SHERLOCK - And Here's a Hand, My Trusty Friend ch7”Marley was dead to begin with.” William dropped the crumpled bundle of papers with a smack on top of the open books spread out on Mycroft’s desk. He turned with a huff and threw himself down on his brother’s bed.
“I’m… sorry?” Mycroft turned to take in the sight. He cocked an eyebrow and frowned. “William. Shoes.”
“Ugh.” William sighed. He swung his legs off the bed and sat up, quick, appraising eyes taking in every inch of his brother. He hummed with amusement. “A stone, I think.”
”I’m sorry?” Mycroft glared with narrowed eyes.
“You’re seventeen, living a largely sedentary lifestyle, hidden away in the library or locked away in your room. Too socially inept, after years of living in the shadow of our illustrious parents, to comfortably mingle with your idiot peers, you subsist off take away and baked goods that mummy sends you.” William waved a h
SHERLOCK - And Here's a Hand, My Trusty Friend ch6THREE WEEKS BEFORE CHRISTMAS
Harry trailed her fingers along the spines of the volumes lining the shelf. She was completely out of her element, and very near overwhelmed. She inhaled deeply, and let the familiar smell of the worn paper and ink calm her.
Glancing over her shoulder at the novels, Harry sighed. This would be so much easier if John didn’t have his heart set. Of course, he had no idea what she was planning to get him for Christmas, and she was certain he would love any one of the adventure stories at her back. While stories of knights and spies would help him escape reality for a few hours, Harry was more interested in seeing him escape the nightmare their lives had become.
Treating the text in front of her as if it were something sacred, Harry pulled one of the used anthologies from the shelf. The weight of the book surprised her; the price tag nearly caused her to drop it out of shock. With a pained groan, Harry slid the textbook back into pl
SHERLOCK - And Here's a Hand, My Trusty Friend ch5“No!” A disheartened cry startled Mycroft awake. He tried to sit up quickly, but found himself tangled in blankets and swatting colorful fairy lights from around his head.
“What? What’s wrong?” Mycroft rubbed the sleep from his eyes and blinked rapidly.
“You let me fall asleep!” William slammed both fists down in front of him, though the result was less than the desired effect since the only surface available was a heap of blankets and pillows. He sighed in frustration, and crossed his arms over his chest in a full six year-old strop.
“William…” Mycroft yawned and ran a hand through his sleep rumpled hair. “You don’t even believe in Father Christmas, why are you so obsessed with this?” The thirteen year-old was tempted to snuggle back into the makeshift bed of blankets and cushions, but one look at the pouting boy before him made it clear that no one was going back to sleep any time soon.
SHERLOCK - And Here's a Hand, My Trusty Friend ch4“How fast do you think we’re going, Harry?” John knelt in his seat, his face and both hands pressed tight against the cold window of the train. The eight year-old was was nearly vibrating with excitement.
“Fast? How should I know?” Harry shrugged without looking up from her magazine.
“Well, how long until we get there?” Keeping his forehead pressed to the glass, John slowly rotated his head so he could get the best view of the horizon rushing ever toward them. It seemed like the front of the train was gobbling up the track ahead of them, but no matter how fast they went, they would never catch that distant point.
Rocking his head in the other direction, he watched the used up track disappear behind them. He realized that he didn’t recognize any of the things they were passing by, and maybe he never would. But it was too late, because they were gone too quickly. His eyes widened at the bigness of the thought.
John suddenly felt very small.
SHERLOCK - And Here's a Hand, My Trusty Friend ch3“William.” Eleven year-old Mycroft Holmes glanced around the disorder that was his little brother’s bedroom. He sighed his most practiced, adult sounding sigh. “William. I know you’re in this unholy mess somewhere.” He waved his hand dismissively, though he was secretly very pleased with himself. Unholy mess. It felt like swearing, mummy even scolded him for saying it, though he suspected it wasn't really a very naughty phrase at all. Not compared to the types of words the boys at school used when the teachers weren't listening.
