kat's scribbles

He, unlike the other two, does not have some sort of tumultuous love life; rather, it is non-existent. Despite this fact, he does show interest in yours–well, in the mystery man they still haven’t met. He asks about dates when he knows you’ve been on one, though he does maintain a certain professional distance.

Then there’s the situation at Baker Street. John, who had previously admitted to you that he might have feelings for his “roommate”, the beloved *cough cough* consulting detective, started dating another woman for a bit before giving up and remaining single without going on any dates the past several weeks. He’d told Sherlock that he wanted to focus on the cases, and the case surrounding the woman was perfectly sound reasoning to remain focused on their work.

Mycroft, for his part in this case, was going semi-crazy knowing that Sherlock could be faster; the emphasis being on could. Despite his cold exterior, the eldest Holmes does very much appreciate his younger brother, as well as his talents. It does, however, frustrate him to no end when the younger man stalls. At the same time, he is somewhat thankful that the youngest Holmes has yet to acknowledge the eldest his relationship with you.

Of course, you’d caught bits and pieces of it all from your upstairs neighbours, as Mycroft has trying desperately to keep you separate from his work. Not that it really works, as Sherlock truly does not know how to shut up. That and the fact that you are still very much employed by Moriarty without the ice man’s knowing.

The meetings have become few and far between as time has gone on. Too much risk attached, according to the consulting criminal. Still, you cannot help but think about the last time you saw him from time to time. At times, you find yourself in bed with Mycroft, staring at the ceiling whilst thinking of what could have been with Jim, had he not sent you to infiltrate in this way. Yet, every time it comes up, you push it back down.

Naturally, this nearly peace-like state of your life wasn’t meant to last. And of course, you knew. You knew better than to enjoy the feeling of being peaceful for once. You knew better than to give into your feelings for Mycroft because it just meant that you would be getting hurt. And yet, you let yourself in those moments: when his gaze meets yours and your heart stops momentarily; or when the tips of his fingers would brush past your knuckles; or when he’d murmur sweet nothings into your ear, his lips brushing the shell of it as he says them. It brings what feels like a brief respite of a life which you can barely understand you lived before now.

What you hadn’t expected, however, was for this respite to be interrupted as abruptly as it did; or for the you getting hurt being literal rather than a figure of speech. Of course, you’d gotten hurt on previous assignments; left with stab wounds, bullet sounds, bruises, and broken bones. But things had been so… normal. At least, as normal as it gets when working for Jim. There hadn’t been any major threats in a while, and for the briefest moment, the violence you’re so used to sank to the back of your mind. 

You’d been on your way to work at Scotland Yard—not even thirty feet away from the entrance—when it happened, for once having taken the underground because Mycroft was away because of a political crisis. And whilst you would like to believe it was because of your relationship with Mycroft, you aren’t entirely certain that is the case. Not when there had been someone that shot you in the stomach as they’d passed by you. Clearly, it wasn’t meant to kill you, they would’ve done so by shooting you between the eyes if they wanted to. 

No, this was a warning.

The problem is that you’re not certain who it’s for.

Rather than dropping to the floor immediately, you’d managed to stumble your way through the sliding doors, hands pressurising the wound. The bullet hadn’t gone through, so you were aware that you’d be limited for time due to bleeding internally as well as from the wound itself.

‘Charlie, goodmor-’ Greg looks up from the coffee machine before realising that there’s blood staining your hands and quickly spreading through the fabric of your shirt. ‘Ambulance.’ You murmur, feeling the adrenaline starting to wane as you continue to lose blood. He’s already calling when Donovan enters for the day, ‘Why is there blood all over the carpe-’, her eyes go wide when your gaze meets yours. ‘Morning…’ Your voice is weaker now, your vision starting to blur and waver. The sergeant moves quickly, her bag discarded as she sprints to where the first aid kit is. The DI, meanwhile, is basically shouting at the ambulance to “hurry the fuck up”. 

‘Sally…’ You pull at her sleeve as she’s pressurising the wound with her hands. She looks over, panic in her eyes and all over her face. ‘Who did this? What happened to you?’ ‘Ca—call Mycroft… Mycroft H-Holmes.’

