Sherlock/Watson/Lestrade/Mycroft idea
Just joined this fandom. And i have a thought here.( Yes this includes holmescest. Fuck off if you don't like it.)
And it may have already been said.
But the skull Sherlock has in the flat being used as Yorick's skull in a small reciting of Hamlet.
It's a Sunday. Neither Greg nor Mycroft are needed at their places of work. So it's a rare day off for all of them.
Greg is slowly making himself and Mycroft cups of afternoon coffee. A small indulgence they share and enjoy. The little frother Sherlock gave him at a crime scene whirring away in a small metal carafe to create light and cold milk foam.
A case had been solved on Friday morning in the wee hours, so Sherlock is content to relax for the moment. He's playing with his fingers on the chair's armrests, mentally going through a section of a piece of music he's been lowly composing.
John is writing something down on a pad of paper with the pen Mycroft got him for Christmas. The buttery soft scratch of the fountain pen in his hand is a delightful harmony to the soft tapping of Sherlocks fingers and socked toes along with the even hum of the frother.
And Mycroft is perfectly happy relaxing on the couch with his eyes closed, listening to the soft trio of sounds in 221B. The domestic silence is a balm over his usually busy mind. The slippers Greg had told him to get were warm and cozy as he had his feet elegantly proped up on the fool rest John had bought for the flat.
The silence never lasts. It only pauses.
They had put their mundane conversation on hold for the few minutes it took for Greg to get himself and Mycroft a treat. And to toss the pack of dark chocolate coated digestives to Sherlock. And to bring a small packet of crisps for John to pick at.
Once he had sat back down next to Mycroft on the couch. However, it was like someone had pressed play again.
They had started out earlier with reminiscing on University days. Then Greg had laughed and said Sherlock probably blew through all his classes in one year. Which then dragged them down a line of their early childhood and teenage educations.
"What load of tripe did you lot have to read for Shakespeare. We had a play each year from year 7 until year 11." John had bemoaned. "I then had The Dumb Waiter for my GCSE program. Thank christ."
Greg smiled into his mug when he heard Mycroft scoff. This was good.
"Shakespeare may be entirely over taught but his tragedies still hurt to experience."
"You had Macbeth, didn't you?" John lifted his pen and looked at Mycroft.
"Three bloody years in a row." The mild disgust on Mycroftâs face had both Greg and John grinning. "I didn't really care for the plays, Shakespeare or otherwise. The epics were more for me."
"Posh boy." John teased with affection.
"Indeed."
Greg swallowed around the rich warmth. "We had Romeo and Juliet for the 8th. Then Othello for the 9th. Then the two Richards. Got stuck with The Tempest in uni. It was alright."
Sherlock laughed. And then bit his lip to try to keep it in. But it was woefully impossible.
"Thanks, love." Greg's voice belayed his eyeroll. "What did you have?"
"He got lucky. Only had to do two." Mycroft said through his teeth. Semi-annoyed.
"Macbeth. And, Hamlet."
"Is that why you have the skull?" Greg's brows rose.
"Oh- no, that's a different item altogether. The original was blown up, remember? I replaced it. But-" Sherlock stood up, putting the still unopened pack of biscuits on the floor next to his chair. He glided easily over to his skull friend and picked it up. He held it out and regarded it. A smile flicked up his lips. John capped his pen and sat back in his desk chair as Sherlock cleared his throat and stood tall, face changing into one of teasing but serious nature as he pressed his voice to be bold.
"Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times. And now how abhorred in my imagination it is!
My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kiss'd I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? Quite chap- fall'n?
Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come. Make her laugh at that."
Sherlock bowed when he heard the claps from his lovers, Greg taking the piss and shouting, "Bravo, bravo! Encore!"
Sherlock snorted before placing the skull back on the mantle. Patting the cranium lightly before going back to his chair.
"You did enjoy the theatrical, brother mine." Mycroft sighed it softly, "I remember you performing the whole of Henry the fifth's speech. Quite emotional for me to hear you like that."
Sherlock closed his eyes and tipped his head in a bow.
John's little smile grew to be that all encompassing hug of one. Where his eyes softened and it made you feel safe. "I'd love to see that. I bet it's a deep moment."
"My voice cracked in the middle of it on my last performance of it."
"It was a- fragile time if I remember it right." Greg's voice pitched down as he looked at Sherlock, his hand finding Mycroftâs leg for something to hold. "You wanted to prove you were sober. Finally. We were at Mycroft's home, in the guestroom, and it was officially a month clean. And here Sherlock was, standing on the bed in his pyjamas, voice steady for the beginning, and quieting down as the intimacies of the speech hit him." Greg took another sip of his drink. Licking his lips he tilted his head and kept his brown eyes trained on Sherlock. "It was the most beautiful thing I had ever witnessed. Held you between the two of us we did. Let you cry it all out. Fielded your tantrum after. But it's worth it."
Sherlocks shoulders relaxed as he heard that.
Mycrofts own hum of assurance added to Greg's sentiments.
"And it led us here." Sherlock murmured into the room between them all.
"Indeed it has." Mycroft smiled warmly and placed his free hand over Greg's on his thigh.
