FANFIC BLAAARG

So this is something half-inspired by a brain doing stupid things for a post-Reichenbach reunion and is FREAKISHLY similar in nature to this little piece of art by kirby-chan; http://kirbyhasapencil.tumblr.com/post/23303680260/im-home-post-reichenbach-angsty-reunion-comic-i

So… yus. Check that out.

I don’t know the exact origin of the gif, though I am 99.9% that the source I found is accurate. Okay.

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John frowned and rolled over in bed. Was that violin music he was hearing? He shrugged it off mentally, dismissing it as a figment of his imagination. But rolling over and squeezing his eyes shut tighter didn’t make the sound go away.

Alright. It wasn’t his imagination. But then who the hell was playing the violin at this hour?

Whoever it was, they were cruel. This was bringing back memories… His mind’s eye was soon filled with images of a certain someone’s chin resting lovingly upon a fine violin. Beautiful, slender fingers dancing across the finger board whilst the dark-haired male made the bow sail gracefully across the strings. Music wafting forth - sweet and soulful - drifting through the apartment at hours acceptable or not. Though Sherlock was a man of edges - with his sharp cheekbones, bony body and harsh words - he was always lovely and soft when he played his violin.

John shocked himself. Sometimes it didn’t seem like it had been three years since Sherlock had died - the memories were still so clear in his mind. It was at those times, when John was remembering, he was always remembering, that he wondered if he did in fact live in the apartment alone, or if he was sharing it with a ghost. Bloody Sherlock Holmes’s goddamn ghost.

The violin music continued to call to him, and John flopped over so he could glare at the digital clock that sat on his bedside table. ‘Oh bloody hell,’ he thought. ‘It’s three in the morning.’

That was when John left the warmth and dubious comfort (his dreams were very rarely comforting, anymore) of his bed with the knowledge that before he rest his head upon another pillow, he was going to have committed murder. 

And John really didn’t give a damn.

He marched down the stairs like a man with a purpose - for once. His friends might have been glad to see him thus. Since Sherlock had died, John hadn’t show a flicker of motivation to do much of anything. Yes, he worked, but he worked like a drone, simply going through the motions. They might even accept his homicidal thoughts directed at the unfortunate instrumentalist acceptable, as long as John got moving and seemed to care about his surroundings. 

However, his leg made the act of going downstairs a problem. After the scandal, the bloody thing had stopped working properly. It seemed determined to work against him, giving out at the worse times - especially when he was agitated or thinking of Sherlock, which were usually things that came in tandem with each other. He normally carried his cane everywhere, just in case, because his errant limb gave out more often than it didn’t.

But, of course, he’d forgotten his cane in his rush to commit a felony.

However the universe seemed to have planned stalling John in this way. It gave the doctor time to listen - really listen - to the melody. And it was in that time that he realized that the source of the tune was close. Very, very close.

‘No,’ John thought, his heart plummeting. He rushed down the stairs at that moment, leg be damned, flinging himself into the doorway to their - No, yours. Just yours, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time - living room.

There, silhouetted by the light of streetlamps was a very familiar shape - cheek bones, thin limbs, curled hair, violin in his grasp. John wondered for a few moments if this was simply an angel - or a ghost. It seemed too ethereal to be real, but this was the first time that he’d been visited by a specter… and John didn’t believe in ghosts.

So he turned on the lights. They illuminated the room, drenching Sherlock in their warm glow. The man - if it really was him, John couldn’t be sure - was slightly turned from the door, but the blond could see enough of his face to see the slight, peaceful upturn of his lips and how his eyes were closed as he played this violin piece from the heart. John’s own heart hammered, seemingly determined to jump from his stomach to his throat and then out of his chest. Sherlock played one last tremulous note before carefully putting his instrument aside and opening his eyes so he could turn and stare at John.

And he smiled.

That wanker smiled.

John’s expression hardened, and the military man knew how he was going to test whether this was an illusion or not.

