grabs his coat; leaves*
  • Mary: KEYS!
  • Sherlock: *hurries in and takes his keys; annoyed* Anything else?
  • Mary: Yeah, don't forget to snog her.
  • Sherlock: *rolls his eyes* See you later, Mary *leaves the flat*

Anon requested: wow my favourite artist (you) is taking requests!! may i have sherlock and mycroft arguing? if greg was also there it’d be amazing bye ily

Here you are! Sorry this took so long! My computer decided to be a douche and restart :/

“So Doctor Watson will move in again?”

“Yes. He will.”

“With his daughter.”

“Rosie. Yes.”

Mycroft nods. He clears his throat and leans back in the armchair.
“Good. At least there will be someone here to keep an eye on you again. Even I can’t be everywhere.”

Sherlock snorts. He stands up abruptly and walks to the window. Turns his back to Mycroft, who suddenly wishes, he wouldn’t have said those last words.
But it’s part of the pattern, that built up between them over the years.
It’s difficult to escape this pattern, even when he wants to. Like now.

He worries about Sherlock.
He can see that his brother is still withdrawing. Can see it in his red rimmed, tired eyes, his gray skin and his slightly shaking hands. He knows the signs too well.

There’s a lot of anger too. Mycroft can’t believe that Sherlock did drugs again. So many drugs that he almost destroyed his body with it. Just for … Well, for John Watson. Business as usual, wasn’t it?
The events revived a lot of old memories.

Mycroft sighs.
He looks at Sherlock’s back. Before he can really think about it, the words have already left his mouth.
“How are you?”

Sherlock shrugs slightly. If he’s surprised by the question, he doesn’t show it.
“I could be worse,” he says quietly.

Yes, Mycroft thinks wearily. He could be worse. That’s true.
They’ve seen worse. Much worse.

“Tell me, if you need more painkillers,” he says and stands up. He grabs his umbrella. “I will send Anthea …”

Sherlock doesn’t answer. He just stands there in front of the window and stares into the beginning sunset.

Mycroft takes a last look at him and then makes his way to the door.

Suddenly Sherlock quietly says, “Thank you”

“What?” Mycroft makes in surprise. His hand, which was already reaching for the door knob, freezes in the air.

“I never really said thank you,” Sherlock says and finally turns around to look at Mycroft. “For what you did in Serbia. For getting me out.”

Mycroft swallows.
Where did this come from? Why now?

He manages a thin smile. “Well. You’re at least moderately clever. Maybe you wouldn’t have needed me after all.”

“No. I would have died there,” Sherlock says seriously, and the words make Mycroft shiver slightly.

Yes. Sherlock would have died there. And Mycroft doesn’t want to think about this scenario. Living in the past is not his style. 

For a moment, there’s silence between them. But this time, it’s not an uncomfortable silence.
Sherlock breaks it eventually. “There are words one should say, before it’s too late,” he says quietly. Then he turns around, to the window again and adds, more briskly, “Now go. I bet there’s a war you have to prevent from happening.”

Mycroft’s smile widens. “Actually, yes. There is one.” He opens the door and makes a step forward. Then he stops again. He hesitates.
Maybe it’s still too early for this.
Maybe …
Screw it.

“How about tea on Friday? There’s a place I know, where you can get the pastry you used to devour as a child,” he says, deliberately casually.
He nearly holds his breath, as he waits for Sherlock’s answer.

For a moment, Sherlock says nothing. He continues to stare outside the window, his hands folded behind his back. But then he shrugs and says, “Why not.”

Mycroft smiles. “Great. Goodbye, brother mine.”

“Goodbye, Mycroft.”

When Mycroft leaves the flat, he has the feeling that he at least made a tiny step out of their pattern. And so did Sherlock.
And that’s a good thing, isn’t it?

Now corrected by @bakerstreet-irregular <3

The Interesting One

Originally posted by sherlockspeare

Request: Mabey a Sherlock x reader in which the reader is Irene’s sister?

Author’s Note: Okay, so this is again a Sherlock x Reader, and I feel like I don’t do this Character justice. I’m trying my best so please let me know if you like it or how I can do better. And my fics kind of write themselves. I’m just writing them down, it all just flows out and evolves by itself. Enjoy 😉

It wasn’t hard to get into Baker Street, especially with someone like Mrs Hudson as the housekeeper. You said you were a client and immediately she had you seated upstairs with a cup of Tea and some sweets. You leaned back in the leather chair that you took a seat on and took a sip of the tea. Just then you heard two pair of feet walking up the stairs and Mrs Hudson yelling after them, that there is a client waiting for them. You smile and put the cup of tea down.

Sherlock and John enter the living room and stop in their tracks. They know you, saw you on the pictures in your lovely sisters file. You don’t bother to look up at them or stand up for them. You just take a cookie of the plate on the table and take your cup of tea back in your hands.

“Hel-lo.” John says, making the confusion obvious in his voice. Sherlock just watches you, taking in every detail of you, probably trying to read you like a book, but that’s not going to happen. You are not like your sister, always the one to put on a show and arrived naked. No, but you weren’t wearing your clothes either. Too easy maybe? No, not the way that you did it.

You finally look up to them and smile.

“Good afternoon, Gentlemen.” You answer and see that Sherlock is still focusing on you, whereas John just looks at you confused.

“How can we help you?” he asks, neither of them moving an inch.

“Oh, I’m not here for help. This is just an informational visit for me.” You say taking another sip of your tea.

“An informational visit?” John asks.

“Yes, I’m not going to stay long.” You say focusing on Sherlock now. He raises his eyebrow and finally moves to sit on the chair in front of you, taking his hands in front of his mouth.

“What information do you want, Ms. Adler?” he asks.

“I already got it, Mr. Holmes.” You said with a smug smile on your face.

“I’m sorry, how?” John asks, taking a seat on the chair where usually the clients would sit, you guessed.

“I just needed to see the person that caused my sister and her hard work to crumble down like a card house.” You say taking an intense look at Sherlock. He leans back and studies you intensely, too.

“You know my sister was always like this. So dominant, always wanting more power, never caring about anyone but her. But then she met you and suddenly everything she worked for, was gone in a split second. She got her heart stuck on something that was way too risky, but she didn’t realize it.” You say.

“I agree.” He just answers.

“I don’t quit know, why you though. I don’t understand it, but we were never close. Never had the kind of relationship where you call her up, talking about the guy you met and how cute he is. Not that any of us was interested in the other. I would say, you know what I’m talking about, but your brother and you are too much alike.”

