#britishnation

@britishnation

@avoirlecoeurbrise | @universalcustcdian | @draculasdcughter | @lipsshametheredrose | @evilangelqueen | @lievmuses | @britishnation | @oflcorp | @mercwiththemouth | @astatheloner |

It isn’t as if everything hurt, but it sure felt like they would if he dares move an inch. How many times had it been now, four? Five? Why couldn’t they just knock him out with one blow to the temple? Or to the carotid artery? Or even the solar plexus---

        “M’crof’?”

A mumble as he finally realizes who’s been buzzing in his ears, eyes blinking rapidly for focus, muscles relaxing just a tad. Just because it’s Mycroft instead of Sherlock, doesn’t mean he’s not prepared to punch him. Why is it Mycroft Holmes anyway? That eccentric man doesn’t do legwork; unless he’s the one who did this to him. Likely? John does hold a secret on him, in some sense, simply by being best friends with his brother. He let out a moment of unintelligible words, before finally managing to form them articulately, despite the simplest of questions:

‘ your apathy kills. little details can save lives, and i’m   not one to share hints twice. do i need to increase  the incentive for you to come play? ’

Watching someone else’s misery was never something Ward was very good at, and truth be told he was feeling pretty miserable himself.

He was in Britain for business, a land that turned out to be more hospitable to his tastes than anticipated. But he was alone, processing the various misdeeds that left him here alone and drinking over it because what the fuck else was left to do. It was around his second bourbon that he caught the man sitting at a table obviously meant for two, a defeat he knew all too well painted all over his face and form (that held an extremely nice suit...) The (rude) gazes of everyone else told him that the man had probably been there a while. Ward knocked back the rest of his bourbon, slipping the bartender an inordinate amount of money because he was never any good at math anyway and got up. He stayed quiet until he was closer to the door before rushing in over to the stranger’s table as if he’d come in from outside. 

          “See, that’s the funny thing about people. You think you know everything about somebody, and then -...” An i n n o c e n t shrug of his shoulders as he contemplates the cigarette he’s holding. Snuffs it out as he drops it on the ground and crushes it with the heel of his shoe. Eyes flash towards the man, tilting his head to the side.

It was embarrassing, really. Which was why he’d not taken the man’s offer initially. But he should’ve known better than to try and say no to a HOLMES. They had an annoying habit of getting exactly what they wanted regardless of what it was with little to no effort put out. So, that was how he’d found himself showing up at Mycroft’s home with a car full of most of his belongings taken from his former home.

It was bad enough that he’d been booted from his own home, not having it in himself to evict his wife- soon to be ex-wife -but having been found out via Sherlock’s frightfully blunt deductions made it WORSE. He’d been living out of his car for a couple weeks before it had been brought up and one more before he couldn’t ignore the offer any longer.

"Don't suppose you're the sort to just go out for a pint, so..." Greg began, looking the other over a moment, before continuing.