In the moments between John winding up for the punch and his actually striking the other male, a myriad of emotions crossed Sherlock’s face. Joy to surprise to acceptance. The blond witnessed it all before his fist collided with those goddamn cheekbones, causing Sherlock to fall to the floor with a resounding thud. John followed him, falling on top of him, straddling the detective and clutching his shoulders as though he would vanish if John didn’t hold him tight enough.

“How?!” The military man bellowed. It was a layered question. How are you alive? How could you do this to me? So many things expressed with one loud word coming from a man who looked fit to kill. Sherlock didn’t respond, which was probably wise, and simply stared at John, the shame clear in his eyes.

His partner’s fury was so complete that it took his brain a few minutes to find something bordering sanity. And that was when John computed that this was real. The man he held in his hands, whom he was pinning to the ground, wasn’t a delusion. This was Sherlock. And a tidal wave of feeling crushed down on him, swallowing him whole. Three years of grief, anger and pain collided together to form a beast that consumed Watson internally… And though he was a strong man, it was more than he could handle all at once.

Then there was also the joy. The utter relief that he wasn’t crazy and that Sherlock was really, honestly and truly living.The man wasn’t sure what the hell his heart was doing anymore, but he could hear it pounding in his ears. A boom box, that was what he was, too loud, too much, just beating the bass of his own music into the world. 

An ugly sob escaped his lips. John hadn’t even realized that he was crying. But there they were - streams of tears pouring down his cheeks and staining the shirt of his not-dead friend. A friend who was reaching up to touch his face, tracing the new lines in John’s face with his thumbs and ghosting touches along his cheeks.It was too much… just too much.

John collapsed into Sherlock’s chest, absorbing his warmth and taking in his smell. He smelled of home. John hadn’t realized how much he had missed that smell. Unconsciously, the doctor found himself listening to the other man’s heart - beating, thank god - and attending very closely to the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Glorious life flowed through this body, like it ought to. Sherlock merely breathed gentle “Shhhh“‘s into John’s forehead and tangled his hands in the other males hair.

“I’m sorry, John,” he heard Sherlock say softly, his voice rumbling in his chest. “I’m home.”  

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In another note, just to make this worse. A friend and I decided that the song Sherlock was playing was something he had composed SPECIFICALLY for John. So… uh… yeah. >.<”

against-stars:

when I was a young boy, I wanted to sail around the world
that’s the life for me, living on the sea!

obligatory “baby Sherlock playing pirate” doodle.

So this was intended to be a cute, fluffy little fic inspired by this image by against-stars…

It… uh… kind became angst. With a “happy” ending, I guess? But… uh… enjoy. And I hope the artist doesn’t mind. ^^”

Note: This is totally unedited, and if you see a foolish mistake, please feel free to message me.

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Mycroft lay on his stomach upon the carpet in the living room, flipping through the pages of the book he’d picked up for a bit of light reading. The teen was propped upon his elbow, engrossed in his reading, though not engrossed enough to miss the clomping of feet indicating that Sherlock had just arrived home from his play date. He vaguely heard his mother say something - probably a greeting of some kind, followed by a question as to how Sherlock was, knowing Mother. The younger boy responded with some cheerful thing and was soon pounding his way into the living room.

“Mycroft, I’m running out to the store! Watch Sherlock while I’m gone,” he heard his mother say.

His older brother didn’t even look up; he possessed the skill (though his teachers and mother weren’t sure it was, in fact, a skill) of tuning in to anything he deemed important whenever he needed to whilst reading. He didn’t need to stop reading to attend to her words, nor did he need to pay attention to his brother in order to babysit him whilst his mother was out.

Perhaps that was what made Sherlock plunk his skinny little bottom down on the small of his brother’s back. Mycroft grunted, and then sighed before turning his head slightly to stare at his little brother, who had a white and red striped scarf binding all but a few of his dark, wild curls to his head. The little boy grinned at him before saying, “Hey, Mycroft, look at what John n’ I made!” at which point he proudly showed off a make-shift triangular sail that had rather clearly once been a few large sticks and an a piece of an old bed sheet. 