“You know Mycroft?” John asks astonished.

“Briefly, yes.” You say, never taking your eyes off Sherlock.

“So what is this all about then?” John asks.

“Like I said, me getting to know the person, that I owe something for taking my sister out of this life of hers.” You say, making Sherlock raise his eyebrows again.

“You owe me?” he asks.

“Oh yes, I owe you.” you say, standing up, making your way to the door.

“Why?” he asks. You turn around and lean against the door frame.

“As I said, my sister and I were never really close, but it’s bad for my reputation to have a sister on the other side of the law. And especially one with contacts to Moriarty. You solved it, making it easier for me to get what I want.” You say.

“And what would that be?” John says.

“Let’s just say, a particular job in the government.” You smirk.

“You? A job in the government?” John says.

“Mr. Holmes isn’t the only one able to deduct things and able to disguise. Never believe what you see, Mr. Watson.” You say.

“It was nice to meet you, Ms Adler.” Sherlock says. You nod and turn around.

“Probably not the last time, Mr. Holmes. Until then.” You say and leave the Baker Street.

Sherlock moves over to the window and takes a look out of the window, watching you climb into a car, he notices as one of Mycroft’s.

“She is not like her sister.”  John says.

“Not at all. Which makes her even more interesting, don’t you think?” he says, absent minded.

“More interesting?” John asks, surprised, that Sherlock shows interested in a woman.

“Yes.” He says. “The fact, that she just came here, to see me, saying that she owes me, in the same way, Moriarty said it. Everything about her signals, that she knows more about us, her sister and Mycroft than we think. And this makes her interesting, how did she just surface now and what does she want?” he asks and turn around to face John.

“I don’t know.” John answers.

“Exactly. Me neither.” Sherlock says and turns back. He couldn’t read her, he noticed that it weren’t her clothes and that she kind of put on a different face for this. She was interesting and challenging and he was somehow attracted to that.

“And what now?” John asks, still staring at the back of his friend.

“The Game is on, John.”

The first time it happens, Sherlock is watching Rosie. Well, he’s supposed to be watching Rosie, but the toenails have started fizzing, which they’re not supposed to do at all, and he looks up from the petri dishes at a flash of motion in the corner of his eye to watch as a stack of books (which he’d really meant to pack away) topples in slow-motion horror onto Rosie’s head.

He throws out a hand and flings himself across the room, and it’s not until she’s safe in his arms that he notices that the books seem to have frozen mid-tumble. As soon as he does, they fall to the ground.

The second time it happens a murderer is stabbing at John’s back with a wickedly sharp knife, and Sherlock is too damn far, and he’s running and shouting but it turns out not to be necessary, because the man screams and the knife hurtles out of his hand to stick four inches into a stone wall.

Sherlock punches him in the face repeatedly and nearly strips John on the spot to check for wounds.

It’s the third time that convinces him that something else is going on, something beyond the usual weirdness of his life. Twice is coincidence and three times is a pattern, and the third time is really quite spectacular. The third time it happens, Sherlock is at the park with Rosie, teaching her deductions she’s still too young to understand, and he’s buying her an ice-cream and when he turns around there’s someone trying to unbuckle her from the pram. A moment later the man hits a tree twenty feet away with a wet crack like a falling coconut and slithers boneless to the ground.

In the echoing silence after, Sherlock almost runs back to the flat, dialling Mycroft as he goes.

Mycroft arrives twenty minutes later, out of breath and looking worried, because Sherlock has never, in their forty years of knowing each other, phoned him willingly.

Rosie is asleep upstairs,and Sherlock is sitting in his chair, staring at his hands.

He looks at Mycroft and curls his fingers on themselves.

“Mycroft,” he says. “Something’s wrong with me.”

And he points at a book and watches it float into the air.

“Is that real? Can you see that happening? I’m not high - I haven’t knowingly taken anything so I don’t have a list-”

Mycroft finds himself on his knees beside Sherlock’s chair, wrapping his hands around Sherlock’s, and he isn’t entirely sure but he thinks he may be crying.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he says. “Oh, brother mine, there you are.”

Sherlock looks at him like he’s lost his mind and Mycroft shakes his head, asking for a moment without words. Sherlock untangles one hand and places it gingerly on Mycroft’s head, as though he’s not entirely sure what to do with all this emotion.

It takes five minutes for Mycroft to get his emotions under control and he gets back to his feet, and turns to face the fireplace/

“You know what’s happening to me,” Sherlock says. “You’ve been expecting this.”

“I know, yes,” Mycroft confirms. “As for expecting this? Hardly. I could say that I have…hoped, desperately, that this would happen one day, but I’m not entirely sure that the word covers enough ground in this case.”

“Sit. Explain.”

Mycroft sits and studies his brother.

“When we discovered what Eurus had done,” Mycroft begins, and Sherlock stiffens almost imperceptably. Mycroft continues, implacable. “We did not immediately understand the full import. A child should not have been capable of what she did to you - there are people who train for years and are not capable of doing what she did to you. When I told you that you erased your memory of Eurus, that…was not entirely true.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“More lies, Mycroft? I’m really getting tired of these games, you know.”

“Sherlock, please. This is not a game, and I could not have told you the full truth. Not then, and certainly not in front of John. Will you listen?” Mycroft waits for Sherlock’s reluctant nod before continuing. “You did not erase your memory of Eurus. Eurus did that herself, and in the process, she did something else to you, something that the best minds in the world have not been able to understand or undo. By the time we realised how she had blinded you, the effects had sunk in and you were actively resisting any attempt to undo it.”

“Blinded me how? Stop talking around it and get to the point, Mycroft!”

Mycroft sighs heavily and takes something out of his breast pocket. A long, thin stick, which he waves in the air. Between their two chairs, a small table appears, bearing a tea service and several small, delicious cakes.

“Can you see that, Sherlock?”

Sherlock is almost crawling up the back of his chair, staring at the table in horror.

“What…what…” he opens his mouth a few more times, but nothing comes out.

“There is a world beyond the one we live in, Sherlock. Beside us, every day, invisible and unseen. You were meant to be a part of that world, but when she attacked you on the night she burned Musgrave to the ground, Eurus not only erased every memory of herself, but every memory of the world we were born to, and blinded you entirely to its effects. Three years ago, Sherlock, I could have done this in front of you and you would not have reacted. Your mind would have filled in the blanks and created a story you could believe, because it had lost the ability to see this.”

Sherlock still looks horrified, and Mycroft wonders if he should continue.

