#thirdholmes

@thirdholmes​ said:  " 𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎, 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝, 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚝. 𝙼𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚍. "

She couldn’t breathe. 

The air was caught in her lungs, heavy and aching. How could she dare to breathe when her heart beat so quickly? When she could feel the warmth of his skin only centimeters away and when those bright, clear eyes bore so deeply into her own? 

One hesitant hand reached up to wrap in the fabric of his lapel, to slide her fingers against the fabric and know that it was real.

“I used to think you were an angel.” she whispered, the air too fragile for anything more. “Then something from my imagination, a comfort - and then you were real and now-” the words came out slowly, a furrow rising between her brows as her eyes fell to where her hand met with his form. “You’re here.” 

𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚈𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝚆𝙰𝚂 𝚄𝙽𝙵𝙰𝙼𝙸𝙻𝙸𝙰𝚁.    The  smells.   The  sounds.   The  feeling  of  the  sheets  under  his  aching  body.   The  last  thing  he  could  remember  was  fading  out  of  consciousness  on  the  floor  at  221b,   after  pumping  himself  full  of  what  was  supposed  to  be  a  fatal  overdose.    So  to  say  he  was  surprised  to  find  himself  returning  to  consciousness  would  be  an  understatement.    Might  be  a  hospital,   he  thought,   but  yet  something  felt  distinctly  off  about  the  room.   It  didn’t  feel  like  a  hospital,   and  in  fact  he  was  certain  he  wasn’t  even  in  London  anymore.   Where  the  hell  am  I ?   No  . . the  most  pressing  question,   was  how  he  got  here.   Who  had  intervened  in  such  a  timely  fashion,   and  brought  him  to  this  place,   outside  of  London?   And  how  long  had  he  been  unconscious . . ? 

Eyes  peeled  open  to  take  a  blurry  glance  around  the  room.   He  spotted  a  figure  nearby,   and  began  to  register  that  said  figure  was  talking  ---  no,  reading  a  book,  out  loud.   The  voice  was  oddly  soothing,   and  he  was  silent  for  a  long  while,  listening  --- 

gazing at the creations of the never-ending street artists, haggling over lacquered shells and clay candleholders, doing all these rather nice and not-at-all-boring things—but the peals of laughter coming from the teenage clusters sometimes made her sigh heavily.

After extensive discussion, @thirdholmes and I have decided to make Molly and Sherrinford a part of our main verses.

Changes for Molly's blog will be detailed in her verses section tomorrow evening, but the quick and dirty is this;

Molly and Sherrinford meet about a year after The Fall when Molly, consumed by guilt, buys a small cottage in Ickleford, Hertfordshire.

They begin dating and become engaged two years later, just before Sherlock's return.

Sherrinford is named as one of Rosie's godparents. Mary does not die and is present at their wedding at the beginning of series 4.

Unless otherwise discussed or established, Molly has processed and moved on from her feelings for Sherlock and is happily married.

This does not mean that I won't be shipping with other characters or that the relationships I've established over the years go poof, only that this is now the default.

The velvet box felt heavy in his hand despite its small size. A ring of silver nestled in a bed of forest green silk disappeared from sight as it snapped shut. The box returned to his inner pocket and he regarded his brother with a raised brow. “Ordinary.” The ice in their drinks clinked as it melted in the heated conservatory. Snow drifted to the grounds outside. “Ordinary isn’t a terrible thing.”

No, ordinary was not terrible. Ordinary was nice. Mycroft could only image the sense of relief that must come from fitting in with the world like that. However, he was a Holmes, as was his brother. Ordinary was simply not what they did.

But, if Sherrinford was going to insist on playing such a role, then who was Mycroft to argue with the performance? At the end of the day, his brother was his own man; if he wanted to be ordinary, then that was his choice. Best to let him live his fantasy for a while then attempt to drag him away from it.

@thirdholmes​ sent:  𝟷𝟿. 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎

She’d never cared much for hard liquor, heavily preferring the slow build of fruity wines, but it was strength that she craved - a hot burn that would scrub away the memory of what she had seen, what they had seen.

Sherrinford sat on the stairs of their home, pale eyes staring off into the distant trees- a plume of smoke seeping from his parted lips.

Bare feet pressed against the stone tile, Molly took her place next to him, glasses clinking against one another as she set them down, a sound followed only by the sloshing glug of the amber elixir.

Silently, she handed him a one glass and raised the other to her lips, her gaze joining his in the great beyond of the expansive landscape.

What could she say? What was there to say?

The liquor did its job, burning a path across her tongue and down her throat before settling heavily in the pit of her stomach.

With anyone else she might have dreaded the silence that hung between them, but she took comfort in his presence - in the moment where they simply existed. It wouldn’t fix the problem, it would erase the pain, but it eased her heart.

@thirdholmes​ said: “ 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐…𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚙. ”

Long limps stretched and shook in the early morning sun, then with a satisfied sigh, fell limp against the duvet. “You’re a good man.” she smiled, voice a bit croaky and eyes still hazy with sleep. Turning to her side, Molly took in Sherrinford with great appreciation. His dark hair was not yet combed, his eyes awake and obscenely bright with that same light that showered their room in golden rays.

@thirdholmes​ said:  “ 𝙸 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 . ”

Molly knew Sherrinford cared for her, that he liked her - that he enjoyed her company, but it wasn’t until then that she knew, with unwavering certainty, that he loved her.

The Holmes brothers were, as if by definition, closed off. They were all intelligent, posh, rigid and somewhat cold. Emotion was a four letter word, something to be removed or at best - ignored. Even Sherrinford, the warmest of the three, only seemed to show his appreciation with a small smile or a scowl of displeasure if he was upset. Everything seemed to go on internally - she could count on one hand the number of times she’d heard him laugh.

Still, Sherrinford was not cold because he was unfeeling, but rather because he felt so much and the mixture of anxiety, learned habits, and inexperience he held was a hard wall to cross. He expressed joy through his hands, through actions and strokes of paint upon canvas. He painted what he felt - what he hated, what inspired him, what he loved.