“Very nice,” Mycroft said, genuinely. He noticed his brother held in his other hand the small ships wheel that he’d been given for his previous birthday. “Pirates again?”

The younger boy nodded eagerly. “John and I are practicing. Someday, we’re gonna grow up and get our own ship and sail away and I’m gonna be the Captain and John’s gonna be my first mate and we’re gonna be happy.” Mycroft chuckled. He’d heard these grand “plans” before, and it seemed to him that they got more complex with each passing play date. 

Before the elder could comment, the younger declared, “Now, you’re gonna be my ship! Ye’ve got a fine mast and,” Sherlock stuck the wheel between Mycroft’s shoulders, “The best captain in the seven seas! Ahoy mates! We’re off!” And with this, the boy began to narrate about the beauty of the oceans and the superiority of his vessel - the Mycroft.

The Mycroft smirked, before grimacing as his brother began to move the wheel about upon his back, in order to steer Mycroft and himself towards adventure, glory and plunder, undoubtedly.

Even though this was not comfortable for Mycroft, he indulged Sherlock, not commenting on how his brother’s bony buttocks poked into his back or how he was rapidly starting to lose feeling in his legs. They didn’t get to play together often - Mycroft was so focused on his school work and Sherlock, despite having few friends who could tolerate his quirks, was constantly occupied with John, his best friend. And to most anyone, Mycroft Holmes would say that his brother was a royal pain. What the brunet never admitted was that he longed to spend more time with his brother, and loved every second he had with Sherlock… well, of course, excepting those times when Sherlock actually was a brat.

Knowing that he wasn’t going to pay any attention to his literature any longer, Mycroft slowly shut his book and moved to slide it under the coffee table, where it might be a bit safer for a period of time. He loathed the thought of anyone stepping upon a book, and could be very protective of them when Sherlock got too rowdy. This time, hopefully, it would be out of harms way when Mycroft began to actually play along.

Having seen the Dickens to safety, the teen grinned before saying, “Oh no, Cap’n Holmes! We seem to have run into a storm!” This being said, the Mycroft began to tip wildly side to side, occasionally lifting upward to indicate a mighty wave. The boy on his back laughed for a few seconds before sobering up so as to deal with the threat.

“We must make it through this storm!” Sherlock bellowed, while waving his mast about as he gave more orders about where such and such crew member should go. Steadily, the storm became worse and worse, and soon Sherlock had to begin describing (in rather brutal detail, Mycroft found) which parts of the ship were lost and which crew members met their salty end in the depths of the unforgiving waters. It did not take long for it to be nothing but the imaginary-John, Sherlock and a few crucial pieces of the Mycroft left, wildly being tossed about in the storm.

By this point, not even the mast or the ships wheel remained. Sherlock pretended to desperately cling to his ship and John as the storm’s fury merely seemed to get worse. Mycroft produced a cracking sound and said, “Cap’n, I fear my hull has been breached!” Looking around, Mycroft grabbed a pillow and continued, “Here, take this piece of me and float away to safety with John!”

He watched the little boy think it over, before he hugged Mycroft tightly. “A good Captain never leaves his ship.” That said, he began to monologue about how wonderful it had been to be a pirate and how honored he had been to serve on such a good ship and with such a fine crew. To show his final defeat to the storm, Mycroft rolled over, tossing Sherlock off as he did so. The boy was soon back and clutching at his brother’s side, small hands tightly holding the red fabric of Mycroft’s shirt. 

The teen smiled down at his brother, wrapping an arm around the smaller boy, who had gotten very quiet and now had a thoughtful expression upon his face. Mycroft had to wonder what was going on inside Sherlock’s head for a few moments, until the dark-haired child twist so that he could stare up into Mycroft’s face.

“Mycroft… promise me that, no matter what, we’ll never leave each other. No matter how bad the storm, you won’t go.” Though surprised by the request, his answer was easy.

“Of course we won’t leave each other. We’re brothers. We don’t leave each other. It’s not what we do.” He saw Sherlock slowly nod his head and noticed how the boys grip on his clothing became tighter.

