No More Walls
DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT own Sherlock BBC or Conan Doyle's works. No characters are mine.
Headcanon This Is Based Off Of: ...Imagine Sherlock stumbling into the flat, switching on the lights, and suddenly Mycroft stands in front of him and murmurs, "Oh, Sherlock" and instead of telling him to fuck off immediately, Sherlock just sinks into Mycroft's eyes and cries.
Headcanon credit to the owner, but this story is mine.
One Shot
Sherlock stood in the crowd of people, dancing, having a nice time. He, however, stood stoic, cupid-bowed lips pursed. He looked towards, John, with his new wife, smiling. He turned away, looking for Janine. He found her in the crowd, and smiled at her. He started his way towards her, but she pointed to the man next to her, giving a thumbs up, and kept dancing. Sherlock's smile faded.
He felt his sturdy walls start to crumble in his chest, wanting nothing more than to dance with the man he loved, newly married, happy. He wanted nothing more than to be content, loved, and accepted. Now, he felt the opposite as he watched his love dance with his new wife, with whom he would be having a child with, and the girl whom he actually decided to help, reject him after he did his job too well.
Caring is not an advantage.
He looked down, desperately trying to hold himself together, to keep his walls up. He had to get out of here. The noise, the people, all oblivious, having their own fun. And John, too busy with his new wife to notice Sherlock.
Not that Sherlock blamed them. Who'd comfort a freak?.
He made his way through the crowd, quietly slipping out of the venue, leaving everyone to enjoy their evening. He whipped the Belstaff on his shoulders, turning up the coat collar. He left the event in silence, unnoticed, and hailed a cab for 221b.
SHSHSHSHSHSHSHSHSH
Sherlock stepped out the cab, paying the driver, and somberly opened the door, not noticing the straight knocker. No one would be home, as Mrs. Hudson was still at the wedding, and John...well, John has moved from 221b Baker Street.
Quick Mycroft POV
after phone call with Sherlock before Best Man Speech*
Mycroft stood in his tracksuit, staring out the window. He was worried for his little brother. He knew how Sherlock felt towards the army soldier, and despite his attempts to keep Sherlock unattached, Sherlock fell hard and fast for the blogger.
Caring is not an advantage.
Mycroft doubted Sherlock would make it through the whole wedding, and was sure he would be a wreck after he left. He couldn't have Sherlock start using again, as Sherlock typically did when he experienced an unwanted emotion, or boredom.
Despite what the consulting detective might think, Mycroft cared for his brother, and did not wish to see him in such emotional pain. He's always been there for Sherlock, during his teen years when he came out as gay, and when he started using drugs. He has always been there, and will continue to be. Mycroft called Anthea, telling her to arrange for a private plane to London, so he could wait for Sherlock, and be there for him once again.
Sherlock POV
present*
Sherlock first leaned against the door of his flat, collecting himself before trudging up the stairs. He arrived at the top, and was surprised to see Mycroft, in his posh, grey, 3 piece suit, standing with his umbrella, tapping it against the floor. Mycroft saw his brother, and immediately his face softened. "Oh, Sherlock," He spoke softly.
Every wall, barrier, and fence Sherlock tried so desperately to keep up came crashing down, and to Mycroft's surprise, Sherlock walked towards him and just wraps his arms around his brother, in need of support. Mycroft did the same, patting Sherlock's back as his silent tears rolled off his high cheekbones and onto Mycroft's three piece suit. Soon his silent cries turned into heart-wrenching sobs, all the suppressed feelings Sherlock had came tumbling out. Mycroft saved his "caring is not an advantage" lecture and just held his brother.
After a few minutes, maybe even hours, who knows, the younger Holmes brother let go of the older, eyes rimmed red and puffy from his tears.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock." Mycroft said sympathetically, no anger or disappointment in his words.
Sherlock just nodded, cupping his face in his hands for a moment, then wiping his eyes. "Thank you, Mycroft." Sherlock said.
"I told you, Sherlock-I'll always be here." The older Holmes replied, taking up his umbrella and straightening his vest.
Sherlock opened the door for his brother and Mycroft stepped out. "Sherlock," Mycroft called.
Sherlock looked up at his brother. "Don't use, please." Mycroft said, almost pleading.
Sherlock nodded. "I won't."
Mycroft nods, and with a twirl of his umbrella, was gone from the flat. Sherlock closed the door and went to his bedroom. He changed into his night clothes and his blue robe. He came out, and stared at John's chair. Empty and cold, like his heart. He moved the chair out of the way, unable to look at it any longer without longing for his army doctor, his blogger, his Watson.
Sherlock went to the window and got his violin. He tuned it, then started on a melody. It was melancholy, with traces of jealousy, anger, and frustration. It was upbeat with the same tempo, like a heartbeat. The pitch went up and down, as if describing the quickening of a pulse. It was, of course, about and for John. John was Sherlock's heartbeat, his drug, his everything. But Sherlock was not John's.
There wasn't a feeling quite like one-sided love. Sherlock's heart was completely devoted to John, every thing he did was for him. Every day since that conversation in the cab on their first day as flatmates, Sherlock knew there was something different about John. He was...interesting. Sherlock fell hard and fats for the ex-soldier.
There was no doubt, Sherlock was deeply and utterly in love with Dr. John Hamish Watson.
But today's events just gave Sherlock more proof of what he already believed, yet couldn't help but indulge in.
Caring is not an advantage.
That's it! I hope it's not shitty. Bye for now!