“I believe that when you confronted Eurus in the prison and at Musgrove, some of the things she had done became…damaged. And they are being damaged further-”

“The point, Mycroft. Please,” Sherlock bites out, and Mycroft sighs again.

“You’re a wizard, Sherlock.”

Keep reading

rhiannon-a-christy  asked:

If I'm in time, Mollcroft, fake relationship. Also hi, new-ish follower here!

Mycroft did not like social functions, especially uselessly boring ones. Not that weddings were useless. Just ones where he did not know anyone, and certainly did not care to. Still, Anthea had texted him and said that Molly Hooper was in dire straits. Sherlock was still out of the country pretending to be dead, Inspector Lestrade was involved with Lieutenant Donovan, and Doctor Watson had just begun a relationship, one that Mycroft did not relish being ruined by a misunderstanding. Watson was in a delicate enough state of mind that even Mycroft balked at suggesting the good doctor. As for workmates, Stamford was married, and the intern was a driveling idiot, far below Molly’s IQ level.

“Why must she go to this insipid affair at all if she feel so compelled to bring someone?” Mycroft groused.

“It is a matter of pride, sir,” Anthea said. “Try and put yourself in her shoes. Her father was the only one of her immediate family that loved her. Her sister is…for lack of better words, an idiot, and her mother is…difficult. Very difficult.”

“Hm. Yes, and with Miss Hooper’s rather lackluster history with men, her mother’s domineering qualities, demand for grand-children coupled with her distaste for her younger daughter’s career, singlehood and ‘weight-gain’-“ he used the term in quotations with a roll of the eyes. “I suspect Mrs. Hooper would be less than pleased for her daughter to come sans escort to her second wedding.”

“Or even at all,” Anthea added. “Even if, in our opinions, it would be forgivable.” Anthea gave him a sharp look. “Are you backing out?”

“Certainly not!” he bristled at her evening thinking he could be that callous to Molly.  “She’s done more than enough to earn a favor,” he paused, and Anthea caught a hint of sentiment behind his words.

“She’s done enough to earn a lifetime of favors, sir,” Anthea added gently. Mycroft nodded somberly.

“There is not enough money in the world to thank her for her services, I doubt she would accept it anyway.”

“She could do with a friend, sir.”

He grimaced, unused to the word. “I am not the ‘friend’ type.”

“How do you know?” Anthea asked. “Your brother is very keen on her.”

“Yes, so it should be him doing this, not me,” Mycroft scowled.

“But he’s not here, and she needs someone,” Anthea added. “It should be you. It shows you’re grateful for what she’s done, and your support for her and Sherlock.”

“I know,” he sulked. “But I don’t have to like it.”

“You never know,” Anthea smiled. “You might have a good time.”

“I hardly think so.”

Orangery in Kew Gardens, West London

Mycroft was pleased to note, glancing down at the woman on his arm, that Molly looked about as bored as he felt. He’d been to his fair share of dull parties, but this was, undoubtable, the worst.

“Is it crass of me to say your family has a very boring idea of a party?” he murmured in her ear.

She shifted, smiling up at him, genuinely amused. “Mother does love a proper soirée.”

“Nothing about this is proper. The ice sculpture is hideous, I don’t know what the pâté is made of but it’s revolting and resembles tinned corned beef rather than liver, the champagne tastes like soda water, the flowers are wilting due to not being properly cut, and the caviar is…” he tilted his plate over the garbage bin. “Caca.”

Molly snorted into her champagne flute, trying her hardest not to laugh and failing miserably. “Mother also likes to cut corners.”

“Which in itself is not a bad thing,” Mycroft agreed. “But in the case of food, where one risks food poisoning everywhere one looks, I’d prefer starvation.”

“Agreed,” Molly nodded. The hors d’oeuvres were, from a distance, attractive looking, but upon closer inspection, there was a faint smell of tinned meat, less-than-fresh lox and caviar that was certainly not the beluga variety her mother had been bragging to everyone about.

“Molly!” her mother waved her over.

“Oh dear, tin hat on,” Molly muttered, and waved back. Mycroft gave her hand a comforting squeeze, knowing too-well the dread that was in the pit of her stomach. He plastered a pleasant smile on his face, allowing Molly to go ahead of him through the crowd, keeping a hand on her lower back, gently guiding her from the more obtuse relatives.

“There you are dear!”

“Hello, congratulations mother, the hall looks beautiful.”

“It should for what it cost,” her mother said. “So! You final caught someone who can put up with your job?”

“Erm, yes,” Molly flushed. “Mycroft, this is my mother, Diana Collins. Mother, this is Mycroft Holmes, he works for the government.”

“Oh!” Diana brightened immediately. “How good to meet you! What do you think of this Brexit business? Obviously we need to be separate!”

Mycroft blinked, and Molly saw the unmistakable poker face of the Holmes men take over. “I never discuss business at parties, Mrs. Collins.” He smiled at her amused laughter, glancing at Molly, who could only shrug.

“Well that may be so,” Diana allowed. “But you must talk to Molly about finding a different job.”

“Mother,” Molly began.

“No I mean it. Cutting up bodies as if she enjoyed that sort of thing. It’s a wonder she’s found someone like you!”

“I happen to believe that whatever makes Molly happy, so long as it is within the confines of the law, has little to do with my opinion of it,” Mycroft replied coolly. “As it happens, she is very good at her work, and it was, in fact, how we met.”

“I still don’t see any use in your work,” Diana shook her head. “It’s depressing, it’s disgusting, how anyone can have a life-“

“Your daughter is quite brilliant,” Mycroft interrupted, now genuinely annoyed at this woman. Who on earth berated their daughter at a wedding, let alone in front of their significant other (the fact that they were only pretending was moot at the moment). “She’s been published all over the country, and indeed in several other countries for her findings in the medical field. She often speaks at Cambridge and Oxford. We’ve a better understanding of the human body thanks to your daughter. I, for one, am quite proud of her. Due excuse us.” With that, Mycroft tucked Molly’s hand into the crook of his elbow and led her away.

“I’m sorry I dragged you to this,” Molly said, once out of hearing of her mother. “You didn’t have to make such a speech.

“I am sorry if I embarrassed you,” Mycroft replied. “But I am not sorry I said those things.”

“She has a way of getting under people’s skin,” Molly shrugged. She glanced around at the party. “Would you like to go? It’s still early enough we can get something proper to eat.”

“Lawks, yes, please,” Mycroft sighed. “I am famished.” He paused. “And in need of a stiff drink.”

