the farthest point

Even crunched up and thrown across the room, the words echo in her mind, taunting her as she draws her knees to her chest, eyes staring at the little ball of paper as if she could set it on fire by dint of her will alone. The deadlocked battle stretches on, hours slipping by as Sherlock stays impossibly still, glowering at the small message, until her head jerks, finally breaking that gaze. The front door of the flat has opened; Watson is home.

Quick as lightning, Sherlock is almost tumbling out of her seat, all legs and arms. In the doorway to the room, she stops, turning back. She crosses to the closet, fetches a worn shoebox, and then goes back to that ball of paper. Picks it up. Smooths it out. Adds it to the pile notes in the box, which goes back in the closet. Then she’s clattering down stairs to see Watson.

“Why, yes! I do believe I remember the very gentleman, though, I think I was the one who helped him, not the other way around. Brilliant man, really. So clever. What was his name?”

And then she seems to consider, one dainty finger coming up to tap against her chin––what an amusing little game!––before she seems to have a moment of epiphany and she smiles, bright and almost fond.

“Sherwood? No, no, no– Sherlock, wasn’t it? Is he your brother?”

The delay is exasperating, and already she has to struggle with impatience with the woman’s act of ditzy forgetfulness. Which, of course, is exactly what she wants. Mycroft regulates her breathing steadily, not allowing that difficulty to show on her face. With all the infinite patience she definitely didn’t feel, she nodded.

“Useful!” he half-exclaims, perhaps a bit of exasperation evident. Perhaps even a small amount of incredulity, though what should he have expected? 

“I suppose I should be thankful for even so much as that. I seem to have moved up at least slightly in the estimations of the great Sherlock Holmes if I can at least be so much as useful…”

He shakes his head and leans back in his chair, a look of wry bemusement on his face.

“Is that all people are to you, Sherlock? Is that the best they can ever achieve in your mind? To be useful to you? Or is that simply the greatest I might ever hope to achieve?”

“Don’t be dramatic, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, leaning back in her chair. “Of course that’s not all people are, or all they can ever achieve.” Crossing her arms over her chest, she shook her head. “It’s merely all they ever manage to do.” She didn’t feel her expectations were so high or unreasonable, and yet people always fell short. Even when she made every effort in the world to try and meet their impossibly opaque expectations. Was it really so surprising that she had stopped trying?

“I suppose you’re right.” He murmurs, nuzzling her gently. 

He massages her lower back now with a sigh, tenderly kissing her neck. He leaves a mark of his own.

“Your brother would be mortified to see our corpses like this.”

He shudders, the adrenaline of initial capture having long since faded. He’s far calmer now than he was before.

“You really think we’re going to die here?”

The mental image of Mycroft standing horrified over their naked, intertwined bodies makes her smile more than it ought to. The question gets an ambivalent shrug; Sherlock had far too much faith in her brother’s ability and drive to truly believe it, but nor could she dismiss the probability of it.

✂ – @apcgee // closed

     It’s been about two weeks since Sherlock left the Brownstone to rest && heal his brain. After parking her car, she locks it. She adjusts her keys to prepare unlocking the Brownstone, but she stops to smile at the woman on her front steps. ❛ Oh, hello Mycroft. What are you doing here? ❜ She then gestures towards her home, ❛ Want to come inside? ❜

Briefly, Remus rolled his eyes, for he could only imagine James comparing him to a sleeping infant was done with a healthy dose of irony. Still, Lily took priority; Remus couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her so draped in fatigue.

“Erm,” he said, turning aimlessly to the kettle in question. It wasn’t on, but a wave of his wand rectified that oversight. In seconds, steam billowed from its spout, and it was even kind enough to begin pouring a mug without assistance from Remus.

He was too busy hovering near Lily, anyway, maintaining distance but only in the number of steps between them; a concerned frown occupied his face. His hand was elevated, as though he wanted to reach for her but thought better of it.

“No, no, you didn’t wake me. My stomach did. You can—you can join me. If you like.” He mustered what he could of a knowing smile. “Can’t sleep, or don’t want to?”

The simple gesture, and the tiny show of magic bring a smile to her face, saying plenty about the state of her mind. Utterly exhausted. “Dastardly things, stomachs. Always complaining that they don’t get enough attention.” A really sad, weak joke for her, but she’s still trying. Easing herself into a chair at the table, she props her head up on her hand.

       Neal regards her with a kind of sharpness that he has never bothered to mask – he has learned, over the years, that bedside manners might be an important tool in certain cases but in others they merely serve to get in the way. If his expression is off-puttingly stern – well. No one ever succumbed to life’s end from being glared at. ( he should know – he’s tried. many times. all to no success. ) Besides, it’s not so much a glare as it is his eyes looking for any visible injuries – examining the depth and breadth of the wound, scanning for signs of pain, of favoring a joint or a limb. — It’s a, well not pleasant surprise but not an unwelcome one when she seems to accommodate him, pulling away her sleeve before he can tell her to be careful about threads in the wound. 

       Far more gently than his overall demeanor would suggest, Neal takes her arm in his hand, partly to examine it and partly to take some of her weight. Glancing up for a moment, he releases a long, thin sigh and motions to a tree that will serve as good as any. ❛ Not with me, no. Come, sit. I’ll have it fixed in a moment. — And if you’d like to continue with the no arguing thing, that’d be absolutely lovely. ❜ 

“Only fools argue with healers.” Especially ones with sharp blades after a battle, when said healers were at their most frayed and stressed . Besides being counterproductive, it could be outright dangerous. Even if they were restrained enough to not make problems worse when provoked, they may entirely leave you to make shift on your own, which was never pleasant. Susan had a modicume of knowledge of her own, but would hardly turn down expertise.