You’d passed out just as the medics got there and woken several hours after your arrival at the hospital. When you did, Greg was there with you, going over some info with one of the nurses. Sherlock is there too, because for some godforsaken reason, Donavan hears the name Holmes and thinks there’s only one man relevant enough to call.

‘Hi…’ Your voice is hoarse when you speak. The DI turns instantly and he walks up, followed by the nurse. ‘You were very lucky, but it’s out. Lost a lot of blood though.’ He says, sitting down next to your bed in one of the chairs. You nod, eyes feeling heavy but you keep them open. ‘We tried finding the contact information of your partner, but…’ ‘Yeah, he isn’t in the system. I am aware. Sherlock’s contacted him?’ There’s a nod from the consulting detective confirming the fact. 

‘Wait, Sherlock knows your partner?’ Greg looks between the two of you. ‘My brother.’ Sherlock states simply before returning to whatever he was talking about.

Your gaze shifts to the nurse. ‘How long was I out for?’ ‘About three hours. You had moments of being awake, but were never quite conscious before now.’ 

Just then, Mycroft comes storming into the room, followed by a nurse frantically trying to stop him. ‘I do not care that there might be an investigation going on, I am seeing if my partner is okay.’ ‘Sir, please, the police are still here, I don’t think-’ You hold up your hand. ‘It’s alright ma’m.’ Your voice is quiet but firm. 

‘Mycroft–’ You attempt to sit up, but regret it and Mycroft carefully urges you to lay back down. ‘My love, you shouldn’t strain yourself.’ The voice which is usually so full of authority is now soft and filled with worry. He presses a kiss on your forehead before sitting down and grabbing hold of your hand. His hair is slightly messy and his tie is askew. ‘I came as soon as I could, I was in a meeting with the American president and that man would not shut up… and I knew Sherlock was here so you’d be all right…’ He murmurs and his hand squeezes yours. You smile ever so slightly, though it’s a bit weak, the edges trembling.

‘Right, if the love-birds can stop being sentimental now, George–’ ‘Greg.’ ‘Greg and I were discussing and we suspect this was some sort of warning.’ Sherlock states. The urge to respond with no shit Sherlock is big, but not that big. ‘Right.’ You respond instead. ‘That seems like a viable motive.’ 

‘Indeed, it is. My dear brother Mycroft here is the British government–’ ‘A high ranking official, Sherlock.’ ‘Right. My dear brother Mycroft here is a high ranking official in the British government, so it would make sense to threaten him through his partner.’ Sherlock does air quotes with his fingers when he says the words “high ranking official”. He turns to fully face his brother. ‘Any recent government business that would prompt this?’

‘Besides the usual? No.’ Mycroft responds calmly, though you can feel he’s slightly annoyed. ‘What bullet type was it?’ You enquire. ‘Nothing extraordinary, typical for a pistol that can use a muffler.’ Greg interjects before Sherlock can.

Eventually, they all have to leave, the nurse telling them you need rest; which frankly isn’t untrue. Before they leave, Mycroft presses a kiss to your temple, telling you he’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning. This is followed by a disgruntled sound from Sherlock, who looks perpetually more and more horrified by his brother showing emotion, let alone affection.

Shortly thereafter, you fall asleep, your body shutting down to try and preserve energy to heal. When you do wake, it is because of a hand carefully shaking your shoulder around two in the morning.

‘Hey…’ It’s Sebastian’s voice that eventually wakes you. Your eyes flutter open and it takes some time for them to adjust to the darkness. At first, you only recognise his silhouette, then, slowly but surely, you can start making out his face. 

‘Seb…’ you pause, ‘what are you doing here? Are the scrubs a cover?’ You whisper to him so nobody in the hallway can hear through the open door. ‘Checking in on you and yes, I’m supposed to be checking your vitals again.’ He starts moving and looking at the monitors. ‘Which look good. Great, you’re not actually dying just yet, Spike.’ He hums before smiling down at you, a rare sight. 

‘You’re smiling.’ You state. ‘I am.’ He replies. ‘Who died?’ ‘Nobody… However, Jim is taking this very personally, which is entertaining to watch.’