“Agreed,” Molly laughed and leaned her head against his shoulder briefly, a kindred moment between them.

They ended up directing the driver to a posh kebab shop in Soho.

“Sherlock took me here,” Molly said. “There’s Michelin chefs and a short wine list too.”

“As long as the meat is not green, I’ll eat anything,” Mycroft replied. He looked at the kebab shop uneasily, but Molly seemed confidant, and he knew her enough to know she didn’t muck about in bad restaurants. It turned out, she was right, and they took their orders to go, at his request.

“I dislike sitting in small restaurants,” he confessed.

“How about the bench over there?” Molly pointed to a small patch of greenery and a clean-looking place to sit.

“Very well,” he motioned to the chauffer, and the man nodded, pulling his mobile from his pocket. “Security,” he said, noting Molly’s questioning look. In a moment two security guards appeared and took up posts nearby.

“Is it always like this for you?” Molly asked, unwrapping her food.

“Eating on a bench? No.” Mycroft smirked. “But it is…well it isn’t a welcome change, but it is different.”

“Thanks for humoring me,” Molly laughed.

“Only for you, my dear,” he acknowledged.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve it, but I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.”

“My dear woman, you’ve done quite a bit over the past year for a life-time of favors from me.”

Molly looked at her food, then at him. “I don’t want you to do nice things because you feel indebted to me, Mycroft. I’d like you to do them, if you feel so inclined, because you want to. Because…because you’re my friend.”

He shifted in his seat, looked at the take-away container and then at her. “Then…then I shall endeavor to be so to you, Miss Hooper.”

“Good,” she nodded. Taking a bite of food, she smiled at him, her mouth full. “You’re a good man, Mycroft Holmes, I don’t care what your brother says.”

“Hmm, yes,” he murmured, swallowing a mouthful. “So…Anthea tells me you two have finally seen common sense and are a couple?”

Molly shook her head. “Not officially, not until he gets back,” she shrugged. “I don’t hear from him, if that makes you feel any better. We decided communication would be a bad thing, didn’t want to risk anything.”

“I shall have him contact you when it’s safe for him to do so,” Mycroft promised. She looked up then, eyes shining at him.

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

anonymous asked:

Can you write something Mycroftxreader where Mycroft's s/o went on a case with Sherlock, got a bad head injury, and gets amnesia?

Originally posted by sodaghostboo

“Mr. Holmes I understand your concern for Miss ____ wellbeing but her retrograde amnesia is only temporarily graded. At worst she’ll come around by the end up next week,” Dr. Khan tries to soothe the agitated Holmes but it doesn’t seem to have any effect.

The elder Holmes is still looking distraught staring into the hospital room where ____ laid and where an equally distraught looking Sherlock sat beside her waiting for her to awaken.

This is was all Sherlock’s fault; goading his girlfriend into coming along on these excursions when he knew that Mycroft was away at work and never thinking of the consequences it could bring.

She was lucky that her head hadn’t split open from the force of the attack but still Mycroft would not forgive his brother if she could not recall the events of this morning.

“Come now Mr. Holmes,” Dr. Khan tried again pulling him away from the window where he stood staring intently at Sherlock, “there’s really no need to be so sore at him. Not when he looks like he’d rather trade places himself.”

Sherlock did look rather desolate in the hospital chair but Mycroft couldn’t quell the anger curled in his belly. No, not this time. This time was different.

 However Dr. Khan refused to relent. Putting his aging hand on his bespoken shoulder he continues to persuade him, “Why don’t you head down to the cafeteria and get yourself something to munch on. Things are always better when there’s a bit of food in your belly. When’s the last time you ate Mr. Holmes?”

Indeed the last time that Mycroft would have eaten would have been last night in preparation for what he was going to ask in the morning.

Mycroft could say without certainty that he was not an easy person to spook but ____ did so just effortlessly making his very lite dinner of grilled cheese and crisps less than fulfilling for the task ahead.

It didn’t help that Mycroft was running late or the fact that _____ said she would give him an answer later on that day but it made Mycroft more skittish than he’d ever been and more quick with his temper.

Even as Mycroft is being lead away (rather forcefully as to get him away from Sherlock) he fixes one more glare at his younger brother before conceding to move.

It’s one that Sherlock catches readily before ducking his head but the intent couldn’t be clearer.

If she doesn’t remember then we will have more than words.

He knows that Sherlock has the little box in his hands.

All Mycroft can do is pray that ____ remembers and more importantly says yes.


Name: I simply observed
Pairing: Mycroft x Reader
Comment: The reader is another John Watson’s sister that has to live with Sherlock and John for a few months. She meets Mycroft, and Sherlock finally realizes that they are dating because you’ve been hiding it.

“Mycroft,” you greet Mycroft, as you enter the kitchen with an empty cup.

“Y/N,” Mycroft looks at you quickly and turns to his brother, not smiling at you.

“Another government case?” Sherlock grins, and you obediently go in the kitchen, not listening to the dialogue. Well, Sherlock’s monologue, when you suddenly hear your name. John, sitting next to you, suddenly starts looking away.

“So… brother mine. Since when are you two together?”

“What do you mean, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice turns cold.

“Oh, that is obvious!”

“I do not see how…”

“Even John saw it,” John looks up, as you look at him. “All those signs… And surprisingly, mostly from you. What did you say about not caring?”

“I do not care about…”

“Anyone. Anyone but her,” Mycroft shut up, and Sherlock keeps explaining. “That was strange. She is totally calm, as if acting by a book, and you… Forgetting to put your ring on…”

“He is lying,” John yells loudly, grinning. “We just saw you together.”

“You did?” you ask quickly, and John nods.

“We were solving a case in this restaurant you went to,” you cover your face with your hands, blushing as a tomato. “Sherlock, stop showing off.”

“John, John,” Mycroft smiles kindly, looking back at you and John. “I know there was no way Sherlock could figure it out.”

“Of course I could!”

“Sherlock, don’t flatter yourself,” you choke on the tea, trying not to laugh.

“Fine. We saw you having a dinner together,” John rolls his eyes. “I do not understand why you were trying to hide it.”

“Did you think we would be against it?” John asks you, and you shake you head.

“Mycroft is the government,” you explain quickly, before Sherlock said it. “If anyone really learns that he ‘somehow got attached to a usual human being’… They may use me to get to him.”

“That’s obvious. I wonder why you didn’t tell John. He is your brother.”

