#fff288

Sherlock fandom.

Changes Hurt

John muses about how different his life would have been if he’d only followed his instincts thirteen years ago. He clutches his hand over his heart. It aches. The pain is just as familiar as his other discomforts; his star-shaped scar, which can be forgotten for weeks, but then the weather changes, and the throbbing pain returns full force. As if it wants to make up for its absence. And then, the most infuriation of the three, his leg. After he and Rosie left London, John has never been without his cane.

Rosie greets him cheerfully, and John’s heart hurts like it’s been stabbed with a knife. What he’s about to tell her, is not going to be pleasant. 

“Sherlock says hello,” Rosie says, looking expectantly and a bit snooty at her father.

“How is he?” John manages.

His eyes sting with unshed tears, but he needs to be firm now. Their future depends on it, though he knows an upcoming catastrophe when he sees one.

“Same as usual. Missing you. Us.”

Her jaw tightens, and she cocks her head in defiance.

“I know, love,” John sighs. “Sit down, please. I need to talk to you. About our situation.”

“What situation? Are you planning to move back to London? You know how much I loathe this place, and – “

“Please, Rosie.”

This is worse than he feared. He takes a deep breath, bracing himself for the inevitable outburst.

“I’ve been offered another job. Better paid, which is preferable. It’s not like we’re rolling in dough here,” he chuckles.

The blank stare Rosie gives him, makes him blush.

“So, yeah, we are moving, but not to London.”

“Where?”

Her tone is dangerously calm. It’s a tone he’s used himself numerous times. As a captain in the army, and while berating Sherlock, or the Yarders for calling his best friend – 

“Dad!”

He’s lost himself in the memories of a happier life. A life where…no, he can’t go there now. Needs to focus.

“Edinburgh. It’s a great – “

“What? But that’s miles away. I can’t visit Sher – “

“You can visit, just not as often as every other week,” John says softly.

“I hate you!” she yells and runs from the room.

“No, you don’t sweetheart,” John whispers, as tears roll down his cheeks and his heart breaks.

The front door slams so hard behind his daughter, that the picture hanging on the wall beside it falls to the floor, shattering the glass. It’s a photo of Rosie as a toddler. Only John knows who snapped the picture. The man living alone in 221B Baker Street.

***

John has texted Rosie for hours, but she doesn’t reply, and when he calls, an automatic voice tells him the device is turned off.

He starts to call her friends, but no one has seen her. To be expected. John is just stalling. He knows where she is. 

John never had the heart to pull Rosie away from the people she loves back in London. After all, quite a few of them are her godparents. Molly, Mrs Hudson, Sherlock. The latter was the only one who didn’t chastise him for leaving Baker Street. Both women were livid, and Greg tried to talk some sense into him, but he was determined. And stubborn. 

After the disaster with Eurus, John decided that a life in Sherlock’s orbit was too dangerous. His daughter deserved to keep her only living parent at her side. Sherlock hadn’t even pleaded with him, but said he understood. It had been uttered quietly, but it roared loudly inside John’s head for weeks afterwards. He knew it was a lie. Over the years, John had grown more astute, and could tell when Sherlock was shamming. The pain in those cerulean eyes before he turned away from John, contradicted his statement like a neon sign. John broke Sherlock’s heart that day, and his own heart cracked so thoroughly it was almost audible. It was the most excruciating pain John had ever felt.

***

Please tell me Rosie is with you.

On a case. She left hours ago. SH.

John called Mrs Hudson.

“She isn’t here, John,” his former landlady informed him.

It stung a little that she’d stopped calling him “dear”. His own fault of course.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” he said and hung up.

Molly hadn’t seen Rosie since last week. She tried to comfort him by saying she’d probably just gone for a walk.

“Just like you did. Before…”

John’s heart broke a little more. It was nothing for it. He – 

What’s happened? Have you found her? SH

We had a row. Said she hated me. Ran out. Phone’s turned off.

She doesn’t hate you, John. SH

No, but she was in quite a state. 

