no mycroft!

Rosie : Look! I made this friendship bracelet for you!

Mycroft : … I’m not really a jewellery person.

Sherlock : (goes to take the bracelet) It’s okay, you don’t have to wear it.

Mycroft : No. I’m gonna wear it forever. Back off.

[Halloween; Molly is giving out sweets to the trick-or-treating kids]

Molly : Sherlock, we’re out of sweets.

Sherlock : What? Already? There’s only been like three kids.

Molly : (sheepish) Yeah I know, but one little girl told me she loved me so I just gave her everything.

Mycroft : (unsurprised) No wonder you’re pregnant.

I just rewatched Kingsman and remembered how bloody brilliant it is and how much I love it, I mean

“I’m a Catholic whore, currently enjoying congress out of wedlock with my black Jewish boyfriend who works at a military abortion clinic. So, hail Satan, and have a lovely afternoon, madam.” 😂

(also “Mycroft, you’ve just been promoted from my pilot to my valet.”)

anonymous asked:

You know how I know TLD isn't real? When Mrs. Hudson pulls up in her flashy car and hands over her phone to the pursuing police officer, Mycroft is on the other end. The first thing he does is identify himself and the officer straightens his posture as if he is speaking to the queen of England. Mycroft works behind the scenes in relative secrecy to all but the highest levels of government. A low level police officer would have no idea who he is!!! Another hint that something's fishy!

Agreed Nonny. I think there are some aspects of it that are real, but I think most of it may be a result of TD-12. I really believe in the Unreliable Narrator theory, and that ~somehow~ TD-12 is that drug that will explain a lot of the inconsistencies. But alas… just another thing they throw at us and never address again.

emeralb224  asked:

How would Sherlock react to meeting a 16 year old girl with an intelligence quotient of 500

After reading this incredible article, it has occurred to me that Sherlock would be both impressed and desperate. Her intelligence would be delightful, finally, someone to talk to! But the fact that she over-smarts him would frustrate him to the edge of almost hating her. “She is sixteen, John! What were you doing at that age? Nevermind, don’t tell me. She should not know such things! She should not be smarter than me!”

Mycroft would love to see her taking the piss off Sherlock unconsciously as his brother cringes to say something clever that not even she could come up with - although, of course, that doesn’t happen ever.

After a while, he would try to befriend her, understand her even, asking her to teach him, to share her knowledge with him; and she would. They would end up being inseparable, solving crimes within minutes and mocking everyone around them (although, she is a lot nicer than him because she is far too charming). 

I think the development of Sherlock from the minute of meeting her to the very high of whichever relationship they developed would be too interesting to watch.

@laraodobbsey

Your original ask had been purged when I originally shut down my story/imagine submissions back in the early week of March. 

Your prompt was: ‘a short fic on Mycroft and pocket watches.’

Well, here you go.

In the darkness of his study and under the cover of night Mycroft unlocks drawer from behind his family portrait. “The time has come,” he says pulling out a large briefcase and gently carrying it toward his desk.

It is set up with a myriad of things; tiny tools, polish, gears, and lamps-everything one might need.

Carefully Mycroft sets the briefcase down and puts in the proper combination taking great pains not to jostle it thusly. Finally when the clasps release he takes in his prized possessions and diligently sets out to complete his task.

“Tonight’s the night,” Mycroft promises and picks his first target, “And its only fitting that I start with you.”

The lamps on his desk are fixated on a singular point as he sets up the first piece, a tattered pocket watch worn with age and faded face.

With swiftness and precision to try and fix the watch.

 Removing each gear and replacing them with new ones. Tightening old strands of metal paying careful mind not to remove too much or lose the pocket watch’s character altogether and then everything that Mycroft did would be for naught.

Truly, this was a daunting task as clock repair had been outlawed for centuries and knowledge on how to do it only given to those who deserved it.