‘I’ve been shot before.’ You scoff. ‘There’s no reason for him to be worried.’ ‘Oh, but there is. It’s different this time around. It’s not the “mommy someone broke my toy” response we usually get. He seems genuinely worried.’ You blink at him, momentarily remaining silent before speaking. ‘You’re joking.’ ‘I’m not.’ ‘But you are.’ He shakes his head.

‘Oh God you’re serious.’ You murmur, sitting up but he pushes you back down. ‘Calm down, lay down. He’ll get over it, he’s just being dramatic.’ He pauses. ‘He’s been dramatic for months, by the way. Pretty sure he has been since you last saw him, maybe even a little before then. Entertaining but also quite unnerving.’ He sits down in the chair next to your bed. ‘I should probably talk to him… you know, before he throws a hissy fit and blows up a building or something.’ ‘You would love for him to throw a hissy fit and blow up a building.’ ‘Maybe, but I would want to be involved, not be a bystander.’ 

Sebastian hums. ‘That’s fair. I would want to be there too.’ He smiles. ‘I thought a fruit basket would be a bit basic, so…’ he places a bag on the side of your bed, next to your hand, ‘I got you these.’ You grab it and hold it up and feel the excitement rising inside of you. ‘You got me Hi-Chew? Like, actual Hi-Chew?’ You actually sit up now, much to Seb’s dismay. ‘Oh Seb, I could kiss you.’ ‘Please don’t. I don’t know where your mouth has been.’ ‘Love you too, man.’ 

He ends up remaining in your room for about half an hour before he leaves so it looks like he only checked you over and maybe chatted a bit. You hide the Hi-Chew in one of the drawers of your bedside cart after popping a single one into your mouth. You love how sweet it is with the slight flavour of apple. You sleep pretty well after finishing it and drinking some water.

The very next morning you’re woken by a nurse checking your vitals again. ‘Good morning, just here to check your vitals.’ ‘...Morning…’ You mutter as she sits you up. ‘I’m just going to check your vitals now, I’ll change your bandages after.’ Your lips twitch up slightly to give her a smile, she smiles back before she gets to work. The vitals are fine, however, getting bandages changed hurts a lot. The stitches pull slightly when you sit up. She’s nice enough, but disinfecting the wound remains painful. Her being done and wrapping you back up feels like a relief. 

The days that follow are long and boring, filled with check-ups, vitals, and getting bandages changed. Mycroft comes by every day before work, sometimes after; depending on what time he’s done at. It’s nice having someone care so much. Sometimes, he’d tell you about his work—sans all the details—or he reads to you from The Master and Margarita, a book you’d started reading while staying at his place a few days before you’d gotten shot. His voice is soft and focused when he reads, something he would never admit to anyone at work or to his brother. Sometimes, you just sit together in silence, his hand caressing your knuckles. Three days in, you’ve convinced Greg to give you a work laptop so you have something to do. Much to the dismay of the doctors and nurses, as well as Mycroft, all of whom insist that you need to rest. A week and a half after you were shot, you’re discharged but told not to do any strenuous activity and stay on bedrest.

‘I hate this.’ You tell Mycroft as he helps you sit up before giving you tea. You’re at his place, upon his insistence that it’s more comfortable and that he can more easily help you when needed. ‘I’m well aware, dear, but you have to be careful. We cannot risk you tearing the stitches.’ ‘I’m bored.’ He huffs. ‘You’re worse than Sherlock when he’s bored.’ His remark is more of a deadpan. ‘We both know that’s not true. I’m not shooting at the wall, am I?’ Your retort earns you a chuckle. ‘You would be if you had a gun.’ ‘No I wouldn’t– I’m well aware how expensive these walls are, that’s not worth it. Besides, unlike your brother, I have self-restraint.’ Your offense earns you another chuckle and he hands you a cup of tea before setting the tray with your breakfast on the bed. ‘If it helps, I’ve made your favourite kind of overnight oats… according to the recipe you sent, they taste like cookie dough. I doubt the accuracy, but as long as you find them tasty….’ He shrugs.

