LOOK ITS A CHAPTER!

I'm sorry this has taken so long but I've been going through writers block. Wasn't even able to write my other two fics, despite having the basic plot planned out already. Idk how often this will get updated, I still have a lot of free time on my hands at night to write, but the issues I have with series 3 still remain. How much to include, what to do about Mary? Do I include him getting shot like in HLV, when he was shot in the previous story? I really hate decisions.

Before I begin, another piece of news, we have a new kitten! She's a tabby mix of some kind, her fur kind of glitters much like a bengal and she's as curious and silly as our previous cat. But so, so affectionate! Her name is Pippa and she's a dear, and a bit of a nerd herself. (loves the doctor who theme and tv in general, loved the hobbit as well).

I tried to include where he was but I'll have to do it in chapter 2.

So...I can't promise this is an amazing start, and if anyone wants to help me with it, via me rambling ideas about what could happen, then message me! Otherwise...without further ado, I bring you the first chapter, of part 3 of what I've now fondly called, The Stars Series.


Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

- Sarah Williams. (The Old Astronomer)


Lounging on a red and white folding chair, beneath a large black umbrella, was a tall, skinny detective. Ex-detective in truth, originally he'd been a "dead" detective. Now he was just a person, unemployed, bored and unfortunately ordinary. He hadn't yet returned to his unique occupation and had even debated whether he should. It had only got him trouble, not that there was anything wrong with trouble, but certain kinds were more dangerous than others. And those were the ones it was best to avoid. For his own sake and those of his friends.

The possibly-not-a-detective-anymore, arranged his book to shield most of his face from the harsh sunlight and attempted to drown out the screaming children, the gossip, the shouts of glee from the water. It wasn't an easy task. He grumbled to himself, removing the book and glaring at the scene laid before him. Men in darkly coloured board shorts strutting alone the beach front, trying to impress those not interested, surfers waxing their boards, women in scantily clad swimsuits, children in brightly patterned bathers, screaming at the top of their lungs. Crying because a sibling stepped on their sand castles, or because the salt water got into their eyes.

People.

Isn't it hateful?

"I highly doubt that it is, brother mine."

Sherlock jumped, his head turning to his right to find the chair next to him occupied. He toppled out of his, largely to be dramatic, but frankly no one would blame him. The other chair was now occupied by his brother, in, oh it was awful. Half a suit, bright orange board shorts with a pattern of giraffes and socks with green flip-flops. Think happy thoughts, Sherlock, at least he's not wearing crocs. He closed is eyes and then opened them, no, the hideous sight was still before him. This couldn't be real, could it? The Mycroft he knew would never think to dress this way, certainly not in public, whatever he did in private was his own affair and Sherlock shuddered thinking about it.

"It's a dream, Sherlock." Oh thank God. ...Wait..

"Good. I thought perhaps I'd gone mad."

"Well, there's still time." Mycroft looked at his pocket watch. Could you please leave? People might see you and think we're related.

"Piss off."

"Gladly, however I'm here with an important message."

"And what is that?" Sherlock was still covering his eyes.

"Wake up."

"What?!"

Wait... hold on a second!


"Sherlock? Sherlock?" Something poked him hard in the shoulder, something that felt suspiciously like the end of an umbrella. And would not remain one if it didn't stop it's incessant jabbing.

Piss off, Mycroft. Sherlock groaned and removed the book off his face, tempted to through it at his annoying older brother.

"Ah, he wakes. Welcome back brother mine. Enjoying your holiday?" Shut up and go away.

"Why are you here?"

His brother gestured to one of the larger beach houses behind them, one in cherry red, and slowly headed in that direction. Grumbling, the younger man stood, dusted sand off his rash vest and followed. At least he could be thankful he was wearing a three-piece suit this time, although in this heat that alone was ridiculous.

Although it was larger than some other beach houses, it even had a deck, it was still a small hut. But it fit a tiny kitchen, two arm chairs and a tv, with a partition at the back hiding a single bed and a loo. Nothing but the best for a Holmes. Sighing, Sherlock Holmes collapsed into one of the armchairs, throwing his arm over the side and glaring at his brother. This had all been his idea and so far this "fabulous beach getaway" had been boring, cloudy and plain nauseating. He had no desire to get in the water and he looked out of place in his shirt and shorts when everyone else wore barely anything.

"How long do I have to stay here?"

"At least until the end of the week. Make the most of it, dear brother, swim for a bit at least." Otherwise what is the point?

"With all those people?"

"It will be better for you then staying inside here like a hermit."

Fine. If I must, I must.

He'd have to suffer for the next five days. At least he didn't have to stay at the beach, he could go out and look at the shops, which was almost as bad, see the sights or stay in his hotel room. Or remain in the beachhouse. None of his options seemed particular interesting or worthwhile. He supposed he could browse some of the stores for cheap souvenirs, or see a movie at the outdoor cinema. He would prefer to just sit inside and read, but his friends had paid a large part of this holiday and he should at least try to enjoy himself. Even if his mind rebelled at stagnation.

"Are you going to answer my previous question, Mycroft? Why are you here?"

"I come bearing gifts." His brother deposited a small pile of envelopes in his hand as well as two packages. "Now if you excuse me, I'm going to try and make some tea. Or something that passes for it."

But Sherlock had stopped listening. His friends had mentioned writing, but he honestly didn't think they would. Surely they'd be busy and how would they even know where he was half the time? It was originally decided that he would visit several places during his convalescence, something he'd objected to. But here were the letters, and there were some parcels, so someone had was tipping them off, and that someone was in this room. Bloody Mycroft can't keep his nose out of anything. Putting the packages aside, Sherlock picked an envelope and ripped it open.

It was from John. A disgustingly cheerful message, asking how he was, had he got a tan yet? Brought anything? No mention of his own life other than gossip. He put it aside, the next one was from Molly, hers was much the same. Milton was fine, and oh she fancied someone she'd met at a party. Why tell him? So long as he wasn't a psychopath he'd be fine. Boring. Lestrade talked about a few cases he was having trouble one, but contained mostly the same as John's. Mrs Hudson's was soppy and embarrassing to read.

"Interesting?" Please shut up.

"Not really."

"Too bad."

The first parcel was wrapped in cheap green paper with a tacky gold ribbon. Inside was a black towel, bordered in red. A crime scene towel. Interesting, thought Sherlock as he searched for the tag. It turned out to be from Molly, of course it was. He'd brought a towel, blue and yellow but this was more to his taste, not that he'd even swam yet. Nestled inside the towel was a packet of his favourite biscuits. I better keep those away from Mycroft, he thought, wrapping them back up in the towel. The second parcel was from John. Wrapped in plain brown paper with a sleek red ribbon. It contained The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe. Good, Old John. He was nearly finished this boring mystery novel. This should last him for awhile. Plus he still had two Agatha Christie stories in his suitcase.

"How lovely." No seriously, can you go away?

Sherlock huffed, put everything aside and climbed out of his chair. He poured the remaining tea from cheap teapot and took a sip. It was horrible, but it would do. He'd had worse. Mycroft watched him with amusement. His brother was slowly returning, but he would never be the same as before. Even if he hadn't suffered, chasing after Moriarty's web, faking his own death. These things would have always had a lasting effect on his sibling. But perhaps, that wasn't a bad thing after all?

"How long are you staying here?"

"I'll leave tommorow, don't worry. Oh, and before I forget." Mycroft removed a small blue envelope and placed it on the counter.

"Tickets? Where to this time?"

"A delightful little place in Sussex."

Sussex?!


Was that alright? If you thought so, you know what to do!