I’ll contact my network. They’ll keep an eye out. Mycroft too. We will find her, John. SH

John sobs like he hasn’t done since the day he left London. Sherlock’s assurance is like balm. He’s missed him more than anything. They haven’t texted in ages. Not after Rosie got old enough to arrange their meetings herself. 

He continues to text her, despite his knowledge that they won’t reach her since her phone is turned off. But he needs to do something.

“How about getting your stubborn arse on the next train from this godforsaken place, and come to London, old man.”

It’s unnerving to hear his daughter’s voice in his head. There’s only been one other person who’s invaded his mind like this: Sherlock.

***

The quiet truth is this: John has missed London and his best friend like an amputated limb. How could he ever think his life would be whole without living in a flat in central London; the only place that’s felt like home.

John runs towards the gigantic statue at St Pancras – The Meeting Place, his cane forgotten. A bit to the side, away from the tourists wanting to take selfies, two people stand close together. A tall man in a luxurious coat, and a teenage girl who clings to the man, her face buried in the woollen fabric.

John’s heart quickens its pace. He feels alive. It’s time to move. Back home to 221B.

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Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Relationship: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade

Written for prompt FFF288 Loud Lie, Quiet Truth of Flash Fiction Friday by @flashfictionfridayofficial

If asked, almost all of the people acquainted with him would agree with the fact that Mycroft Holmes is very aptly named The Iceman. The name would make sense even with just one cursory glance.

Sherlock calls him the British Government. The most dangerous man you will ever meet.

That comes with his position and the power attached to it.

The power that rests in his hands is something he has earned, something he is trusted with by his employers because he is very, very good at his job. When your job involves making decisions that no one else can, human emotions hardly belong there. That is what makes him so good at it.

His career is his life and he runs his life with numbers and logic.

Cold and ruthless.

Detached.

A machine.

That’s what they know of him.

But most of what they know is not true.

There is only one man who knows the truth in its entirety. That man is Greg Lestrade.

The truth, as Greg knows it, was something he’d had to dig out by himself. It was something even Mycroft had not been aware of at the time.

No one ever noticed the sheer panic that drove him whenever Sherlock did something ruthless. No one ever saw his frustrated despair the time statistics piled staggeringly high along with dead bodies when a high-stakes mission had gone wrong the last minute. No one ever witnessed his genuine gratefulness for the fact that he had someone to come home to.

No one else but Greg.

As sweat cools on their naked bodies, Greg curls an arm around his lover, pulling him close. He smiles, content, at the feeling of Mycroft’s long fingers combing through his chest hair, straying away later to rest on his heart. Here, in the afterglow, Greg would place a gentle kiss on his lover’s forehead. He’d come to realise that it pleases Mycroft to no end. Mycroft would hide a delighted smile in the crook of his neck, reminding Greg that the truth is this. Something no one else knows.

No one else but him.

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Fandom: Encanto Character: Dolores Madrigal Relationships: Mariano Guzmán/Isabela Madrigal, Mariano Guzmán/Dolores Madrigal Rating: G

Everyone assumed Dolores was unreservedly happy for Isabela and Dolores did nothing to correct that assumption. They were all used to her listening instead of speaking, so she let her silence do her talking.

Or, rather, her lying.

Every time Abuela took Isabela over to the Guzmáns, then returned exclaiming over the progress of the betrothal contract, Dolores cringed once she was sure she was out of sight. Every time Mariano made some grand romantic display that Isabela politely nodded her head at, Dolores waited until she was in her sound-proof room to brust into noisy sobs. Every time Isabela left Señor Flores' study looking bored after a premarital Catechism session with Mariano, Dolores snuck into the Confessional to whisper her poisonous envy to Padre and ask God's forgiveness for wanting what could never be hers.

Until finally, after Mirabel had broken several major Madrigal family rules in a single day, and Dolores had to watch as the man she'd been in love with for years proposed to her unmistakeably unenthusiastic cousin, the dam broke on her discretion during an already painfully awkward dinner.

During the chaos that followed over the next days, she didn't get the chance to apologize to Isabela, but did get experience the relief of no longer having to keep Tío Bruno's secret along with her own.