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.”
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.
John looked down and scuffed his foot a little against the familiar floor of 221b. Mycroft had come round to ‘check’ on Sherlock and himself again; not surprising, considering - well, everything. But John had found himself looking forward more and more to the man’s visits. Admiring the elegant way he moved - and dressed - and spoke - and walked - and - oh, god, John was smitten.
Even the click of his umbrella up the stairs had been enough for John to quickly shut his newspaper and throw it down, standing up fast to greet him, smiling, stupidly, awkwardly getting tea. Dropping the cup, and then another one, cursing round in the kitchen while the brothers glared at one another; John had served tea in Mason jars that had previously had eyeballs in them. Nobody touched the tea.
Now Sherlock had stormed off, somewhat predictably, and Mycroft had asked John a few banal questions and risen to go.
But John didn’t want him to go.
He felt and saw out of his peripheral vision the man turn expectantly for John to finish his sentence; he was buttoning his coat; he was going to leave. John was aching, desperately reaching for anything to get him to stay.
“Would you - I mean, um - “ John scratched at an eyebrow, looked down at the floor, up again.Finally the words all came out in a rush:
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.”
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
“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.
Could you please do an imagine on how Mycroft would be on his wedding day? if you already haven't that is. Thanks love!
Mycroft is a bundle of nerves on his wedding day. Excited and elated beyond words because he never thought this day would come for him, nervous because there is a chance that his bride to be may have second thoughts. For his part though Mycroft has no such feelings as he’ s 100% sure about marrying her. He has made a point to make sure that everything goes perfectly as planned but he knows he can’t foresee everything no matter how much spying he does. So Mycroft will pretty much be holding his breath until she says ‘yes’ and then be ridiculously happy for the rest of the night and beyond.
Anthea, he really wanted it. And he did it in this form, because he does not know how. Why not understand it and say yes?
The thing about Mycroft is you can’t just give him what he wants because he wants it. You can’t just lay down to his demands. It wasn’t what I wanted. It wasn’t a proposal I’d ever say yes to, so I didn’t. I’m not going to get engaged for the sake of the man. I’ll do it for me.
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.
WHO IS SHERRINFORD IN THE
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
B - Sherrinford is
C - Sherrinford is a
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
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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!”
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…
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.
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.
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
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.
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 actually jumps. John thinks this is the first time he’s ever actually startled the man. “John! Oh. Um.”
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.
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.”
“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?”
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.”
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.”
* * * * *
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.
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.
“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.
“Harder Sherlock harder! Fuck yes Sherlock harder!”
“Oh my God no.”
“John! Hush! I said hush you idiot parrot!”
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.
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
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.”
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 unexpectedlyhave 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.
Okay, for the people who are still confused about why the rest of us are laughing about the very casual sniper in Sherlock’s “Lazarus” explanation of the fall…
YES, Sherlock did say Mycroft took care of the sniper.
But look at the scene more closely.
They showed the sniper aiming at John’s head after Sherlock had already pulled his whole airbag & body swap fakeout. You can tell because when John is in the crosshairs (third image in this set), he’s standing on the sidewalk in front of St. Bart’s by the place where Sherlock fell. John obviously wasn’t allowed over by the fall site before the airbag and body swap, or that would’ve ruined the trick.
So for Lazarus to be true, it would have to mean the sniper (considering his angle of view) watched people inflating a big airbag, Sherlock landing on the airbag, Sherlock getting up and running away unharmed, a corpse getting dumped out the window, that corpse being hauled off as Sherlock took its place, and Sherlock being wheeled away into the hospital. But despite seeing all of the clear shenanigans being pulled, the sniper didn’t take aim at John’s head until after Sherlock was hauled away.
Even though that sniper’s only job was to kill John if Sherlock didn’t really take the fall. And even though the giant blue airbag being inflated before John ever arrived on the scene was a pretty good tipoff that Sherlock didn’t intend to go through with it.
To make matters worse, it wasn’t until the sniper aimed at John’s head that Mycroft’s people intervened. I mean, if that had been the true story, what a terrible idea! John just as easily could’ve been killed before they stopped the sniper from pulling the trigger. But apparently Mycroft’s people are very casual as well?
So basically it’s lucky the whole thing was a big, fat ball of lies Sherlock told Anderson. (At least according to me. And many other fans.)
Also of interest: That shot of the sniper “aiming” at John’s head? It was actually the shot from Reichenbach of the moment the sniper gave up and stopped aiming at John. They just ran the footage backwards. And the shot of the sniper in the crosshairs of Mycroft’s team was also old Reichenbach footage with an image overlay. Meaning they didn’t think ahead and shoot footage to cover what happened to the sniper in this version of events when they were filming Reichenbach, or care enough about this scenario to get new footage when they filmed The Empty Hearse. They just slapped a couple of effects on there and called it a day.
Also also of interest: The Lazarus version of events implies Mycroft’s people shot the sniper, what with the big crosshairs on him and “Is it done?” and all. But in Reichenbach we saw that after the sniper decided not to shoot John, he calmly packed up his stuff and left. No indication whatsoever anyone else was there in the stairwell with him. Meaning apparently Mycroft’s plan was:
let sniper watch the whole secret plan unfold
wait until sniper is a trigger-pull away from killing John
very very quickly bribe the sniper into keeping his mouth shut, and hope that works out
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.)
"The answer is yes," John says before Sherlock can even suggest going out for a fancy dinner so he can pop the question. "But you don't even know the question," Sherlock replies stunned that John's deduction skills have surpassed his own. "Don't look at me like that," John chuckles, "I haven't become a master of deduction, but I do know that you intend to propose to me and I'm saying yes." "Did Mycroft tell you? Or was it Greg? Or Molly?" Sherlock asked. "You talk in your sleep."