anthea knows

Girls Night

@themarieffect asked that Mary, Anthea and Molly are besties and John, Mycroft and Sherlock find out! Mythea, Warstan, and Sherlolly. This is the last prompt! Turns out I had six prompts, and I couldn’t pass this one up!!! Prompts are closed now though. But stay tuned for more fic giveaways in the future!

There was an awful lot of commotion coming from Molly’s flat. Loud music, glassware clinking and now and then some kind of thumping following by hysterical laughter.

“Oh my Lawks, ‘Thea, you’re going to break something!”

“No I’m not shut up!”

“I wish you’d just wait for Sherlock to come over, he’s tall enough, he can hang them up when he comes over tomorrow-“

This was met by a chorus of whistles and shrieking noises.

“Oh shut up!” Molly shouted, laughing.

John, Mycroft and Sherlock stood on the stairway leading up to Molly’s flat.

“Sounds like a hen party,” John said at last.

“For…what?” Mycroft asked, still staring at the door, quite unused to his wife making crass jokes…or talking about his posterior outside of their bedroom, and to other ladies.

“That’s more than I care to hear about your bottom, brother-mine.”

“Well now we know,” John said, shutting his eyes with a shrug. “Everyone agrees you have a fit bottom, that can also be described as ‘cute’ and ‘perky’, Mycroft,” he slapped him on the shoulder and went on up the stairs.

“You don’t mean you’re actually going up there!” Mycroft gasped.

“Look, Mary texted me, it must’ve been important. What are you doing here anyways?”

Both Holmes brothers shifted, trying to square their shoulders in the narrow hall.

“Molly texted me.”

“I received a text from my wife,” they both answered at once, then glanced at each other.

“Well then…maybe they need ice or snacks, and nobody wants to drive or get dressed or something.”

“Get dressed?!” Mycroft again looked alarmed.

“Yeah,” John said, pausing at the door. “Girls do that. They’ll hang out in their pants all day if they like…doesn’t Anthea do that?”

Mycroft couldn’t speak, eyes glazed over somewhat.

“Molly does that sometimes,” Sherlock volunteered.

John gave a ‘there you go’ nod to him and then knocked on the door.  

“Oh I told you!”

“You haven’t checked yet!”

“Ten to one it’s John-“

There was a ruckus as they all went running across the flat, and fairly ripped the door open. The three of them stood there, half-dressed, Mary and Molly had rollers in their hair, and Anthea was blowing on her nails. Clearly, all of them had been drinking.

“Who did we say wins if all three came at the same time?” Molly asked.

“We do, because we’ll send them for food,” Mary said, and reached for her wallet, pulling out a wad of cash. “Kebab shop is fine! You boys get something for yourselves to eat as well!” with that the door shut, leaving all three of them once again on the landing, wondering what in the heck was going on.

“Were we just-“

“Played like a fiddle, yep,” John nodded, pocketing the money. “Come on, we’ll get the girls something to eat, and then I suggest we go and find a pub.”

“I concur,” Sherlock agreed. “No chip butties though, they make Molly sick.”


“I…I don’t-“ Mycroft was still fumbling for words. “How long has this sort of thing been going on?”

“What?” John laughed. “I dunno. Does it matter?”

“Not in the least!” Mycroft replied. “I am only surprised…”

“That Anthea’s a woman?”

“No, I’ve always been quite aware of that,”

“Then what?” Sherlock asked now, curious as to why his brother was so flustered.

“Well, I always knew you two were idiots,” Mycroft said. “I never expected that I would fall for something as benign as a ‘Come quickly, you’re needed’, text, when I know for a fact there was nothing urgent about.”

“Then why did you come?” John asked. He and Sherlock exchanged grins.

Again, Mycroft looked at them both, weighing the options of telling them the truth or not. Instead he alighted up to the kebab shop door. “Right, so dinner will be on me then,” he declared and headed in.

“You think he was hoping for…”

“A booty-call, yes,” Sherlock nodded.

“I don’t know if I want to let him forget that just yet,” John said, laughing.

“Nor do I, leastwise not for the rest of the night…”


After seeing that we were given the ok to color these, I’ve been wanting to color this for awhile now and finally did.Characters and line art belongs to the lovely @thisiskindagross​.  I wanted to stay as close to her style as I could possibly get while keeping my own little coloring touches.


Even though it had been her idea in the first place, Anthea starts to regret the decision to ask Uncle Sherlock to babysit their daughter. She could probably postpone the G7 meeting; most people there were parents and would understand.

for clarice82


More Krobus Ns bc why not??