“Yeah…” Sherlock replied softly, before burying his face in his brother’s side and breaking down into tears.

Mycroft’s eyes widened in shock, and quickly sat up, pulling Sherlock with him while hugging him tightly with both arms. “Hey… hey… what’s going on?” Sherlock shook his head, free curls flinging from side to side as he did so, and rubbed at his tears with his free fists.

“Nothing,” the boy replied, a little petulantly. Mycroft was not so easily put off.

“Oh please. There must be something. You can tell me.” His voice seemed properly gentle, he thought.

It didn’t take much more encouragement to get Sherlock to open up. “John’s moving. He doesn’t know it yet, but I can tell. There were all these boxes in his garage and his parents have been making him clean his room.” Mycroft struggled to find something to say. He couldn’t be sure that his brother was correct in his assumption unless he checked himself, but Sherlock had shown a knack for deduction when Mycroft had introduced it as a game. The sad truth was, it would not be unlikely if Sherlock was right about this.

“Maybe… maybe he’s not moving. People often put boxes in their garages and have children clean their rooms…” The teen scrambled for some flimsy reasoning that would calm the young boy before him. God, how he loathed to see Sherlock cry.

“Not boxes with labels like ‘for new kitchen’!” Sherlock yelled, more tears spilling over his cheeks, though he fought valiantly to keep them back. Mycroft grimaced, before pulling his younger brother close. He wasn’t sure what to say or what to do.

“Hey, hey… Listen, you and John can still remain friends, even if he moves away. You can write each other letters and I’m sure that we can find a way for you two to have little get-togethers from time to time.” The words seemed to be comforting, as the crying was dying down to snuffling even as Mycroft spoke.

“You really think so?” Sherlock queried, voice trembling.

“I really do. Now,” Mycroft said, releasing Sherlock so that he could look his brother in the eyes, “Just enjoy your time with John. And I know it’s hard to know he’s going to move, but you must let his parents tell him when they’re ready.Remember, it’s going to be much harder for him, because he’s the one who’s moving.” Sherlock nodded slowly, taking all this in before grinning.

“Besides, no matter where John goes, we can still become pirates when we grow up.”

Mycroft smiled, laughing lightly. “Yes you can.”

Sherlock’s face relaxed and became thoughtful once again as he leaned against his brother. There was a silence, before the boy said, “Hey, Mycroft?”

“Mm?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Sherlock. And I always will.”

So… I felt inspired. And WENT WITH IT. So… uh… unedited cute for you?

Joan woke up to the strange sensation of something – she couldn’t identify the nature of it through the tee-shirt she slept it – pressing into her armpit, as a puppy would shove it’s nose into various body parts to get someone’s attention. But there was most certainly no puppies in 221B, and no good reason for things to be prodding Joan in such places, and in her half-awake state, she fuzzily realized that it this was seriously troubling…

Her mind caught up, and with a squeak, the woman sat bolt upright, jerking as far away from the unknown sensation as possible and struggling to reach for the pistol that was in her drawer. The blond didn’t reach it, however, as a pale, thin hand clutched her bicep and held her still. Instinctively, the woman struggled for a few moments, until a familiar feminine voice moaned, “Joan, go back to sleep.”

Suddenly, the veteran stilled completely, shock flashing in her brain. “Sheryl?!” Joan exclaimed in disbelief, her voice ringing with annoyance and embarrassment. Twisting so that she could reach her bedside lamp, the blond clicked it on and turned yet again so she could see the woman who had so unceremoniously invaded her bed.

Her partner rolled away from the light with another groan, wrapping her arms around her head and curling into a fetal position until nothing of her head but the impressive crown of raven curls could be seen by the other woman. “Turn off the light,” the great Sheryl Holmes said, a hint of a whine in her voice.

Despite herself, the military woman found herself staring… Sheryl had a fascinating back and wistfully the woman wondered what it would be like to trail kisses up it to the elegant neck it led to… With a firm shake of her head and a flush forming on her cheeks, Joan pushed the thoughts away, crossing her arms and arching an eyebrow. In the sternest voice that she could manage while trying not to pay any mind to the stunning lady who lay upon the side of her bed, she said, “Not until you tell me what you’re doing. In here. With me. In my bedroom. You have your own, you know.”  

