Erranboric or eranboric/eransboric: an umbrella term for those who are not attracted to non-binary people anymore; a label in which one's enboric attraction has partially or fully vanished.
This includes, for example: pluralians with latent or dormant attraction towards enbies; binsexual disexual folk who used to be attracted to nby people but realized they are strictly boric/noenboric after all; erraspec people; binians (BLB), nibians (NBLB/NLB), trixamorics (XLBW), and toramorics (XLBM) who were enboric in the past.
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âOh, I-⊠I didnât mean threatened by me. I just meant- sort of in general? As much as I donât like admitting it, I know I canât hold a candle to you. I know itâs not much of my business, but everyone needs someone to talk to.â
âBut what would I be threatened by in general? Perhaps I do not have somebody that I talk to about my life, but I fail to see why that would make me feel threatened.â
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"Is the reason you're so cold and defensive because you feel threatened?"
Deep Ass Starters.
âAnd why, pray tell, would I feel threatened? Are you attempting to suggest that you are some kind of danger to me? Because you honestly are not. Nobody nearby is.â
The peaceful atmosphere of the Diogenes Club set Mycroft on edge. The sunlight filtering through the parted curtains coupled with the wafting scent of absurdly expensive tea should have been more than enough to clear his mind. He knew it was irrational, he knew that this whole situation was ridiculous because there was no way that Sherlock would-
Mycroft sipped at his tea delicately, ignoring the way that it scalded his tongue and left the roof of his mouth tingling. Next to him, a discarded newspaperâs headline blared âCONSULTING DETECTIVE BACK FROM THE DEAD: SHERLOCK HOLMES FACING LIFE SENTENCEâ. Forced level-headedness aside, nothing could stop him from recognising the familiar dull ache in his chest.
For the first time in a very long while, Mycroft Holmes felt betrayed.
***
Greg stood in the doorway where he was told he would find Mycroft. Stepping inside the Doigenes Club, he felt like an outsider- mainly because he was- but the men sitting, reading their paper didnât make any notice that he even came in. It didnât take much searching to find Mycroft.
Greg went to stand in front of Mycroft, blocking his vision from the wall he was staring off into.
âMycroft, hi, look, thereâs something I need to talk to you about,â Greg said and suddenly all eyes were on him. Greg tried to ignore the stares.
âI donât know if itâd be better for you if we step outside or something,â Greg continued and this time he recieved glares from the other men. Greg glanced helplessly at Mycroft.
***
Gregory Lestrade. An interesting- though mildly unwelcome- development.
Mycroft could tell that the man wanted to speak about Sherlock [it was practically written all over his exhausted face] even though it was inherently obvious that all Mycroft wanted to do was finish his tea and brood. As far as he was concerned, his brother was guilty.
But the sight of the Detective Inspector floundering in a sea of silent, angry old men was rather comical, and Mycroft couldnât bring himself to call security. It wouldnât hurt to placate him, after all.
With a delicate sigh, he placed a finger to his lips- the universal âshush-ingâ gesture- and stood up, beckoning the policeman outside.
***
Greg stood outside beside Mycroft. It would be best to leave the âno talkingâ questions out of this conversation, there were mreo important matters.
âItâs about your brother. I think- I know heâs innocentâŠwell heâs not, but he didnât- he was forced. It was Moriarty,â Greg said, but Mycroft didnât look convinced.
***
Mycroft pinched the bridge of his noise, suddenly in no mood to listen to this man trip and stumble over weak attempts to protect his brother.
âDoubtless he has told you as much. What you choose to believe is hardly any of my concern, and I can assure you that this has been a wasted visit on your behalf.â His tone was clipped, signifying a rapid end to this conversation.
***
Greg groaned aloud at Mycroftâs annoyed gesture.
âLook, heâs gonna be in court soon and if heâs found guilty, heâll be in jail for a few life sentenses,â Greg said, finally finding his words. Mycroft still looked unconvinced and rather bored with the conversation. âThis is your brother weâre talking about! How can this not bother you? Iâm sure thereâs something you can do to help him. Itâs for your brother.â Greg attempted going in at an emotional side, hoping the elder Holmes had a more in tune emotional range than his brother. Turned out he was wrong.
***
âFacts do not cease to exist simply because they are ignored, Detective Inspector.â the quote came out sharper than he intended it to be, and Mycroft had to fight to keep his expression neutral. âRegardless of my familial ties to Sherlock, the fact remains that in the eye of the law, he is a criminal.â
He looked over at Lestrade then, his gaze cold and unforgiving. Even after all this time, people were still unflinchingly loyal to his brother. Fools.
***
âIt was Moriarty that did this. Mycroft, you knew him, knew that Moriarty was real,â Greg said, trying to give Mycroft his facts. âMoriarty had John, Harry his sister and me kidnapped to blackmail Sherlock into committing those crimes and to come out of hiding. Look,â Greg said, rolling up the sleeve on his left arm, just above the elbow to show off a now-healing scar with some black stitches sticking up. âCan you really imagine your brother taking part in doing this to someone?â
***
Mycroft looked at the healing wound with a detached sort of interest before shaking his head. He knew that James Moriarty was real, was fully aware of the existence of Sebastian Moran, but could not [would not?] ignore such blatantly incriminating evidence.