Unova Valley absolutely needs to be a thing BUT because sticking to canon would undoubtedly make Ghetsis replace Morris I thought I’d shake it up a bit bc that’d be quite boring tbh SO  heres a dadsis au instead

- N is the child of a Shadow Brute and a Wilderness Golem.  This relationship is forbidden between the two species so his parents were executed and he was left in the Secret Woods as a baby to die

- Ghetsis was originally the owner of Plasma (replacing Joja) but he realised how awful it was and handed it over to Zinzolin and moved to the countryside, giving his daughters all his money to support themselves in a comfortable home while he lives in a tent in the forest to get back in touch with nature as a punishment for himself

- He finds N in the woods one day and saves him from getting eaten by Slimes, deciding to raise him as if he were his own child

- Obviously he has to keep N a secret from the other villagers so people find it extremely odd when they see him with child-sized clothes he’s salvaged from who knows where

- Anthea and Concordia manage to convince him to stay in their house for the winter at least and they take to N immediately loving him like a little brother

- N gets separated from Ghetsis when he’s young - Ghetsis leaves for a little while one extremely stormy night on a quick supply run but when he gets back his tent and N have been swept down the river

- N ends up in the sewers.  He sets up shop and keeps all the money he makes so that if he’s ever able to see his father again he can atleast try to repay him for his kindness and generosity

- Ghetsis has no idea whether N is alive or not and becomes depressed but can’t ever confide his loss in anyone so everyone in town think he’s just even more of a weirdo than before

- N survives on whatever he can salvage from the bug lair and any junk that comes along but mostly void eggs and is best friends with the void chicken who lays them bc he’s trapped down there until two certain farmers come along, that is…

penaltywaltz  asked:

If you are taking prompts, Sherlolly & #8 from the sappy list.

Hi, @penaltywaltz! Sorry for taking forever with this prompt (”Can I touch you?”). Also, I’m not sure this is sappy enough. I hope you like this though!

This is also my contribution to Sherlolly Halloween at 221B thing. Hope the rest of y’all like this too!

Summary: When Sherlock gets stabbed while dismantling Moriarty’s network, Mycroft and Anthea bring him to Molly for medical treatment. She is forced to use her magical skills to save him from certain death. What happens when Sherlock finds out exactly how she healed him?

Rating: T, for description of the stabbing, a few swear words, and some suggestive stuff

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Everything belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. If I owned Sherlock and Molly Hooper, then there would be a lot more Sherlolly in the show.

All mistakes are mine. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.

Your Remedy

Molly tied the sash of her dressing gown tighter as she rushed down the stairs. “Hang on. I’m coming!” she shouted, hoping that her unexpected guest would stop banging on her door or identify themselves.

“It’s probably Sherlock,” Toby, her cat, calmly said as he sat in the doorway to the drawing room.

She halted her steps and turned to him. “Shush! They might hear you.” She glanced at the door. “And Sherlock wouldn’t bang on my door like that. He knows everyone else thinks he’s dead.”

“Unless he’s dying,” the cat said before licking his front paw.

“Hurry, Dr Hooper!” a female voice called out to her before she could answer.

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.”


Anthea didn’t take her husband’s name when they got married, but in theory she is the newest Mrs Holmes.

  • *221B*
  • Baby Holmes: *entering; unwinding her scarf*, wait, that means the colleague must have killed her. The baby was his!
  • Sherlock: *nods* Exactly. Can't have his wife finding out his dirty secret. Strangled the mother, tried to make it look like a burglary. His mistake?
  • Baby Holmes: *snaps her fingers* Nothing was taken. And there was no sign of forced entry.
  • Sherlock: *smirks* Most likely had the key for their meetings.
  • Sherlock & Baby Holmes: *high five*
  • Molly: *standing in the kitchen; arms folded* And where have you two been?
  • Sherlock & Baby Holmes: *glance at each other*
  • Sherlock & Baby Holmes: Cinema.
  • Molly: *raises her eyebrow* Do you think I was born yesterday?
  • Baby Holmes: *opens her mouth*
  • Sherlock: *shaking his head, muttering* Don't don't...
  • Molly: *sighs* Sherlock, she's thirteen.
  • Sherlock: *enthusiastic* Exactly. Practically an adult, aren't you? *pats her shoulder*
  • Baby Holmes: *grins* Does that mean I can get a Pokémon tattoo?
  • Sherlock: ...
  • Molly: *smug; mocking* Well, she is practically an adult, dear.
  • Sherlock: *hesitates* Wouldn't you rather have something else?
  • Baby Holmes: *thinking* How about a tongue piercing?
  • Sherlock & Molly: No!

anonymous asked:

Do you have any headcanons for Fem Mystrade? I'd love to read them!