“Sherlock, don’t do that,” Mycroft asks quickly before you have to explain all of it to John. “I told her not to,” he did not, but you are glad that he lied. Mycroft often lies, but you are ready to deal with it for such moments. “John is known to be important for you, Sherlock. And everyone knows that you are important for me. The last thing I need is for this chain to be used.”

“So… You are actually together?” John asks to change the topic, and you look at Mycroft, not sure what to say as you never talked about it.

“Yes,” Mycroft answers momentarily, not even looking at you, but you see how his fingers stop aggressively holding the umbrella, but gently stroke the handle with the thumb. Sherlock grins as an idiot, and Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Please, Sherlock, stop being such a child.”

“Isn’t it hilarious that you fell for her? You, the one who actually goes against all feelings and emotions?” Sherlock laughs.

“Sherlock, we all are human, no matter how different I am,” Mycroft stands up and looks at you with a small smile, almost unnoticeable, but you learned to see it. You smile back. “And some human qualities include… ability to seek company of certain people. Have a nice day,” he disappears before Sherlock can open his mouth to say something rude.

“So… You and Mycroft?”

“Yes,” you roll your eyes, and your phone buzzes with an incoming message. ‘Apologies, I didn’t know that Sherlock was there,’ so you quickly text him back that nothing bad happened. “Do you mind?”

“No. I just would like to know. No problem at all… Seriously?” you grin and nod. “How?”

“He is courteous, polite… You just have to get through the upper layer of coldness to see this incredibly soft and vulnerable man,” John keeps looking at you with some doubt. “He is, John. He is a wonderful person.”

“Stop complimenting my brother, Y/N,” Sherlock intervenes. “That is incredibly annoying.”

221B Con Gothic - 2016 Edition!

Their shirt says “Ask me about my ship.” You say, “Tell me about your ship.” They look down sheepishly and reply, “Oh, uh, I can’t. There’s nothing under this.” No heart, no flesh, no lungs, nothing. Nothing at all.

“Nice to meet you,” you say to a stranger. “Oh, we have met before,” the not-a-stranger says. “I have merely taken on a new form since last we saw each other. And the next time we meet, I will be changed yet again…”

The wall is covered with mysterious glyphs. You can puzzle a few of them out. “Greg gently fuck Mycroft Holmes yes,” it says. This is how you know that you are home.

All must pay tribute to the glorious founder of our mysterious society. All must offer a token of gratitude for what he did to deliver us all to this paradise. So buy David Nellist a drink, why don’t you.

It’s a fun, harmless activity, you are told. And so you make your way to the Pavilion. But on your journey, you cross paths with shamblers who howl, “Don’t go in! Save yourselves! Flee while you still can!” You ignore them. You were assured a safe, happy time. You realize only too late that you should have listened, for a huddle of damned souls are well into a karaoke rendition of “Hey Jude.” Clearly, they have been cursed to sing until they and everyone around them withers and perishes.

What’s that sound? Why can’t I sleep at night? What are my parents hiding from me? Why am I sticky? WHY AM I STICKY?

In this oppressively humid place, sparkling waters tempt you. Then you hear the chant: NERD SOUP. NERD SOUP. NERD SOUP. You will soon be devoured.

221b is empty and silent. John, of course, has returned to the flat he shares with Mary. Sherlock is in a solitary confinement cell underneath MI6. Mycroft worries at the thought of him there; he will not be safe alone with his own mind.

Mycroft has gathered up Sherlock’s passport and other documents. Of course he will travel under another identity, but it’s important to have these safe. Before long they may be the only tangible evidence that he ever had a brother named William Sherlock Scott Holmes. He zips them into the inside pocket of his briefcase.

He has been awake for 36 hours. A long working day, followed by a helicopter ride into a nightmare of sniper rifle lasers and the single, ringing crack of a pistol shot as Mycroft watched his little brother commit murder. His own tearing panic as he called out for inaction from the troops around him. They will cut him down, his brain screamed. The anticlimactic helicopter ride away, Sherlock handcuffed, unresisting. He was silent, but not sullen. Did as directed. The perfect prisoner.

But for Mycroft, then, his day was only beginning. Endless meetings. Pleading without seeming to plead – my brother’s life is worth more. Sherlock would die quickly in prison.

Mycroft has no reason to linger any further. He is not allowed to pack anything for Sherlock – clothes, books. Nothing from outside will make it to him. Especially nothing from his brother. They cannot be seen to interact. The British government must remain impartial.

And yet Mycroft is still standing in the living room of 221b, staring fixedly at Sherlock’s violin. If only he could get it to him. Mycroft learned to suppress and master his insistent brain earlier, and more effectively, than Sherlock did. When Sherlock doesn’t use drugs, he uses his violin. Sometimes he plays for hours. Sometimes it’s not even music, just noise. A scraping way to cope.

“What’s going on?” asks Lestrade from behind him. Mycroft, without meaning to, flinches a little at the shock of another’s presence. “Where’s Sherlock? John? I came about some files –” the tone of his voice has changed as he speaks, fading to doubt. He has understood how very unusual it is to find Mycroft here alone, unmoving. “I thought I saw your PA downstairs,” he adds, quietly.

Mycroft has gathered himself. He finds the energy to turn, attempting his usual unruffled mien. “She should not have allowed you in. John has returned to live with Mary and Sherlock will not be back here for…” Mycroft swallows, throat unexpectedly dry. “For some time.”

“Oh.” Lestrade has deep brown eyes. The usual adjective used to describe the kind of brown eyes he has is ‘melting’. But his are sharp. “I saw on the news that Magnussen bloke was shot. Intruder.” Lestrade shuts his mouth, staring directly at Mycroft.

Mycroft’s mouth twists as though he’s sucking a lemon, but he is scanning Lestrade’s face with interest. “Yes,” he says. It’s enough. They stare at one another, helplessly.

“Is there anything I can do?” asks Lestrade.

“Nothing whatsoever,” says Mycroft, staring away at John’s chair. The silence is heavy and awkward. To his own surprise, he exhales quietly and adds, “there is nothing I can do, either.”

Lestrade runs his hand through his grey hair, sighing. He follows Mycroft’s gaze to John’s chair. “What about John?” Mycroft turns his head back to dart an inquiring look in Lestrade’s direction. “I mean – I don’t know how Sherlock got shot. But John was there, right? And…” Lestrade takes a breath, as though unsure if this will be a step too far, “and he and Mary have been apart ever since.” Determinedly, he fixes Mycroft’s gaze with his own.

Mycroft studies the man’s face for a long moment, and finally gives a concessionary “hmm”, which might as well have been, you are a good detective, aren’t you? Something changes in the air around them; Lestrade’s eyes crinkle just a little, pleased.

