![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mrwubblesOh good God, I'dve written another. LOL.
Title: Prompt #2: Love
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mrwubbles aka Yuma
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: G
Words: 651 words (wheeze, gasp, barely made it! LOL)
Genre: Gen
Warnings/Triggers: I'm not Brit, can't even play one on TV (telly?) but I thoroughly enjoy Hob Nobs. Does that help? :)
Spoilers: Minor references to S1X01 "A Study In Pink"
Summary: Mycroft considered his motives could perhaps be regarded as selfish.
At four, Sherlock fell off the tree in their gardens. He had clamored up to observe the habits of a Sphodromantis viridis. Had it not been for the timely intervention of Mycroft's body, Sherlock would have broken a bone. That would have been most undesirable. Mycroft didn’t notice the pain in wrist until he lifted Sherlock to his arms, but then Sherlock pressed his face to Mycroft’s neck and chubby short fingers clutched his shirt.
It wasn't too long of a walk home and Mycroft’s wrist was mostly likely only sprained, not broken.
Mycroft understood the importance of delegation from an early age. Brian Striker was as thick as he was huge, but even the less intellectually gifted had their uses. And when Striker had a few words with his younger cousins—or whatever passed for communication in that family—about the certain evils of bullying, there would be no evidence leading back to Mycroft.
But even in primary school, Sherlock proved to be a nonbeliever of coincidence. He returned from class the next day unscathed for once, but mute. He glared at Mycroft over the dinner table and did not speak to him for a week.
Mycroft still considered it money well spent.
Sebastian was a man who boasted too much. He mocked, he preyed, he collected jeering followers and took delight in throwing out verbal barbs and vicious rumors. He had a natural instinct for capitalizing on the weakness of others. He would have been quite at home in Whitehall.
It was unfortunate that every application Sebastian submitted for a political internship was turned down.
The experience could have possibly net him contacts for an ambitious career after uni. Sebastian's lofty aspirations fell to the private sector instead. Sherlock said nothing but he did not come home from uni that summer.
Next Christmas found Mycroft staring across the dining table at a hollow-cheeked, sunken-eyed, twenty-year-old Sherlock. He looked utterly depleted. Mycroft reluctantly resolved to inquire after Sherlock. After all, another holiday like this would upset Mummy.
But the interviews with Sherlock's professors, his classmates, his former flatmates, the vendor across the street from his flat, the cabbie who picked him up from class, the woman who jogged by him yesterday morning, and the receptionist in the uni library Sherlock frequently visited bore no useful information, only vague misgivings. Then Mycroft lost him entirely.
Mycroft found it irritating, wasting time locating the newest hovel Sherlock had fled to; especially when there were delicate situations in certain parts of the world requiring his full attention. But the blank area on Sherlock's latest surveillance reports distracted him; he didn't like incomplete work. Mycroft stalked streets, tunnels, decrepit buildings. A week later, he found himself brushing a numb hand across clammy skin on a body curled, passed out on a poor excuse of a mattress, checking for a pulse.
He did not climb into the ambulance as it drove away with Sherlock. Nor was he in the vehicle that took Sherlock to an undisclosed country home. He was needed elsewhere. Besides, reports were sent daily for Mycroft to read, should he be interested.
DI Lestrade proved to be harmless as Mycroft’s research suggested. Nevertheless, when he started allowing Sherlock into his crime scenes with SOCO, Mycroft ordered surveillance for the detective inspector.
The next week, a shattered mobile, its GPS tracker conspicuously absent, was sent to his office. That it was sent to his office at a supposedly unknown location did not surprise him. Minutes later, Mycroft received a text from an undisclosed number with just the word 'Stop'.
Mycroft simply upped the surveillance to level two.
The man—military, psychosomatic limp, insomniac—gazed back unflinching, unafraid, demanding to know why. Bravery like that deserved a reward. Mycroft answered.
"I worry about him. Constantly."
"Well that's nice of you."
Nice, Mycroft thought.
Nice. As nice as keeping one’s own heart whole, Mycroft supposed.