âWhatever misplaced devotion you have towards my brother, I suggest that you heavily rethink it. Sherlock is not above such means, and I hardly pretend to have any insight into his motives.â He spared another disparaging glance at the other man before looking away into the dewy morning, quite obviously unimpressed.
***
âSo thatâs just it then? Youâre gonna let your little brother rot away in a cell for saving me and John and Harry? Fuck, do you not get it?â Greg paused to calm himself, getting angry with Mycroft probably wouldnât put him on the winning side.
Greg decided to leave it at that, to have Mycroft think it over and hopefully come to his senses, but as soon as he turned to walk away, he quickly turned back to face him again. âMycroft, every time you told me to look over Sherlock, I did. Now itâs your turn to listen to me so I suggest you get off your lazy arse and do something to get Sherlock out of this.â
***
Mycroft was nearly impressed with this manâs tenacity. Lesser men had spoken to him like that and had been relocated to Serbia. Permanently.
Lestradeâs words spun around in Mycroftâs brain, reminding him of just how much he had failed abandoned betrayed ignored Sherlock. But he had brought upon himself, had he not? His brother was proud, far too proud, and that was his downfall.
The politician kept his smile pleasantly empty. âPray donât think of this as laziness on my part, Detective Inspector. You must understand how this looks to me. My brother borrowed quite a large sum of money from me and then used it to deal arms- being coerced into a situation of that nature is highly unlikely, is it not?â
***
âSherlock did that because he had to!â Greg said, not even bothering to hide his iritation and aggression. âSherlock was forced and you know it.â Greg wasnât entirely sure that Mycroft knew, but it made him sound like he knew what he was talking about.
âI donât know if thereâs some feud between the two of you or what, but why are you having such a hard time with this?â
***
Abruptly, Mycroft took a step forward- as a threat or a warning, he wasnât sure.
âI donât take kindly to being crossed, Detective Inspector. I requested an explanation many times before this, but he deemed me an unfit recipient of such information- and please, spare me with the sentiment that it was an effort to protect me. Sherlock is fully aware-â
He stopped himself mid-rant, realising too late that he had let more slip than was strictly necessary. Taking a small steadying breath, Mycroft stepped back, looking nowhere near as apologetic as he should have been. God, he needed a cigarette.
âWhatever crimes my brother has committed- motivations aside- there is little that my position allows me to do. I quite hope that you understand.â
***
When Mycroft stepped forward, Greg felt as if he was out of his area. Silently, he was telling himself he had dealt with more serious people, people that committed crimes and were dangerous, not a well-dressed bloke. As best as he tried, he could hardly hide his- fear? No, he was not fearful.
And just like that, the tables turned. âAre you trying to say that you knew about this?â This man was impossible to figure. Greg was sure he could have a more understanding conversation with a spoon.
âKnew about it or not, Iâm sure you could do something about, you just choose to leave your brother when he needs you,â Greg said, trying to keep his voice even and keep a smile hidden. This time, he was sure he had Mycroft cornered with wordplay. With reverse psychology.
Greg crossed his fingers, hoping Mycroft didnât notice the subtle gesture. Greg was sure Mycroft would get his brother out of this mess.
***
Mycroft stayed silent for a moment, processing his options. He knew that what this man was saying was true, despite his blatantly manipulative wordplay. Mycroft had abandoned Sherlock when it was well within his power to do otherwise, in addition to supplying one of the worldâs most dangerous masterminds with the very information that would tear his brotherâs life apart. Truly, in this scenario, who was the guilty party?
And with that, his mind was made up.
âI hardly think that crossing your fingers will do you any good, Mister Lestrade.â The sneering remark came out before he could catch himself. âNevertheless, luck seems to be on your side today. I will see what I can do, though I cannot insure you of any success.â
Mycroft wasnât doing this for Sherlock.
***
Greg did his best to hide his stupid grin, but the attempts didnât work. Clearing his throat, he tried to compose himself. âYeah. Good.â Greg had no idea what to do. Should he shake his hand? Just give a nod? It didnât seem good enough. Greg just settled for a âThank you for your time.â
***
Mycroft dutifully ignored Lestradeâs nearly ridiculous grin along with a rather nasty desire to send his brother off the edge of the Eiffel Tower and be done with it all. Crossing his arms behind his back -effectively cutting off any opportunity for a handshake-, he merely smirked.
âNaturally, Detective Inspector. Do have a pleasant morning.â
Pleasantly, John expressed the bar-woman a cheerful smile, then returned to his habitual wandering look. The pub was beginning to fill up, as much could be expected on a Friday evening; Lestrade had yet to arrive or text his whereabouts. John sat at an angle on the stool, slantly facing the entrance to keep watch for the man, in a manner that was pensive.
With a furrowed brow, he resumed to the bar after a brief pause, apparently considering the general bearings of the situation. Lestrade had wanted to meet up to discuss 'Sherlock trouble', and Sherlock had been less than kind while narrating said trouble. Once presented with two pint glasses, John paid the woman and drew his phone from his pocket; composing a text message.
TEXT: LESTRADE
Best get here before your pint goes flat - JW
He placed the phone down as soon as the message sent, and regarded it intently. If there was trouble between them, the only question was if it was beyond repair. Then again, Sherlock and Lestrade's relationship never had been all that clear to him. Co-operating one minute, at each other's necks the next.