“He has returned home with her, now,” Mycroft says, cautiously. He would be the first to admit that he can think politically. He surrounds himself with people daily whose manoeuvrings he can predict ten moves ahead. But in emotional matters… “The birth is imminent, of course,” he adds.

Lestrade opens his mouth, pauses, considering. “You’ll need to talk to him, of course,” he says slowly, “but I don’t think that necessarily means that everything is fine now. With Mary, I mean.” He rubs his hand through his hair again. “I mean – it’s Sherlock. I saw John when Sherlock was in hospital. He was angry.”

Mycroft is staring into the kitchen now, his mind turning over the implications of what Lestrade has said.

“When was the last time you slept?” asks Lestrade, smiling a little. “Or ate? Or even had a cup of tea? I thought PAs were supposed to make sure their employers kept body and soul together.”

“Anthea knows very well not to foist nourishment upon me until I specifically request it,” rejoins Mycroft, voice sharper than he meant it to be. “And she would be somewhat surprised, I suspect, to hear herself described as my ‘PA’.” He needs to think. To plan.

“Don’t tell me you also like to starve yourself in a crisis –” begins Lestrade, but Mycroft is stepping past him and taking up his umbrella from where it leans beside the door.

“Yes, thank you, Detective Inspector,” says Mycroft with some asperity as he crosses the threshold, but his mind is elsewhere, racing through possibilities, courses of action. It’s only as he reaches the top of the stairs that the disappointed expression in Greg’s brown eyes registers at the top level of his consciousness. He stops short, surprised at his own rudeness.

Slowly, he turns to regard the detective again, sweeping the man’s face with his dark grey gaze. Lestrade returns the look steadily, but cannot hide his surprise when Mycroft steps back to him and holds out his right hand. “Greg. Thank you.” His tone is a little too formal, but he means it sincerely, and Lestrade seems to understand. He holds out his hand in return, and their palms meet, fingers wrapping strongly around the backs of each other’s hands.

For a long moment, their eyes are locked, and Mycroft feels the strange human connection keenly. And then he withdraws his hand and steps away, to start again. To plan.

<<part 1  part 3>>  part 4>>  part 5>>  part 6>>  part 7>>  part 8>>  

Tagging @consultingpurplepants @artfulinanities @tardisqueen13  @alexxphoenix42 because you guys made lovely comments, but please tell me if you’d rather not be bothered! <3

5 Sherrinford Holmes Theories


I think there are five possibilities (and I will go into depth for each):

A - Sherrinford is the youngest brother, and is far smarter, and has a more important job, than Mycroft

B - Sherrinford is mentally challenged

C - Sherrinford is a criminal.

D - Sherrinford is not a person, never has been, and is just a code. (The brother mentioned by Mycroft in HLV was by another name)

E- Sherrinford is their brother but died and is now being used as a code.

Option A: Sherrinford is the youngest brother, and is far smarter, and has a job more important, than Mycroft

On the phone Mycroft says “Put me through to Sherrinford, please. Yes, I’ll wait.”

Odd things about this: Mycroft says “Please” PLEASE?! MYCROFT! And then, he has to wait to hear from him.

Mycroft is an important guy (He’s practically the British government) so it’s odd someone of his status is being told to wait, and he’s so stuck up he rarely says please, indicating Sherrinford might be a SUPER IMPORTANT GUY! Even more so than Mycroft.

If he is super important, then he’s probably smarter than Mycroft. But I don’t think he is. I don’t think he’s an important guy and here’s why: In The Empty Hearse Sherlock and Mycroft have this conversation:

MYCROFT: Don’t be smart.
SHERLOCK: That takes me back. (In a little boy’s voice) “Don’t be smart, Sherlock. I’m the smart one.”
MYCROFT: I am the smart one.
SHERLOCK: I used to think I was an idiot.
MYCROFT: Both of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock. We had nothing else to go on ’til we met other children.
SHERLOCK: Oh, yes. That was a mistake.

You’d think there older brother would have had a mentioned in this conversation, but no. They way they are talking suggests they don’t have any other siblings. One answer could be that Sherrinford is the YOUNGER brother of Mycroft and Sherlock, and just wasn’t born until Sherlock they were much older, but Gatiss and Moffat like to try and keep things accurate to Arthur Conan Doyle’s work whenever they can, so they’d probably keep characters the same age when they can.

Option B - Sherrinford is mentally challenged

I think Sherrinford could be disabled in some way and/or have special needs, which explains why Sherlock and Mycroft don’t mention him when they talk about being smart, they don’t consider Sherrinford to be smart.

Sherrinford might have a severe disability which means he has to have full time care, or maybe he has committed some kind of crime, and because of his low IQ has been sent to a care home for similar mentally challenged criminals. If he is in a type of home, it would explain Mycroft’s unusual behaviour on the phone, he’s asking a carer to put his brother on the phone.

Option C – Sherrinford is a criminal

Having said that, Sherrinford could just as easily been a criminal with average intelligence and is currently in prison, which is why Mycroft had to wait on the phone. It also explains why Sherrinford was not present at the Holmes’ Christmas in His Last Vow.

If Sherrinford is a criminal, it can help explain the meaning behind Mycroft saying

“I am not given to outbursts of brotherly compassion. You know what happened to the other one.”

This could mean that Sherrinford broke the law and Mycroft did not hesitate to put him behind bars. (This would make a great story line if so!)

Option D – Sherrinford is not a person, never has been, and is just a code

Reasons why this could be true: The Holmes brothers have never mentioned another brother.

Reasons why this could not be true: Mycroft said he had another brother…

But there is no reason why their brother is NOT called Sherrinford, and the word Sherrinford is used as a code. But I really doubt this theory.

Option E - Sherrinford is their brother but died and is now being used as a code.

If Sherrinford is dead it explains why he was absent from the Holmes Christmas.

Sherrinford’s death could be related to something important which is why his name is being used as a code.

He could also be the dead person Redbeard was trying to replace for Sherlock (See my previous vlog).

However, Mycroft says to Sir Edwin “You what happened to the other one” –meaning Sir Edwin knows, and there’s no reason for Sir Edward to know about the childhood death of Sherrinford.

My favourite theory: Sherrinford is in prison, and was put there by Mycroft.

His intelligence level does not match up to Mycroft & Sherlock’s thus explaining why they do not mention him the extract from His Last Vow. OR he is much younger than Mycroft and Sherlock, not older like we all presume.

