#sadlock

I was feeling sad so here please enjoy this little set I made of Sherlock Regretting Everything in TEH.

Adlock AU, in which Sherrinford is the middle Holmes brother.

DISCLAIMER: Irene may seem ooc in this, or at least closer to ACD canon in personality than BBC canon.

The funeral was on a rare cloudless Sunday morning. 

The wind was crisp and smelled of freshly-mown grass and overturned dirt from the cemetery outside. The candles and incense gave off a smokey, slightly heady aroma that filled the entire church. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, painting the casket and the veritable mountain of flowers beside it with a myriad of colors.

The church was so packed, one almost couldn’t see the casket. Everyone had come to pay their final respects to the beloved novelist, Sherrinford Holmes. The handsome, charismatic weaver of tales who, just three weeks before his untimely death, had been dubbed “a literary genius” by the New York Times, and “this generation’s Ian Fleming” by the Guardian. 

The whole absurd tableau was so perfect, it made his brother feel sick.

Sherlock Holmes stood, unseen, in the shadows of the alcove behind the pews. Alone and unnoticed, he blended in with the mourning crowd, as was his intent.

His mother, eyes rimmed red with sorrow etched into every line of her face, had implored him to come today -- to sit with the family in the front pew, to bid one last farewell to his favorite brother. Which, of course, was the reason why he was hiding here in the very back where his family couldn’t see him.

Sherrinford, of all people, would understand.

Sherrinford had always been known to everyone -- even to their parents, though they would never admit it -- as “the better brother”. Always the best at everything he did; Brilliant, precise, athletic, always sharply-dressed, with an irresistible smirk that made every woman -- and more than a few men -- in the vicinity melt with adoration. Sherrinford was the silver-tongued prince, the golden child of the Holmes family. 

To Mycroft, five years his senior, and well on his way to becoming the British government by this time, the comparison had less of an effect. But Sherlock, being the youngest and closest to him in age, had always borne the brunt of his older brother’s legacy. 

As a child, Sherlock had seen Sherrinford as a shining demi-god who could do no wrong, and worshipful little Sherlock had both treasured the moments when his Apollonian brother had deigned to spend time with him, and aspired to be like him when he grew up. By the time he was a teenager, Sherlock had stopped trying.

Still, there always seemed to be a patina of easy superiority and prestige around his brother that Sherlock could never achieve. And though he and Sherrinford always got along better than he and Mycroft did, it was this yawning gap of expectations and pressure that kept Sherlock away.

Of course, that wasn’t the only reason he’d maintained his distance.

.... And there she was. Sitting in the front pew, between his mother and Mycroft, her face pale and cold, like a marble Madonna.

She had lost weight, Sherlock observed. Her black dress was elegant, immaculate and tailored, but he could see where it hung from her slim frame. Her face was tight and drawn, and the usual clever sharpness in her eyes had been diluted somewhat by sadness and fatigue.

Still she stood erect in front of the casket, unbowed by grief. Something in his chest ached as he watched her, as if it had been hollowed out. It might have been his own grief, it might have been something else. But it came hand-in-hand with the guilt that clawed the pit of his stomach every time he looked at her.

He couldn’t do this. Not today, of all days.

The funeral mass was about to end, and mourners would be spilling out of the church. The pallbearers lifted the casket -- Mycroft, with his wan, apathetic face, and his father, with his hunched, defeated back, at the lead. His mother broke into a fresh bout of weeping, sobbing into her handkerchief. The youngest Holmes brother was notably absent. 

Without letting any of them see him, Sherlock slipped soundlessly out of the church. He was craving a cigarette, and he lit one far enough that Mycroft and his mother wouldn’t detect it. He took a deep drag, and let it fill his lungs, as if the cloud of smoke could somehow fill the great gaping hollowness in his chest.

Sherlock watched as the mourners crowded to the newly-dug grave in the family plot. She followed the casket, unspeaking. 

He could still remember the first time they met. 

It was as though he had been struck by lightning. The moment her eyes had found his and saw through his disguise, recognition sparkling in that translucent gaze, it was as if a current had passed between them. 

“Disguise is always a self-portrait...” 

She had seen through his disguise within seconds -- the new violinist in the orchestra for the theatre production she was in, replacing the old violinist who had mysteriously gotten “sick”.

“You didn’t poison him, did you?”

He had smiled, the first and last time he ever did in her presence, one corner of his lips quirking upward. “Just a little bit.” 

And when she had laughed, a thrilling, delighted sound, he had known in that moment that he was in danger of losing to this woman.

“I knew who you were the moment I saw your watch. Besides, Sherrinford told me you play the violin.”

The mention of his brother had brought home the reason why he had been there in disguise in the first place -- to observe Sherrinford’s new wife. The woman who had secured his brother’s affections in a whirlwind romance, and encroached on their family without any of them knowing.

That had been two years ago.

Today, she stood at his brother’s fresh grave, and he watched her as he always had since that day he met her -- from afar.

He waited until all the others had gone, and the crowd dwindled down to his family. He let his mother glimpse him for a second as she and his father drove away -- just enough to ensure that she wouldn’t bombast him with a diatribe tomorrow for not attending his own brother’s funeral.

Mycroft went next. Just before he left, he stopped a few yards away from the tree Sherlock was leaning against. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course.

“Well, it looks like it’s just you and me left, brother mine.”

Sherlock blew a puff of smoke into his face. “Piss off, Mycroft.”

“Charming.” Mycroft pursed his lips into a dour smile, but Sherlock noticed his eyes flick from him to the lone figure standing at the family plot, then back to Sherlock. His only remaining brother wisely said nothing more, merely climbed into the car where his assistant was waiting. 

As the black car pulled away, Sherlock discarded his cigarette and crushed it under his foot.

