holmes brothers feelings


Sherlock: Is a phone call possible? 

Mycroft: Phone call? 

Sherlock: Sherlock has a brother he may wish to say goodbye. John has a daughter he may wish to say goodbye.

A Forgotten Wish

It was lying in the bottom of the box, after all the other baubles and detritus of a former life were cleared away. Some binned, some carefully repackaged and placed in places of honor around Baker Street, and some hidden away under carefully indexed socks never to again see the light of day.

It took Sherlock a moment to recognize the non-descript paper. After all there was nothing really outstanding about it: folded three times, slightly yellowed around the edges with time, crumpled like the owner had held it tightly in their fist before giving it up. When he did realize what it was he was seeing, it was with a slight tremor that he reached into the box to retrieve it, lifting it with a care usually reserved for handling dangerous corrosive chemicals. Unfurling the paper he slowly scanned the contents, taking note of the sloppy scrawl, a child’s writing only later maturing into the slightly-less sloppy block printing that would be used to comment on everything from tobacco ash to shopping lists. Backward S’s making him smile, he traced each one carefully as he remembered the events that led him to write this letter.


Another fight. Could one really call it a fight if It were one-sided? But another split lip, skinned knees, ripped hem. Other children it seemed would never understand him. He always vowed to try to be more like those he spied running and playing and jumping, but something always gave him away. Some trace of “wrongness” that either came from his manner, or most often, his mouth.

It was Mycroft who found him that time. Home from School for Winter Holiday, he dusted him off and asked him why he cared so about what they thought.

“I’m lonely,” Sherlock remarked.  “I want a friend. Just one friend who will never leave. Even you left.”

Mycroft looked stricken for one moment before gathering Sherlock to him in an awkward hug, “I’m sorry Little Bee.”

“Myc, do you think if I ask Father Christmas for a friend, he’ll bring me one?”

Mycroft hid his watery smile behind his hand, “It’s worth a try, William. I’ll help you write a letter.”

And so Sherlock had sat down at his writing desk and with Mycroft’s help composed a letter to Father Christmas asking for someone to watch over him, a friend to play pirates with, who would listen to his stories and never leave. He folded it three times and grasping it tightly to his chest, asked if Mycroft would please post it the next day.

Sherlock had no doubt Mycroft had held his word, for there on Christmas morning was a beautiful Irish Setter puppy, whom Sherlock promptly named Redbeard. And when Mycroft left again for school, Sherlock had Redbeard to whisper his secrets to, and cuddle during storms. And it didn’t matter that no one else wanted to play pirates with him because Redbeard was his first mate.

Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever. The day Sherlock lost his only friend, he decided that friends were silly anyway, and no one would ever hold his heart again. Friends were for stupid boys named William, and Sherlock was going to face the world alone.


Sherlock looked down again at the letter in his hands. Mycroft had kept it all these years, tucked away with his important files and papers, the only box that contained any family information. Why this letter? He’d dearly love to ask him. It seemed now he’d give anything for Mycroft to sweep into 221 with his arrogant manner when for so long it was a annoying imposition. But that was as unlikely to happen as Redbeard to come bounding in the flat so best to stop that train of thought immediately.

“Sherlock, you finish that last box - what’s wrong?”

“Just old ghosts, John, something I’d forgotten.”

“Sherlock?” John kneeled down by Sherlock’s side, hands reaching out to rest on Sherlock’s knee. Strong hands, used to defend, to protect, to treat, and to love. Sherlock smiled as he watched the firelight play off the band on John’s hand, the same glint that matched his own.  

“Something you want to talk about, love?”

“It’s nothing John,” Sherlock replied as he leant down to brush their lips together tenderly. Once twice, a kiss for his husband, his lover, his friend. “It’s just that I realize Father Christmas really does exist.”

tags and notes under the cut

Keep reading

Little Sherlock being all: “Mycroft, I need to go up to the roof to watch Santa.” And teenaged Mycroft feeling very sentimental- after all, it is Christmas Eve- and not wanting to ruin The Fun for once… so, he actually gets the ladder and they clamber up together, out of sight from their parents.

And Sherlock watches Mycroft stagger around and yelp “Sherlock, careful!” when they’re on the roof, and Sherlock laughs, “Don’t worry, I know he’s not real, I just wanted to come up here. It seemed cool.”

And Mycroft is just the picture of Outrage: “You little horror, you know what I’m like with heights!”

John expressed his fury/anger/sadness/disappointment/hurt or whatever he’s feeling towards Sherlock knowing that the drugs that he took could “kill him.” Sherlock said good bye because he knew it could possibly kill him.

He showed defeat. How he’s ready to give up his life already.

And this is where Mycroft comes in. How he allowed himself to become vulnerable even in front of John and Mary (and we know how he loves showing his superiority over others and how sentiment doesn’t affect him). He allowed it because he knew what Sherlock had in mind and it’s his way of reassuring him that someone will definitely grieve; someone cares. That it would “break his heart.” Even before that, HE KNEW IT. He loves his brother so much. He knows he is his weakness and that’s the thing he’s not afraid to show. That’s why Mycroft wants Sherlock to not care. That ‘caring is not an advantage’ because he knows it firsthand. The way he said he’ll always be there for Sherlock. The way he asked John to protect him. MYCROFT WILL NEVER TRADE HIS BROTHER FOR THE WORLD.

//gross sobbing asdfghjkl
Thank you for breaking my heart. This beautiful brotherly love. Help.💔😭

Christmas Special - First Thoughts

Firstly, I’m alive. Sorry I’ve not been around for the hiatus! Hello again, how is everyone?

But oh, that episode. It was insane, and wonderful, and also insane. And demands rewatching before I make my mind up about it.

And yet, I’m full of Holmes brothers feelings! The smarter brother in Sherlock’s mind palace, who Mary calls “the clever one” inside Sherlock’s own drug-induced dream. The real Mycroft who promises to always be there for him. The flashbacks to them on the floor of that drug den. The real-or-not Mycroft who would stay to help his brother dig up a body (without muddying the suit, of course), just because Sherlock said he needed to.

And, of course, the reappearance of Mycroft’s notebook! I don’t think we’ve seen that since A Study in Pink? But there it was again, and he carefully files away the scraps of Sherlock’s ‘list’. Revealing what we probably all suspected - that notebook is all about his little brother.

Oh the feels!

“I have a trade of my own. I suppose I am the only one in the world. I’m a consulting detective, if you can understand what that is. Here in London we have lots of Government detectives and lots of private ones. When these fellows are at fault they come to me, and I manage to put them on the right scent.”
                                                            -  A Study in Scarlet

“Well, [Mycroft’s] position is unique. He has made it for himself. There has never been anything like it before, nor will be again. He has the tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest capacity for storing facts, of any man living. The same great powers which I have turned to the detection of crime he has used for this particular business. The conclusions of every department are passed to him, and he is the central exchange, the clearinghouse, which makes out the balance. All other men are specialists, but his specialism is omniscience.”
          - The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans

Our boys, always having to be unique. Inventing their own jobs, the only ones the world will ever see.

I also love how they basically do the exact same work, only in different fields.


It’s a story my brother told me when we were kids. The East Wind – this terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the Earth. That was generally me.