Good Boy

There are voices, and for a second John thinks that someone is up there. A client, he thinks, but there’s something weirdly familiar about the rumbly baritone coming from 221B. It sounds like Sherlock except…

“Who’s a good boy? Who is such a clever boy?”

“I am! I am a good boy!”

John stops, three stairs from the landing, and wonders if he’s gone mad. The door into the sitting room is closed and all he can make out through the textured glass is a vague silhouette in motion.

 “Such a clever, good boy!”

 “Clever and good!”

Sherlock’s voice is high and soothing, the exaggerated tone one takes with small children and animals. Except that the second voice, the one replying, certainly sounds human, but it too is weirdly pitched, oddly whistling and not quite right to be a child. And besides, the idea of Sherlock actually speaking to some random child in their flat is too bizarre to contemplate. Roleplay then? He debates turning back around. If Sherlock is up to something with someone…

But no. Surely if Sherlock was into that sort of thing he would have told John. Surely he would have figured out a way to coerce John into playing out whatever fantasies he had even if John was in any way unwilling.

That would only really leave animals (Sherlock can be slightly stupid about the occasional reptile). However, that still leaves the mystery of the second voice. John’s never known a lizard to talk back.

That leads him back to some kind of roleplay. Could their sex life have really have been failing that badly without him even noticing? Maybe Sherlock just didn’t know how to tell him. Maybe this was his strange Sherlock way of going about it, letting John know without having to let John know, prefacing any kind of personal exposure with as much reciprocal hurt as possible because that was the way Sherlock’s brain sometimes worked.

It’s clear, John thinks as he stands three steps from his flat and contemplates his life choices, that he really is as stupid as Sherlock thinks he is because he honestly can’t think of anything else that would take all the facts into logical account. But he hopes he’s wrong. He really, really hopes. So he braces himself and goes forward. But he does make sure to walk softly.

Slipping quietly in through the open kitchen door he considers peering around the corner first to prepare himself, but something about pulling the bandage off quickly makes him stiffen his spine and simply step out. He’s ready for this, he thinks. He’s ready for anything. There is nothing about… whatever this is that will surprise him.

“Sherlock? What—”

Sherlock actually jumps. John thinks this is the first time he’s ever actually startled the man. “John! Oh. Um.”

“Sherlock. What.”

“It’s for an experiment,” Sherlock says quickly but his face is a bright crimson more normally seen on John (usually because of something Sherlock’s said or done) and he is clearly nervous, his eyes shifting from John to the large cage on the table in which there is…yes. A bird. A parrot possibly. John has no idea.

“Sherlock. No.”

This is the wrong thing to say. He can see Sherlock bridling, every instinct he has automatically ready to do the exact opposite of what anyone else says just because.

“He’s a Psittacus, John. And I already said, it’s for an experiment.”

“It’s a parrot, Sherlock, and what possible experiment could you be doing that you need one?”

Sherlock somehow manages to look both shifty and defensive. “A Psittacus, John. African grey parrot since you’re clearly having trouble with long words again.”

“What experiment, Sherlock?”

Sherlock glares at him before his eyes shift guiltily away again. “It’s highly technical and you wouldn’t understand.”

“Oh my God. You named it, didn’t you?”

“Don’t be stupid, John. This bird is twenty years old, his previous owner has already given him a name.”

“Previous owner?”

“His name is John.”

“Oh my God.”

“Well. Long John Silver.”

“And you couldn’t call it Silver or even Long instead?”

Sherlock looks at him contemptuously. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. How would it look if we told people we had a parrot named Long?”

“Probably better than if you told people you had a parrot named John! Jesus bloody Christ I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.”

“John mustn’t swear!” the parrot suddenly says.

John glares at it. Then glares at Sherlock.

“It is not staying.“



“It’s called John, John.”

“I’m a good boy! So clever!”

“That’s not actually a reason, Sherlock!”

“Sherlock loves John! John loves Sherlock!”

“Oh my God.”


“John is a good boy!”

“I hate you.”

“John loves Sherlock!”

“Can’t you shut it up!”

“John, hush,” Sherlock says sternly at the parrot in the cage. It clacks its beak at him defiantly but goes quiet. “You said I needed a hobby,” he says to John.

John stares at him. “This is not a hobby, Sherlock, it’s a life. An actual living thing!”

“I’m good at living things.”

“Only when it’s interesting!”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m with you, aren’t I?”

“I hate you.”

“John loves Sherlock!”

“Oh my God.”

“Please, John?”

John stares at him. Stares at the bird which is staring back.

“We’re calling it Silver.”


John glares at him.





“I love you.”

“I hate you.”

“John loves Sherlock!”

“Oh my God.”

* * * * *

John shouldn’t be surprised when he and Sherlock wake up the next day to find Mycroft in their flat, but John still sighs and rolls his eyes and very pointedly doesn’t make him a cup of tea.

Not that Mycroft notices. He’s leaning over the cage, peering at the bird, who is peering back.

“Fascinating,” Mycroft says, pretending to be blissfully unaware of Sherlock who has picked up the newspaper and is now aggressively reading it in his chair and doing a terrible job of pretending that Mycroft isn’t there either. “Psittacus erithacus I believe.”

“It’s a bloody parrot,” John mutters.

“John mustn’t swear!”

“Yes, that’s what I said,” Mycroft says. “Does it have a name?”



John and Sherlock both glare at each other.

Mycroft looks between them for a moment and raises a delicate eyebrow. “I see.”

John wisely ignores this. Sherlock, less wisely, snorts and Mycroft’s other eyebrow goes up.

“John, remind me to talk to Mrs Hudson about changing the locks again,” Sherlock snaps.

“Mrs Hudson change the locks!”

“I meant later, John, but thank you.”

“John, is it?” Mycroft says and John actually sees that narrow lip twitch and he makes a mental note to hide Billy the skull again. Possibly in the Thames. “Fascinating.”

“Bloody hell,” John sighs.

“John mustn’t swear!”

“Yes, bloody thank you,” John snaps.

“John mustn’t swear! John loves Sherlock!”

There is the smallest sound from Mycroft and if it were anyone else in the world John would have called it a snicker.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” John sighs.

“Fuck! Fuck Sherlock! Yes! Yes! Oh fuck yes Sherlock!”

The sudden stillness in the flat is deafening.

“Fuck yes! Yes Sherlock! Harder Sherlock! Fuck me harder Sherlock! Fuck! Fuck!”


“John! Hush!”

“Oh dear.”

“Harder Sherlock harder! Fuck yes Sherlock harder!”