With a frustrated sigh that would have made any angst-ridden, rebellious teen proud, the younger woman writhed onto her back, arms flinging to her sides as she did so, to glare at her friend as best she could through squinted eyes. “Boring,” she said simply, something pout-like tugging at her sharply beautiful face.

Joan was not impressed, and rather aggravated by the fact that now Sheryl was not only interrupting her sleep cycle, but also taking up half of her bed. She tried to tell herself that this was a problem, but the constant movement created a tantalizingly slow rise of the hem of her flatmates nightdress that was making attention upon anything but the amount of flesh that was being revealed terribly hard for the blond to focus on.

What’s wrong with you, she scolded herself. This is Sheryl. You two work together, for God’s sake. But that didn’t stop Joan from looking.

Sheryl was a striking woman. Sharp featured, perhaps, but there was a beauty to the edginess of her looks. There was a reason that Samuel Donovan liked to call her the Ice Queen – the consulting detective’s light eyes, alabaster skin and unsmiling face made her look positively frozen… But she had always had surprisingly soft and warm skin whenever Joan had had the occasion to brush against it, and when the dark-haired female smiled, she was positively radiant.

But Joan realized now that Sheryl also had a beautiful body, no matter her facial features. A shapely figure and breasts that were just the right size… Any male would have envied Joan for having a woman like that splayed next to her on a bed.

She felt her mind get dizzy with the heat that flooded there, and closed her eyes, struggling to tame her wild emotions. Get a grip, she shouted mentally.

“Sheryl… go to bed.” She managed at last on a shaky exhale.

“I was going to, but then you made such a fuss,” was the languid reply. Joan’s jaw tightened.

“In your own room,” she clarified, trying to pitch her voice so that it was authoritative. It instead sounded a little strained, and so the woman opened her eyes so that she could give Sheryl a disapproving look.

The detective’s eyes did not meet hers. Rather, she now lay completely straight upon the bed, arms tightly wrapped around herself, her eyes thoughtfully – perhaps a little sadly – staring at the ceiling. There was something else at work here, Joan realized. It was more than just to harass her that Sheryl had so rudely impinged upon her personal space, though she had been awoken by her for much less.

She knew there was no way she could get the other woman to admit that there was something wrong – Sheryl Holmes was far too proud for that – but perhaps she could at the very least help.

A sigh escaped Joan, and she slouched, smiling at the other. “Just for tonight. No more.” It felt a little silly, but Sheryl smiled ever so very slightly, and nodded, resting her head upon one of Joan’s pillows, seeming to relax ever so very slightly. Joan moved to turn off the light, and settled in, prepared to go right to sleep.

Yet she found that she was hyper-aware of the other presence in her bed, mere inches away from her. It drove her mad to think that Sheryl was there, and for the life of her she could not figure out why. Quite simply, the there-ness of the other female was like static electricity – not quite electric enough to be shocking but unbelievably present.  

Joan seemed destined for a sleepless night when Sheryl shifted in bed and encircled an arm around her blogger’s waist and moved her head so that it was upon Joan’s breast, just above her heart. Suddenly that heart seemed to beat a little faster than normal, and her eyes wandered down to where Sheryl’s head would be.

This was completely unforeseen, and she was unsure how to continue. What did one do when a woman such as this cuddled you? A woman who rather clearly longed for comfort, but could not find any way to express it, not even to Joan.

Hesitantly, the blond put one arm over the others and wrapped her other limb around Sheryl’s head and carefully threaded her fingers through the dark ringlets upon her head. Her thumb remained free, and, rather instinctively, she began to caress the detectives scalp. Back and forth against the soft hair, and Joan felt both she and Sheryl relax into that position.

Slowly, Joan fell asleep, a tiny contented smile upon her face as she did so, encased in the warmth of her friend’s body and the feeling that, hopefully, she’d helped the other woman in some small way.