`fin`
Author's Note:
This was originally a fic prompt posted for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
thegameison_sh in February. My beta (aka Mycroft channeler)penfold_x has convinced me to post this de-anon. Blame her…LOL.
| master fic list |(should you be interested)
Title: Prompt #2: Love
Author:
mrwubbles aka YumaFandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: G
Words: 651 words (wheeze, gasp, barely made it! LOL)
Genre: Gen
Warnings/Triggers: I'm not Brit, can't even play one on TV (telly?) but I thoroughly enjoy Hob Nobs. Does that help? :)
Spoilers: Minor references to S1X01 "A Study In Pink"
Summary: Mycroft considered his motives could perhaps be regarded as selfish.
At four, Sherlock fell off the tree in their gardens. He had clamored up to observe the habits of a Sphodromantis viridis. Had it not been for the timely intervention of Mycroft's body, Sherlock would have broken a bone. That would have been most undesirable. Mycroft didn’t notice the pain in wrist until he lifted Sherlock to his arms, but then Sherlock pressed his face to Mycroft’s neck and chubby short fingers clutched his shirt.
It wasn't too long of a walk home and Mycroft’s wrist was mostly likely only sprained, not broken.
Mycroft understood the importance of delegation from an early age. Brian Striker was as thick as he was huge, but even the less intellectually gifted had their uses. And when Striker had a few words with his younger cousins—or whatever passed for communication in that family—about the certain evils of bullying, there would be no evidence leading back to Mycroft.
But even in primary school, Sherlock proved to be a nonbeliever of coincidence. He returned from class the next day unscathed for once, but mute. He glared at Mycroft over the dinner table and did not speak to him for a week.
Mycroft still considered it money well spent.
Sebastian was a man who boasted too much. He mocked, he preyed, he collected jeering followers and took delight in throwing out verbal barbs and vicious rumors. He had a natural instinct for capitalizing on the weakness of others. He would have been quite at home in Whitehall.
It was unfortunate that every application Sebastian submitted for a political internship was turned down.
The experience could have possibly net him contacts for an ambitious career after uni. Sebastian's lofty aspirations fell to the private sector instead. Sherlock said nothing but he did not come home from uni that summer.
Next Christmas found Mycroft staring across the dining table at a hollow-cheeked, sunken-eyed, twenty-year-old Sherlock. He looked utterly depleted. Mycroft reluctantly resolved to inquire after Sherlock. After all, another holiday like this would upset Mummy.
But the interviews with Sherlock's professors, his classmates, his former flatmates, the vendor across the street from his flat, the cabbie who picked him up from class, the woman who jogged by him yesterday morning, and the receptionist in the uni library Sherlock frequently visited bore no useful information, only vague misgivings. Then Mycroft lost him entirely.
Mycroft found it irritating, wasting time locating the newest hovel Sherlock had fled to; especially when there were delicate situations in certain parts of the world requiring his full attention. But the blank area on Sherlock's latest surveillance reports distracted him; he didn't like incomplete work. Mycroft stalked streets, tunnels, decrepit buildings. A week later, he found himself brushing a numb hand across clammy skin on a body curled, passed out on a poor excuse of a mattress, checking for a pulse.
He did not climb into the ambulance as it drove away with Sherlock. Nor was he in the vehicle that took Sherlock to an undisclosed country home. He was needed elsewhere. Besides, reports were sent daily for Mycroft to read, should he be interested.
DI Lestrade proved to be harmless as Mycroft’s research suggested. Nevertheless, when he started allowing Sherlock into his crime scenes with SOCO, Mycroft ordered surveillance for the detective inspector.
The next week, a shattered mobile, its GPS tracker conspicuously absent, was sent to his office. That it was sent to his office at a supposedly unknown location did not surprise him. Minutes later, Mycroft received a text from an undisclosed number with just the word 'Stop'.
Mycroft simply upped the surveillance to level two.
The man—military, psychosomatic limp, insomniac—gazed back unflinching, unafraid, demanding to know why. Bravery like that deserved a reward. Mycroft answered.
"I worry about him. Constantly."
"Well that's nice of you."
Nice, Mycroft thought.
Nice. As nice as keeping one’s own heart whole, Mycroft supposed.
`fin`
Author's Note:
This was originally a fic prompt posted for the
thegameison_sh in February. My beta (aka Mycroft channeler)penfold_x has convinced me to post this de-anon. Blame her…LOL.| master fic list |(should you be interested)