“Oh my God no.”

“John! Hush! I said hush you idiot parrot!”

“Fascinating,” Mycroft mutters and his eyebrows are both as high as they can go and John wants to kill him but also Sherlock and he wonders what the chances are of getting away with it.

“Harder fuck me harder! I love your cock Sherlock! Sherlock cock! Shercock! Shercock!”

Sherlock is frantically waving his arms at the cage and the delighted bird inside and John swears the stupid thing is laughing as it clacks it beak and yells “Shercock!” at the top of its range.

“What a very enlightening visit,” Mycroft says and he’s hurriedly backing out of the room. His face is a bright red and as John watches him he very nearly trips on the edge of the rug before shutting the door behind him with a bang.

The second Mycroft disappears the parrot falls silent. John and Sherlock are frozen in a tableau as they listen with slightly horrified looks on their faces as the outside door bangs shut and moment later Mrs Hudson’s voice floats up to them, “Don’t think I didn’t hear that, Sherlock Holmes! And don’t think I’m coming up there again until you teach that bird some manners!” And then the sound of her door firmly shutting reaches them and everything goes silent.

John and Sherlock look at each other, then look at the bird. The bird looks back.

“Tea,” John manages to say even though he has an almost full cup in his hand.

And as he turns around to stumble slightly dazedly to the kitchen, he swears he hears Sherlock’s voice, a soft whispering coo: “Good boy, John. Such a good boy.”


Why Is There A Heart in the Fridge
  • Why is there a heart in the fridge? A human heart. -JW
  • Once again, you see but do not observe. -SH
  • I observe that it's right next to last night's leftovers, which I won't be having for lunch today. Thanks for that. -JW
  • Dull. - SH
  • Is this supposed to be a romantic gesture? -JW
  • I knew you'd make the obvious connection in the end. -SH
  • I'm married, Sherlock. -JW
  • And yet you leave your leftover takeaway in my fridge. What might we deduce about that? -SH
  • That your fridge is closer to my office. Mary and I have plans tonight. Only text if there's an emergency. -JW
  • Of course. Give my love to Mary. And tell her Mycroft sends his regards. -SH
  • Mycroft. Really? Well that's a mood killer. -JW
  • Yes. -SH

It is a painful kind of relief. The phone rings five times, and Lestrade is breathless when he picks up. “Mycroft! Alright?”

Mycroft swallows suddenly, then finds his voice. “Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he says smoothly. “I am afraid that I must break our appointment for this evening. A situation has arisen and I will be unavoidably detained in the office, probably until the early hours of the morning.”

There’s a moment of silence, and a slight rustling at the other end of the phone. It could be a sigh. “Ah well, that’s a shame,” says Lestrade. “I looked the place up. It looked nice.”

“Yes,” says Mycroft, a wry twist to his voice. He’s not sure what else to say.

“So shall we rearrange?” asks Lestrade, hopefully. “Next week?”

Mycroft hesitates, his chest tightening a little. “Ah – I regret, I will be out of the country next week.”

Another small silence, and when Lestrade speaks again, it sounds as though he’s smiling. “Oh, right. Shame. What about the week after? Should I call your not-PA to find out when would be good?”

Mycroft frowns a little, pressing the pen he’s holding down, hard, onto the pad of paper in front of him. This is more difficult than he had anticipated. “Unfortunately it is impossible for me to know the details of my schedule that far in advance,” he says coldly. “It is liable to change suddenly.”

There’s a little chuckle from the other end of the line. Why does Lestrade still sound as though he’s grinning when he speaks? “So I see. Well why don’t you give me a call when you unexpectedly have a spare evening? I’ll try to keep myself free.” There’s a pause, just slightly too long to be unintentional. “For you.”

“Very well, Detective Inspector,” says Mycroft acerbically, and hangs up. He drops his phone back onto the desk and stares abstractedly at the pen he’s still holding. Why did he agree? He should have made clear that he would never have a free evening. Still, at least now he can focus on monitoring the peace negotiations uninterrupted tonight. The clenching in his chest and stomach that he has been experiencing since he set up the meeting with Lestrade have eased, but now there is a dull, heavy feeling settling behind his eyes. Perhaps he is getting ill. He sighs and pulls his laptop back towards him. No time for that.

Keep reading


At the beginning of TSoT we see several papers talking about the Walters family and their incredible crimes.  One paper has an ad that says, ‘Learn to ski for almost free!’  

Near the end of his wedding speech, Sherlock will say, 'no’, to Mycroft, his logical side and say, 'yes’, to John, and express his feelings.  His feelings are that it’s John Watson whom he loves.  Not women, not logic, John Watson.

Right after this he will apologise in a most interesting way.  He will say he was, 'off piste, a bit’.  Not, 'off track’, but, 'off piste’.  He wasn’t treading somewhere he wasn’t supposed to (as he would be if he were off track) he is simply treading somewhere new, where he’s never been before.  "Off piste", is a skiing term meaning to ski on virgin snow, to ski where no one has yet skied.  

This is incredibly telling of his revelation about John.  He has never been here before, to a place of abandoning logic for sentiment.  Of surrendering to his feelings.  This is why this comment is followed by, 'back now, phew!’  He is back, now, to things he’s used to and he’s relieved.

Next he will go straight to talking about murder: his most comfortable area of expertise.  Except, he will immediately equate murder to marriage, thus revealing the symbolism that murder has had all along in this show: it’s about love.  Sherlock might say that he’s, 'back now’, but really, he will never be, 'back now’, after this epiphany.  He will never again go back to his old self.  Not after realising and accepting that he loves John.  The rest of his life and the show, Sherlock will continue to be, 'off piste’.


(As an added bonus, if we scramble and rearranged the letters in the word, 'ski’, we get the word, 'kis(s)’.  'Learn to kiss for almost free!’  What’s, 'almost free’, exactly, in Sherlock’s world?  How much is learning to kiss John going to cost him?  In HLV he will begin to find out.

Bonuser, the graphic in the ski ad is of a small snowflake and a big snowflake.  We have a lot of objects and visuals referencing John and Sherlock’s height difference.  In cups, bottles, beakers, etc.  We could see these snowflakes as John and Sherlock, going off piste and learning to kiss.  Two men covering their faces are pictured directly underneath.  This could represent John and Sherlock, as well.  They’re covering their love, tying to hide themselves from view, even as they secretly prepare to learn to love each other.

Meanwhile, a lot of the audience is still, 'clueless’, as to what’s really going on with John and Sherlock.)