Mycroft himself is only so fortunate that his talents in the political arena have given him some sway to even have the gist of what to do whereas anyone not deemed important enough would be jailed or shattered for daring to ask yet still he tries.

Sweat starting to bead at his forehead and heat swelling in his face Mycroft is desperate to fix it. “Come on,” he urges the tiny pocket watch as it lies upon once of his pocket squares, “I know you can still work-just please give me a sign that I’m doing something right.”

However the face of the pocket watch remains unaltered, its hands still and its heart silent.

Mycroft is beside himself with grief knowing that in spite of his connections and efforts he cannot bring the watch back to life.

“Its a dangerous business sir,” Anthea had told him when he asked her to try and wheedle intelligence on the practice, “Even someone of your stature could potentially be shattered by the Queen herself.”

Oh and he knew.

The Queen and governments around the world at large seemed to share a policy for that every deceased person’s clock regardless of form or reason was not to be fixed unless they were perceived by their governments as an important asset.

Anyone caught attempting to fix a broken clock of a fallen friend or family would in turn be shattered themselves.

On the surface Mycroft could see why they did it. Having a world over-populated by potential immortals of questionable morals would be a nightmare for any nation. Food shortages would almost be a constant thing to worry about and the environment would be overtaxed in an effort to create more room-it was a comparable doomsday waiting to happen if it morality of the people were not kept in check.

It was also an issue of whether the person once reborn was truly 'the same’ after their clock had been fixed. Many would argue that it would just as soon as become a new person rather than the old soul brought back but the board was still unconvinced.

But theses watches-these people that had made a difference in his life: the ice cream parlor man Mr. Gibbs who believed in him, the kindly librarian Ms. Keen who sheltered him when bullies were on his tail, underlings that had went above and beyond the call of duty to preform on his behalf, people that were targeted because of his position as an untouchable by the state.

He couldn’t just leave them to be shattered and left forgotten under the green earth.  He had to figure out a way to bring them back-he just had to.

As far as he knew Mycroft had all the right tools and basics to reanimate his long lost friends. If anything the pocket watch should be glowing signaling the person’s rebirth.

“Please,” he begs the small pocket watch cradled in his hands, “please Timothy, if you can hear me please come back.”

And still the pocket watch remains the same.

Mycroft cannot care to stop the tears that fall from his eyes as he blinks at the unmoved watch. For years he has tried and tried again to bring his first real friend back to life after he was hit by a drunk driver.

Timothy had deserved better and yet Mycroft had failed him again.

Bringing the pocket watch closer he whispers solemnly to it, “I’m so sorry old friend, I have failed you once again,” before pressing the cool metal to his wet cheek.

It is only through the film of tears that tears that Mycroft notices a faint glowing coming from the pocket watch and the faint tick tick tick starting slowly by his ear.

Mycroft is a fury of movement as he rushes to set the pocket watch down on the couch before the fire and then fetch a blanket before the room is bathed in an unnatural light.

There before him-on his little couch-is a boy no older than 12 lying naked and still, his little chest moving every so slightly.

Cautiously Mycroft creeps closer with blanket in hand to clothe him. His voice is thick with emotion as he calls out carefully, “Timothy? Can you hear me?”

Little blue eyes rip open almost on demand that it causes Mycroft to jump back on reflex clutching the blanket like one might do a shield.

The boy then seems to be very disorientated as he tries to sit up only to fall back down with a soft thud and regards the room. “Mickey?” his voices calls out scratchy and hoarse from decades of inaction, “How did you get so…old?”

Mycroft can’t help the bark of laughter that leaves him as Timothy nor the tears that spring anew. “Oh Timothy,” Mycroft says meaningfully, “you have missed so much.”

It takes little else for Mycroft to cover his old friend with the blanket and hugs him tightly. “I promise that you and the others shall have the lives you sorely deserve and then some,” he promises with a  kiss to Timothy’s brow.

Timothy still looks confused but Mycroft will have plenty of time to tell him and the others once he fixes them.

He will repair them all.