Wow never thought about this before! (Warning this turned out long haha)

- I can definitely imagine the relationship between female Mycroft and Greg as very Aimee & Jaguar like.(It’s a German lgbt romance movie about lesbians in WW2. If you haven’t seen it, it’s worth the watch.)

- Female Mycroft would be a lesbian whose “officially” in the closet because of her male-dominated government profession. Only Sherlock, her parents and possibly Anthea would know. Getting older she doesn’t face the same bombardment of criticism that she did as a young woman for never marrying or showing interest in men especially male co-workers.  

- Female Gregory would consider herself straight her whole life. She would get married at an acceptable age to a guy her family and friends approved off. Though she would continue to work for the met as the children everyone seemed to be expecting never came. Now an older woman that marriage has crumbled as her husband cheated on her with a woman old enough to be his daughter. Her husband fought tooth and nail not to lose her, she was the house cook, the one that did the cleaning, the one that kept his pathetic life together. But, for all that he couldn’t respect her.  

- Now single female Gregory is full of regret and wonders if she missed something critical about herself after wasting so many years in a dead end marriage. How much of her was shaped by her husband? 

- I think with them both female, Mycroft would make the first move. Mycroft would meet Gregory for the first time and something would just click right then and there. She’d feel a little nervous about it after digging through Greg’s past and finding nothing to indicate she would be attracted to another woman, but would decide it was worth a shot. A shot at happiness.  

- In typical Holmesian fashion, the gestures used to show romantic attraction are rather overdramatic for the 21st century. Anonymous handwritten love poems, a long necklace of pearls draped over Greg’s desk as work, her favorite flowers on the doorstep. Mycroft keeps all the gifts anonymous until she builds up the will to reveal herself.

- Gregory is beyond flattered by the gifts. The flowers brighten up her kitchen, she wears the pearls out to dinner parties and the love poems make her cry. She’s never been treated this way before, her ex-husband’s idea of a gift was a generic hallmark card with money stuffed inside. But, this meant so much more. 

- People at work were starting to talk about her happy demeanor, she’s been floating on air recently and no knows why. When she tried to explain she realized even she didn’t have all the facts. Why was she getting these gifts? From who?   

- She decided to investigate for herself. She’s a D.I. it can’t be too hard to trace some presents, right? Wrong. It took months, whoever this suitor was the paid off their sources well. When the trail finally led her to the house of Sherlock Holmes older sister, she was shocked, confused and maybe a little scared. Yet, as she knocked on the door things started to fall into place.

- Female Mycroft was sitting in front of a new bouquet breathing deeply as she worked up the courage to sign the little card “With love” and her name when she got that knock on the door. Thinking it was Anthea or Sherlock she answered quickly leaving the flowers in view, orange lilies and baby’s breath. She stumbled back when she saw Gregory instead. Greg looked past her, focusing on her favorite flowers sitting on the counter a few feet away from her before leaning in the capture Mycroft’s lips.     

Ended up talking a lot about how they got together instead of already in a relationship. Hope that’s still cool, might do a Part 2 of this at a later date.             

okay so I’m rewatching ASiP, and I know everyone and their mother has made a connection between classic lip lick flirt™ by Johnny h. Watson directed at Anthea and then the not-date/date with Sherlock, but like, the writers were also really blatantly making another significant parallel here, extremely early on, in revealing that John had A Type

I mean think about it. he JUST met Anthea, he doesn’t know a thing about her, except for the fact that she’s mysterious, haughty, hot, and is working for THE MAN WHO JUST KIDNAPPED HIM.

like?? mmm, now, Watson my lad, I’m not sure about this but I feel like maybe you just met someone, tall, dark, mysterious, handsome, and arrogant, who investigates dangerous crime, that you are also attracted to. who on earth could that be I wonder?? sounds so familiar

(and, of course, this Type is further compounded by Mary, who he says he’s not known for a very long time, and then later we find out she is a Murderess Extraordinaire who is Extra full of herself, ms. “I agree I’m the best thing that could have happened to you ehehehehhee”)  

the writers couldn’t have hit us over the head with this any harder if they’d released a statement with that THIS MAN IS BISEXUAL gif with a psychiatric evaluation pinned to it that states in bold red letters: ABNORMALLY ATTRACTED TO DANGER

like?? live your life johnny boy but maybe someone needs to sit down and have a talk with mr. trust issues about fuckin stranger danger

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