Sherlock.
I'm going cross-fandom. Holy shit. Yeah. So how about a little BBC Sherlock? Shit's intense, man. /Intense/. This fic is for 
ladyyuna07...bitch is solely responsible for making me love them so much. Also, I thoroughly believe that Sherlock has Asperger Syndrome. #SpecialEdTeacher #RantRantRant I'm a first-timer, here. Be gentle.
Title: Ice
Author:nera_fiore
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't own.
Characters: Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Summary: Mycroft observes Sherlock and John. A Mycroft character sketch. Written in second-person perspective, of Mycroft
Word count: 685
You can’t help but watch them.
All of the time you’ve spent trying to find someone, throwing money at him or her trying to have them watch for you, is suddenly in vain. In more ways than one. Perhaps it isn’t as sudden as it seems. Maybe it was just a long time coming, but you’ve just been too blind to see. Or too ignorant to acknowledge. Sherlock has always said that you’re completely myopic, but you’ve never been one to take personal advice from the same man who is unaware that the Earth rotates around the sun. Or isn’t always sure whether or not he’s put on his trousers. You’re much more practical than that. It’s how you pride yourself.
And yet every night, they go home to each other, while you go home alone.
When you first met John, you didn’t believe it. Surely, your brother had gotten to him first. You can just hear it now, the words on his lips, dripping like poisoned honey. “He’ll offer you money,” He’d say.
“Who?” John would ask.
“The stuff shirt. Bad haircut. Too much grease and a trouser size too short. He’ll be with a woman who is much too voluptuous and far too attractive for someone of his stature. Perhaps he’s offered her money as well, but it isn’t only that. It is the car in which he uses to transport her. It is the thrill, the attention from passers-by. Nevertheless, ignore him. He isn’t worth your time, and his checks will surely bounce. Here, take a hundred quid from me. Ignore this month’s rent.”
The thought sounds more and more preposterous as it crosses your mind. You can’t speak for Sherlock. You never have, and you never will. And alone, it burns you. Anthea doesn’t want the slightest thing to do with you, and though you’ll never admit it – at least not aloud – you know this. It is the attention. The money. The cars. The jewelry.
John took to Sherlock instantly, when no one else would, or even could. John, who immediately chose move his belongings from a studio flat to one with a single bedroom…and another man. Why? It hadn’t made sense. Less rent and more space seemed hardly compensation for rooming with someone as bull-headed and insensitive as his brother. No, there needed to be more than that.
And there it was, hiding in plain sight, directly in front of your nose. Sherlock always preached that people missed the most obvious of observations. The more time you choose to be around him (or are forced because of your job, not to mention the popularity of John’s blog), the more acute the statement seems to be. Yet here you sit alone in your office, cameras on the surrounding Baker Street buildings aimed directly through the balcony window. You can feel your nose turning up as you watch the doctor slip his hands around your brother’s waist, head turning so that their lips connect.
You grimace as you shut the camera off, because you’ve already seen more than you’ve ever wanted to see, despite the fact that perhaps you needed to see it. You aren’t sick and twisted. You don’t want your brother in any sort of an incestuous manner, and the thought that some people do is actually slightly nauseating. No, rather, you want what he has.
You want to feel. You want to understand. The reason you’ve made your offers in the first place. A sibling rivalry, bound in contract not by blood, but by jealousy.
You want to love.
But you can’t. You can’t compete with your own flesh and blood. You can’t even compete with a poor military doctor, with reasonable deduction skills and a psychosomatic limp. You’ll always be second-rate, buried in your work, and stuck in your ways as a silly, aging man. Even Moriarty has recognized it, though you are fairly certain that he is the only one that scratches a surface even remotely similar to the one in which Sherlock’s initials are scratched. The elder Holmes. The sound one. With ice in his veins.
ladyyuna07...bitch is solely responsible for making me love them so much. Also, I thoroughly believe that Sherlock has Asperger Syndrome. #SpecialEdTeacher #RantRantRant I'm a first-timer, here. Be gentle.Title: Ice
Author:
nera_fioreRating: PG
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't own.
Characters: Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Summary: Mycroft observes Sherlock and John. A Mycroft character sketch. Written in second-person perspective, of Mycroft
Word count: 685
You can’t help but watch them.
All of the time you’ve spent trying to find someone, throwing money at him or her trying to have them watch for you, is suddenly in vain. In more ways than one. Perhaps it isn’t as sudden as it seems. Maybe it was just a long time coming, but you’ve just been too blind to see. Or too ignorant to acknowledge. Sherlock has always said that you’re completely myopic, but you’ve never been one to take personal advice from the same man who is unaware that the Earth rotates around the sun. Or isn’t always sure whether or not he’s put on his trousers. You’re much more practical than that. It’s how you pride yourself.
And yet every night, they go home to each other, while you go home alone.
When you first met John, you didn’t believe it. Surely, your brother had gotten to him first. You can just hear it now, the words on his lips, dripping like poisoned honey. “He’ll offer you money,” He’d say.
“Who?” John would ask.
“The stuff shirt. Bad haircut. Too much grease and a trouser size too short. He’ll be with a woman who is much too voluptuous and far too attractive for someone of his stature. Perhaps he’s offered her money as well, but it isn’t only that. It is the car in which he uses to transport her. It is the thrill, the attention from passers-by. Nevertheless, ignore him. He isn’t worth your time, and his checks will surely bounce. Here, take a hundred quid from me. Ignore this month’s rent.”
The thought sounds more and more preposterous as it crosses your mind. You can’t speak for Sherlock. You never have, and you never will. And alone, it burns you. Anthea doesn’t want the slightest thing to do with you, and though you’ll never admit it – at least not aloud – you know this. It is the attention. The money. The cars. The jewelry.
John took to Sherlock instantly, when no one else would, or even could. John, who immediately chose move his belongings from a studio flat to one with a single bedroom…and another man. Why? It hadn’t made sense. Less rent and more space seemed hardly compensation for rooming with someone as bull-headed and insensitive as his brother. No, there needed to be more than that.
And there it was, hiding in plain sight, directly in front of your nose. Sherlock always preached that people missed the most obvious of observations. The more time you choose to be around him (or are forced because of your job, not to mention the popularity of John’s blog), the more acute the statement seems to be. Yet here you sit alone in your office, cameras on the surrounding Baker Street buildings aimed directly through the balcony window. You can feel your nose turning up as you watch the doctor slip his hands around your brother’s waist, head turning so that their lips connect.
You grimace as you shut the camera off, because you’ve already seen more than you’ve ever wanted to see, despite the fact that perhaps you needed to see it. You aren’t sick and twisted. You don’t want your brother in any sort of an incestuous manner, and the thought that some people do is actually slightly nauseating. No, rather, you want what he has.
You want to feel. You want to understand. The reason you’ve made your offers in the first place. A sibling rivalry, bound in contract not by blood, but by jealousy.
You want to love.
But you can’t. You can’t compete with your own flesh and blood. You can’t even compete with a poor military doctor, with reasonable deduction skills and a psychosomatic limp. You’ll always be second-rate, buried in your work, and stuck in your ways as a silly, aging man. Even Moriarty has recognized it, though you are fairly certain that he is the only one that scratches a surface even remotely similar to the one in which Sherlock’s initials are scratched. The elder Holmes. The sound one. With ice in his veins.