A precarious (a lovely word, learned from a rather dull librarian) stack of cardboard boxes shifted. “William, mummy says you’ve got to go to bed.” He cleared his throat. The exact message from mummy had included or Father Christmas won’t come.
As a four year-old, William could believe the made up fairy stories if he wanted to, but Mycroft would not encourage such chi
SHERLOCK - And Here's a Hand, My Trusty Friend ch2Harriet Watson hated Jonathan Watson.
In the infinite wisdom of an eight year-old, she didn't think that it was proper to hate someone. And to be fair, she couldn't think of a single other person she hated. She hated things, and felt that hating a thing was okay, because a thing wasn't a person. Spiders were just asking to be hated. As were lima beans and the color brown. But people weren't meant to be hated.
At least that's what mum always said. And gran too.
Gran said God hated hate. Harry didn't understand exactly how that worked, but she didn't think it would be very good to make God hate her.
But it was hard not to hate the man she called father when her sweet, gentle, beautiful baby brother was huddled under her quilt, clinging to her nightshirt, sobbing. "It'll be okay, Ish. I promise. You'll see. Please don't cry. Please, Ish?"
"I'm bad..." The four year old wept as he buried his face in his sister's chest.
"No, Ish. You aren't. You are so, so good." Harry's
SHERLOCK - And Here's a Hand, My Trusty Friend ch1"I don't know why they all think you're so special anyway. They don't have to live with you. You're positively dull." Seven year-old Mycroft Holmes huffed as he paced.
It wasn't even truly pacing. He had picked out a pattern in the nursery rug that wove back and forth in an uninterrupted line, and he walked along it carefully as if balancing on a tight rope, his arms out slightly to his sides. He called it pacing because that's what the grown ups did. When father would fret, about what Mycroft never really knew, he would march up and down the length of the sitting room. He thought it made his father look strong and serious, like a soldier. Mummy would tell him to stop pacing, have a drink, and try not to think so much.
Mycroft couldn't imagine anything worse than not thinking, and if father thought so much while he paced, then he reasoned pacing would help him think so much as well. And young Mycroft Holmes had weighty matters to consider.
BBC Sherlock - A Day In The Life, chapter 1Chapter 1: Streetlights, People*
The Homeless Network was under attack.
If Sherlock were to pin down a single instance the trouble had started, (and he had to; he found his mind wouldn't allow him to not suss out a timeline, to the exact moment), he would say it was the day six months ago that Lil Sis had peeked out from behind the skip in that alley.
But if Sherlock were to be completely honest, the trouble actually started much earlier than that.
John spotted her first.
Sherlock had been absorbed with the bodies and the evidence, dumbing down his deductions for Lestrade, and putting Anderson in his proverbial place. John had been doing what he always did -- staying out of Sherlock's way, and observing. Military training, John supposed. No matter where he was, he made a habit of knowing every single entrance and exit, and observing every single person who came or went.
That John was even present added to the exceptional nature of the instance in question.
John hadn't bee
BBC Sherlock - La Solidarite"It's just awful." Mrs. Hudson dabbed the tears from her eyes with her handkerchief. She placed the remnants of the tea onto the tray, glanced mournfully once more at the horrific images on the telly, and swept into the kitchen.
"Hmm." Sherlock hummed in agreement. His stare was unfocused as he steepled his fingers under his chin.
Sherlock could observe a great many things about an individual's history. He could use said observations to deduce patterns and potential outcomes.
But it was days like today, when a handful of people could find it within themselves to unleash untold horrors on their fellow humans, that Sherlock found himself lost.
He never presumed to understand what it was inside a man that could drive him to violence, or just as easily compel him to compassion.
As if on cue, John rushed down the stairs from his room. "All right, mate. See you in a few." He hung up the call and skidded to stop as the scene on the telly caught his eye.
"The Stade de France," John mumbled and