‘You should try them.’ You hold up a spoonful to him. ‘I shouldn’t–’ ‘You should.’ ‘Fine.’ He gives in and leans in, closing his mouth around the spoon before pulling back. After chewing for a bit, he swallows. ‘...I’m pleasantly surprised… though I will maintain the opinion that the texture is too dissimilar to call it actual cookie dough.’ ‘I never said it was the same. It’s overnight oats that have the same flavour, not texture.’ ‘Well the recipe did. False advertisement. Perhaps I should sue.’ He hums before shooting you a small smile and pressing a quick kiss to your temple. You reach up and tilt his head towards you. ‘Let’s not overreact, my love.’ You murmur before pulling him down and pressing his lips to yours. He melts into it, his tongue quickly finding yours. As he melts in, his body leans forward and his forearms land on the mattress below you. Your hands move up into his hair and you lean back into the cushions below you. He is shifting onto the bed when you feel the bullet wound and you let out a quiet whine. ‘Oh shit, sorry darling.’ Mycroft stops and shifts back, pulling off of you. ‘No, I’m fine. I’m fine Myc, please just-’ ‘No, I’m not risking it. Darling. I love you too much to hurt you, even if you want me to continue.’

After your final check at the hospital and once the stitches have been taken out, Mycroft goes back to working in his office rather than working from home. Much to your own dismay, Greg insists you stay home for another week before returning to Scotland Yard. ‘Greg, please, I need to get out of the house.’ You tell him over the phone. ‘Charlie, I’m serious. You need rest. If you need to get out of the house, you should go for a walk or something.’ He says, voice stern. ‘Greg, I’m banned from going outside alone and I am very much alone right now.’ He sighs and when he does, you can practically see him pacing around his office while pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Just then, the doorbell rings. ‘Sorry, I’ll call you back, okay? There’s someone at the door.’

When you open the front door, you’re met by the sight of Sherlock and John. ‘Hello you two.’ Sherlock pushes past and steps inside while John apologises for Sherlock before greeting you. ‘Sorry about that. Good afternoon.’ You let him in. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Closing the door, you follow them to the kitchen. 

Sherlock takes one look at you. ‘You’re bored.’ 

‘I am.’

‘I have a case.’ 

‘Good for you.’ 

‘I want your help.’

That makes you pause. ‘Is the great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes asking for the help of little old me? I should call the press.’ His eyes narrow. ‘Ever since you and my brother started dating you’ve become a lot more… forward.’ ‘Is that a bad thing?’ ‘No. I like this personality. Just don’t call the press. They’ve been everywhere lately.’ John makes a sound and your gaze shifts to him. ‘Right, so… the case.’ ‘I’ll make tea and then you two can catch me up.’

‘So… Irene Adler, or the Woman as you’ve dubbed, has been texting you? Does she like you?’ Your question seems to irk John and so he speaks up. ‘She’s been texting since before Christmans. Still is. Took me aside a few days ago.’ ‘Took you aside?’ ‘Yes. She’s convinced I’m gay… but she constantly flirts with Sherlo–’ The sound of a moan cuts him off. ‘Case and point.’ 

‘Anyhow, yesterday we found Mrs Hudson tied up in a chair back in 221B. She was being held hostage by some American guy.’ Sherlock cuts in. ‘Is she alright?’ You ask. ‘She is. The American isn’t.’ Sherlock states. ‘Good.’ ‘He fell out of the window. Several times.’ John adds with a chuckle. 

‘We’re going to the lab, see if we can find something to do with her phone. I need to guess her passcode.’ The consulting detective says. ‘And you haven’t guessed it yet? I’m almost disappointed.’ ‘Four letters, I only have a limited number of tries before the phone deletes all the files we need.’ ‘So she’s both pretty and smart? A woman to my heart.’ ‘And yet you’re dating my brother.’ He snorts.

You end up texting Mycroft before being whisked away to St. Bartholomew’s by the duo. To your surprise, it isn’t nearly as entertaining as you had hoped. Sherlock puts the phone through an x-ray, tries “221B” as a password, and then only a singular try is left.

A/N: Hello everyone. I am, in fact, not dead. 💃 I managed to graduate university and will be starting a Master's in International Relations (fun) as well as a part-time job (related to my field of study) next month, wow… The first grey hairs have also appeared, much to my chagrin. I'm blaming the stress from university and ignoring the fact that my father was grey early. But I suppose we shouldn't let that spoil all the fun.