He should go.

This was exactly the sort of situation he was better off staying away from. The reason why he had seen his brother so infrequently in the past couple of years.

Before he could leave, however, he couldn’t resist one last look at her. 

She stood silently at his brother’s grave, unmoving. Her face was perfectly still, perfectly composed. Her eyes were distant and glassy. It was almost as if her body was here, but the rest of her had followed Sherrinford wherever he was. 

He should go.

Almost against his will, his steps shifted, and his legs carried him closer to her. Closer. Closer. Until he was almost standing behind her. But she remained oblivious of his presence.

He stretched out his hand, fingers just millimeters from her elbow. His usually steady hands trembled slightly. Just before he could touch her, he stopped, remembering whose grave it was they were standing on. He pulled his hand away, but in a quiet voice, he said her name.

“Irene...”

By SorrowsFlower

It Only Takes One Text Message To Change Everything

DREAD /dred/ anticipate with great apprehension or fear REGRET /rə-gret/ feel sad, repentant, or disappointed over.

Sherlock opened his eyes suddenly.

He had been sleeping a moment before, but now… Now he wasn’t, and it was in response to something - it was a reaction. But to what? He furrowed his forehead and stared up at the ceiling trying to clear the fog from his mind, trying to focus. What had woken him up–

Sherlock was up and out of his bed the next second. He wrapped his dressing gown quickly about his body, was out of his room, down the hallway, and up the stairs to the bedroom at the top of the flat all in less than a minute.

“Daddy, help!” the small boy in the bed at the other side of the room cried in a small voice.

Sherlock threw the light on and rushed to his son’s side.

“Shhh…” he said, running his hand soothingly through the boy’s hair. “It’s all right. I’m here. Wake up… I’m here.”

And suddenly terrified blue eyes were locked on to Sherlock’s face, and then the trembling boy was in his arms. Sherlock pressed his hand to the back of the boy’s head - tight, dark curls soft against his palm.

“It was mummy!” the boy cried.

Sherlock closed his eyes at the painful tightening of his chest as a cold hand seemed to grip at his heart.

“Shhh…” he repeated. “I’m here now, my love.”

My love.

It was what Irene had called the boy… He had never featured himself doing the same, but now the words came naturally. And why shouldn’t they? This boy, Nero Adler, was the love of his life in the truest sense of the phrase. Now, as he held the frightened child as though for dear life, he couldn’t imagine that the phrase could ever have meant anything else. Indeed, he knew now that he must have been born to love his son.

“I miss my mum…” Nero cried softly in to his father’s neck.

Sherlock swallowed.

“I miss her, too.” he responded, and his voice cracked on the last word, his eyes beginning to sting. “But we’re still her boys, aren’t we?”

Nero said nothing, but nodded after a moment.

Sherlock pulled away from him so that he could look him in the eyes.

“And if we’re still her boys, she can’t really be gone, right?”

The boy wiped his eyes, and then nodded again before settling back against his pillow.

“A woman like your mother leaves a mark on the world so indelible that she becomes a permanent fixture. Your mother is forever. Your mother is… always.”

And Nero nodded again. Sherlock smiled softly.

“Did you know that your mum drugged me the very first time we met?” he asked.

The boy’s eyes and features lit up with glee, even as the tears were still drying on his cheeks.

“She did?” he exclaimed cheerfully.

Sherlock nodded his head exaggeratedly.

“I was off my my mind for at least half a day. Your uncle Greg still has a video of it… he reminds me of it any time I get on his nerves.”

“You get on his nerves a lot…”

“That must be why he’s always reminding me of the video, then.”

Nero giggled.

“Why did she drug you?”

“Your uncle John might say it was because I’m a co–” he cut himself off as his son listened to him intently. “Well, it doesn’t matter what uncle John would say. I took something from her that she wanted back, and she had asked nicely once already.”

Nero smiled.

“She was so brave. Like Rosie’s mum.”

“Mary?”

“Uncle John talks about her all the time. She sounds like mum.”

Sherlock laughed shortly.

“Yes, I suppose she does,” he responded thoughtfully. “They would have been great friends.”

… Or enemies,his mind added pragmatically.

“Or enemies.” Nero said.

Sherlock laughed for a few moments, and then took a deep breath.

“You said ‘it was mummy’ in your dream,” he started gently. “Do you want to talk about what you were dreaming of?”

Nero’s eyes became far away and he was silent for a long few seconds before responding.

“She was saying goodbye.” he nearly whispered, and then sharpened his gaze on his father. “I was afraid to let her go… but then you woke me up, and I remembered that I don’t have to let her go.”

Sherlock felt a deep swell of pride for Irene Adler’s son. Their son.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a clever boy?”

“They don’t have to say it for me to know it.” the boy responded almost flippantly, and then settled deeper in to his pillow, closing his eyes. “But yes.”

Sherlock laughed.

“I love you, daddy.” he went on sleepily.

Sherlock swallowed.

“I love you.” he said, before standing and going to the bedroom door. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, daddy.”

I just want one fic.

Where Sherlock arrives back at his flat after the Norbury incident, alone, and just sinks to the floor just passed the doorway, crying. And when I say crying, I mean crying. Remember Alan Turing’s meltdown in the Imitation Game? Yeah that kind of crying.

And I just want Mrs. Hudson to come up the stairs and hold him, not really saying anything, but just holding him while he cries.

I just need this.

HARRY: “Ron, this totally sucks, man. This—” RON: "This is horrible.” HARRY: “Yeah, I know. Look at this: Harry Potter vs Voldemort: The Fight of the Century.” RON: “No, it’s not that! It’s Hermione.”

ADLOCK AU

I had all and then most of you. Some and now none of you. Take me back to the night we met.