Edie grew up in a doomsday prepper family and no, she doesn’t want to talk about it. 

The two most common responses she gets are: ‘there’s Jewish doomsday preppers?’ and ‘oh that explains the obsession with conspiracies, huh’.

Lace decided when he was very young that he wanted to be a treasure hunter. There wasn’t anything stopping him; his family’s richer than most people could ever dream to be, and while it would be nice for him to contribute to society his sisters were already out there with their own successful careers. 

Yes, well, Jim couldn’t claim he was shocked this was all taking a little whirring in Richard’s brain. Not like Jim’d sent a warning postcard, after all. Richard seemed anxious. Frail. As exhausted as Jim often found himself being, and that just couldn’t be good for his health. “You sound good.” Looked terrible – in fashion, health, and place of residence alike – but sounded better. Apart from cutting himself off all the time.

Could potentially have something to do with the large array of alcohol bottles, which didn’t escape his notice. Probably contributed to how dead-walking Richard looked. Jim really would have chalked up all the false starts to it, but there wasn’t a horrible smell on Richard’s breath.

Jim was not thrilled with Richard, frankly. Richard was his brother, and yet he off making horrendous choices without Jim’s say-so. Like the effort Jim’d put into protecting him earlier in their lives was for nothing. Richard avoiding answering questions and then telling Jim what to do was not improving Jim’s mood, either. “What, to avoid asbestos poisoning?”

He wouldn’t get mad that easily, though. Instead he softened, letting out a tired sigh, and leaned against the wall tiredly. “I am going to, don’t worry. But with you. You know I’d never let you rot in a place like this.” Drink yourself to death in a place like this, really. “I wasn’t joking, Richard. I’m not in danger from your little crime ring, you’re no longer in danger from your little crime ring, literally no one is.” Neutralized would be an understatement, if Jim got his way. Always good to make examples. “I’d prefer to explain it in the car, or at my house, but if we must I can explain here.”

Richard didn’t let himself get goaded into bristling. It’s been years since they spoke but his brother’s still the same. Always wanting a reaction. 

His hands dropped as Jim’s tone softened. It’s wasn’t enough to make Richard relax, or reassure him that things are ok. How can they be? His brother’s popped up from no where, talking like he’s known everything, all along. “I don’t-” Richard took a breath and tries to get his thoughts- and words- in order. He desperately wanted a drink, but knew that that’s not going to fly in front of Jim. He could keep himself in check. For now.

“...look, Jim, I don’t know how you- know about any of this, or what you’ve done, but you can’t stay. These people aren’t people you want to get in with.” Jim exaggerated, sometimes, when they were younger. Why should now be different? “They don’t know there’s- they don’t know I have a brother. It’ll be safer if you leave.” He’d kept Jim safe up until then, hadn’t he? Kept the gang from going after him to pay off their shitty father’s debts? Leave it to Jim to ruin it all-

The answer was: everything. Richard forgot sometimes that Mycroft needed things spelled out for him. He tried not to let his exhaustion manifest as irritation at him. For once, Mycroft hasn’t done anything to make his life harder.

In fact, the suggestion of tea was appreciated (might have been more appreciated if it was an actual offer). Richard still greeted it with a deep scowl. “...yeah. Thanks.” He rubbed, hard, at his face, and dropped into the nearest armchair he could find. Even the ambient noises of the room- from the rain hitting the windows tot he tick, tick, tick of the clock- were grating. When was the last time Richard slept? “All of it. London, work, standing in queue.”

starter for @strangerinourmidst​

Of all the things for Richard to get himself wrapped up in, it was somehow a low-tier half-baked crime ring that would have probably been locked up in a cage if not for Richard’s assistance, would have never gotten Jim’s attention if not for Richard’s assistance, but they did and it was for the worst for them because they’d certainly not treated Richard like someone under Moriarty’s protection – their own bad for not knowing he was – and Jim had set everything up to shred the merry little band of do-badders at his word.

But not yet. Not until he saw Richard.

Walking up to the flat had made Jim almost nostalgic for his old university days, cheap and cramped and inherently depressing. He’d be interested to see what Richard had done with the inside of the place. Jim knocked politely, waiting until the door was open before he flashed a sarcastic smile. “So this is why you stopped texting me.” Sure, Jim probably could have reached out himself more, but he’d wanted to avoid getting Richard all wrapped up in the criminal life. Ironic. Jim stepped inside, glancing around curiously. “Whatever they had on you, it doesn’t matter anymore.” Attention slid to Richard. “I’m stealing you. Also hello Rich, long time no talk. How you been, other than embroiled in not-so-petty crime? Dad croak yet?”

Richard always thought of himself as easily adaptable. It used to be a requirement, when they were little. Had to think on his feet, if he wanted to eat some nights. If he wanted to avoid school bullies, or a smack from their da, or a classmate seeing something he didn’t want them to see. He didn’t have time to ever get shocked, so things just didn’t. Shock him. Anymore. He thought.

But then he opened the cracked door to his shitty studio and saw a face he truly never thought he’d see again and, well. That. was. shocking. 

“How,” was the first thing he could make himself say, once his clumsy tongue remembered how to work. It was a fair question. He wasn’t in the fucking phone book. “Why?” was the closely-followed second. “Why are you here, why-” it was a lot to process, but at least Richard had the common sense to snatch the door shut behind his brother after he’d finally sauntered in. Was Jim followed? Did anyone see? If they were lucky, they might just assume it was Rich, trying out a new- punk?- look. He scrubbed hard at his face, which ended with both hands in his hair, tugging, anxious. 

Jim didn’t have far to walk into the flat. It was one cramped room, with a kitchenette full of bottles and a door to the toilet and another to a press that could barely hold his clothes. His bed was shoved into the only corner without any cracked plaster or exposed beams, and the only comfortable parts of the studio were the clearly-thrifted sofa, coffee table, and old radio in the center. It was terrible, worse even than the environment they grew up in, but it was his, his comfort, and now, with Jim in the middle of it, it felt absolutely alien.

The house is unfinished. They’re months into it and walls still need painting, floors need fixing, windows are too drafty. It’s just bones, a skeleton big and empty and groaning that they crawled into and he’s drowning trying to resurrect it. About the only room that’s passable is the kitchen, which at least has a working lamp and kettle. A small table, a few chairs. A radio. 

They spend most their time in the kitchen. The fight started there. Rich told Seb to leave, and he did. 

But then he comes back. To this empty house. To Rich. 

They don’t talk about it. Sebastian just walks in, like he knows Richard is going to be there waiting for him. Which, he is. Of course he is. He’s at the table, a mug between his hands. There’s another mug on the table, too. Sebastian sits down at the table and just like that, the fight is over. 

Rich reaches for Sebastian first. Just like he always does. He stands to gather their mugs and put them in the sink, and while he passes Seb the relief hits him, the knowledge that someday Sebastian will go and stay gone but this time he came back, and it makes Rich reach out to touch Seb’s shoulder, just to reassure himself he’s there. That turns into touching Seb’s jaw, tipping his chin. And then they’re kissing, and Richard started it, like he always does, but Seb’s arms wind around his waist and pull him down and he’s kissed back like Sebastian is relieved too. 

And when they stop kissing Richard stays in his lap, Sebastian’s arms tight around him, Sebastian’s forehead on his shoulder. Rich’s fingers bury in Sebastian’s hair and he feels the man shudder and hold him tighter.