R E U N I O N || @apcgee

          H e doesn’t even recognize himself anymore. He doesn’t know who he’s staring at when he looks in the mirror every morning, nor if he ever did. He doesn’t think there’s ever been a time in his life where he was truly sure of himself. Miles St. Claire was a bright kid; a shining star among other students, someone who excelled at many things, and was praised for it. He was proud of it, but it all feels meaningless now in the grand scheme of things. His bachelor’s in psychology doesn’t seem to mean much when he’s stuck behind a counter, showing high class brats in and out of over-priced hotel rooms.

     First thing in the morning, his father pulls the entire staff in for a meeting in his office. He’s proud in announcing numbers are up, but Miles knows the real cause of the increase. He and Sam Avila, a family friend and accomplice, glance at each other while all the new kids obliviously celebrate their bonuses, thanking their Lord and savior, Anthony St. Claire for his generosity. It’s disgusting, Miles thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut. The meeting’s adjourned. Numbers are up and everything’s fine; our doors stay open and the kids stay clueless awhile longer, until Anthony decides whether or not he sees potential in them. If not, they’ll be fired before the next meeting.

     Sam and Miles meet with him afterward to discuss real numbers; the inflation he’s so proud of. Anthony runs all his sales through hotel room service. What looks like a pricey drink on paper is really Ozz. Miles doesn’t know how his father got his hands on such a supply and he doesn’t want to, but because of it, he’s become the biggest supplier in New York, and probably most of the country. People stay at the hotel just to get their hands on it. “We’re doing well, boys!” He revels, patting Miles and Sam’s shoulders. Miles fights his initial instinct to swing at him. Sam speaks for both of them, “I didn’t think this would take off so fast.”

     “Well, we’re not exactly where I want to be, but we’ll get there. Miles, a minute?”

     His chest gets tight. He doesn’t want Sam to leave them alone, but neither of them are in a position to argue Sam gives Miles a look, a small nod, like he’s trying to silently say it’s alright. Miles can’t decide if he’s grateful for the attempt, or annoyed by the lie. Either way, he leaves the room, and Anthony comes closer. He place his hand on Miles’ shoulder, digging his fingers into the collarbone. Miles grits his teeth. He can’t flinch.

          He can’t flinch.

     “Our sales could have been better, and you know it too.”

     Miles doesn’t speak. He’s still holding his breath, trying not to flinch; not to react.

     “You’re part of St. Claire’s face. You have all the power in the world to help – to become the next in line, but you still don’t want to.”

     Miles turns his head away. There’s another pinch in his collarbone that causes him to grit his teeth together, but he still doesn’t speak.

     Anthony repeats himself. “You still don’t want to, do you?”

     “You’re right, I don’t.” Bluntness is the only thing that works on Anthony St. Claire. If he senses fear, it’s immediate failure. It’s not the Ozz, Miles wants to say, but Anthony hates that explanation. It’s everything that comes with it. It’s the scheming, the internal wars with conflicting dealers. It’s the death. His heart skips. And he’s lost. “I don’t want to.”

     With that, he turns his back and practically scurries out the door before anything can escalate. While fewer things inspire Miles to drive a pen through his eye than manning the front counter, it feels like a sanctuary after a meeting with Anthony.

     It’s an easy job, and that’s the best he can say about it. It’s monotonous, and slow-paced; not prestigious or worth talking about in any way, shape or form. Miles spends the morning checking people out, and the afternoon checking newcomers in. There’s a build up of small annoyances that add up throughout the day that make him wish he was as cold-hearted as his younger brother, who acts as the face of the other, more horrific side of things. It’s easy, but Miles hates every single person who walks through the door. Every big shot company executive who can’t stand to carry his single suitcase to his room on the first floor; every group of party-goers celebrating their twenty-first birthdays on their rich parents’ dime; every one. The first woman in front of him can’t pry her phone from her ear. His usual spiel is completely wrecked by a series of questions, not directed at him: “What did you say? Sorry, service sucks in here! I’m checking in! Yeah – hey, can you hear me? Yeah, I’m checking in.”

     He goes back to the pen scenario. A hospital trip would get him out of there. It could be a whole new sanctuary. He rushes the girl through, then it’s onto the next, a reservation he’s been dreading ever since the name came across his screen a week or so prior. It’s a face he knows, but a face he hasn’t seen in some time. While they didn’t part on bad terms – users and dealers rarely stay friends, but tend to part ways silently most of the time – he gets knots in his stomach when he sees her. It’s a few moments before Miles realizes he’s frozen up, and when he snaps out of his thoughts, he clears his throat, and runs the name for the reservation. It figures he’s the one to check her in. He was going to just leave it alone, but now he feels a strange obligation.

     “Long time no see. Welcome back.”

“Thank you. Yes, it has been rather a while, hasn’t it?” A life time ago, it felt like. And yet here was Miles St. Claire, barely changed at all. Still the same, sulky boy he had been all those years ago, when Sherlock had matched him in sullenness and dissatisfaction with the world, mired in her resentment, frustrations, and addictions.

          A case had brought her to the city, a private one. That was the only sort she could get in those days, having not yet made any inroads to Scottland Yard (a fact she, in retrospect, could not blame them too harshly for, given her predilections for being high). Even with New York being a more tolerable American city, she hadn’t been entirely pleased with the trip, the case proving ultimately dull and simplistic; checking in to the St. Claire had been an attempt to make up for the wasted time. A chance to try the rumored concoction peddled there, the true force behind the elaborate facade. As far as drug dens went, she had to admit that St. Claire’s was one of the nicest she’d ever been to. And Ozz, well, suffice to say the trip had been salvaged by a few intense days of enjoyment.

Ones that hadn’t insignificantly featured the man standing before her, checking her in.