Theme: Mirror
Rating:PG
Spoilers:None
Warnings:None
Drabble:
Shadow
When Mycroft looks in to a mirror he sees himself as the world sees him. Common, unnoticeable, bureaucrat, powerful, omnipotent, the spider in the web.
But when he looks closer, he sees something else. A shadow, a specter of what could have been. A dangerous being, energetic, caustic, dark, mean, anti-social, addicted, always moving, never stopping to see the consequences. A shadow outside the rules that rule Mycroft's life.
Free.
Sometimes, deep down, he wishes he was that shadow, that he was free.
When Mycroft looks into the mirror he sees what could have been and his name is Sherlock.
Theme: Minor
Rating:PG-13
Spoilers:None
Warnings:Slight swearing
Drabble:
A Happy Occasion
"BUGGER!"
He stares at the mess in front of him and curses.
Mycroft isn't a man who curses. Cursing is a crude method used by people to incompetent to express themselves in other ways.
But this deserves the loudest, most heartfelt bugger Mycroft could manage. He hates incidents like this. They always happened at the least convenient times. Now he had to find a way to correct this minor setback.
Perhaps he could simply ignore it, maybe nobody would notice. What does it matter if the whole world will be watching? It were just some wedding-dresses his underling blew up.
Theme: Mimic
Rating: PG
Spoilers:None
Warnings:Discussion of sociopaths
Drabble:
Sociopath
Sociopaths are all around us. Most people will never know, never know the danger they are until it is too late. They will mimic emotions, friendship, love. They are master manipulators, they use you then throw you aside. They break you, take you apart piece by piece until they get bored with you. And only then you will know what they are.
People always think Sherlock is the sociopath, the psychopath, the freak. They always point to Mycroft as the nice boy, the perfect son, the good man.
They never realise what he really is and that suits him fine.
Theme: Minute
Rating:PG
Spoilers:None
Warnings:None
Drabble:
Everything
He sees everything, every minute detail, every minute clue.
He can't help noticing things.
He notices the small cut on his assistance's hand, from when she nicked it on a cardboard-box. He notices the white hair on the PM's jacket, from when he hugged his father. He notices that the painting is turned two millimeters, from when the cleaner wiped it. He noticed the tiny scuff mark on the ambassador's shoe, from when he kissed his mistress. He noticed the small red mark on his brother's neck from when John kissed him.
Mycroft notices everything and he hates it sometimes.
Theme: Middle
Rating:PG
Spoilers:None
Warnings:None
Drabble:
Middle
People always focus on the beginning and the end, birth and death, marriage and divorce.
His beginning was unexpected, unplanned, but also welcome. And normal, oh so boringly normal.
His end will be swift, the hard, hot heat of a stray bullet. And the funeral will be boring, oh so boring.
But the middle, that was the thing that matters. The middle was where everything really happened. The wars he started; the wars he ended; the wars he endured. The lives he saved; the lives he ended; the lives he watched going on.
His middle was a big adventure. His middle was Life.
Theme: Horror
Rating:R
Spoilers:None
Warnings:Graphic description of torture
Drabble:
To Safe Him from Temptation
The knife is sharp enough to meet no resistance, sliding through skin, muscle and sinew. There isn't much pain as his nerves still need to catch up with what is happening.
"Another piece gone. Soon I'll have cut you down piece by piece. Until there is nothing left of you. Until you can no longer tempt him."
His big toe is carless thrown on the pile of rotting flesh in the corner.
His flesh.
He watches as Mycroft Holmes meticulously wipes the knife clean and not for the first time Jim Moriarty thinks he might have made a real mistake.
Theme: Humor
Rating:PG
Spoilers:None
Warnings:None
Drabble:
Leitmotif
Mycroft stared at his phone.
Every time he walked into a room his phone would ring and that dreadful noise would sound.
The music was pompous, loud, somewhat familiar and he hadn't programmed it. Mycroft frowned as he searched his fast memory to find where he heard it before.
He was broken out of thought when he walked into his PA's office and the music played once again.
"Sir, why is your phone playing the Imperial March?"
Then realization hit.
At that same moment, on the other side of London, a man stopped playing his violin with a smirk.
Theme: Hurt/comfort
Rating:PG
Spoilers:None
Warnings: None
Drabble:
Tears
He curls into a ball, trying to ignore the pain from his leg, trying to be invisible, trying to tune out the world. He knows his leg is broken, he just knows.
He shakes his head vigorously as he feels tears run down his cheek. He shouldn't cry he isn't a child anymore. He failed and knows his parents will be disappointed in him.
"Don't cry Mycroft I don't like it when you cry." At those words a small hand wipes away his tears. And when two small arms pull him close Mycroft relaxes and realises everything will be okay.
Theme: Historical
Rating:PG
Spoilers:None
Warnings:None
Drabble:
Repeating History
Mycroft Holmes watched as the young man walked to the house. The boy was no more than a child and already Mycroft knew that the future was walking there and it was Mycroft's job to make sure the future would end up where he belonged. It was Mycroft's job to pull the King's strings and stir William Pitt where he could do the most good.
So he pulled the strings, just like his father had done and just like his descendants would do in a hundred years, two hundred years.
Because behind every great ruler in history there is Mycroft Holmes.
Theme: Heroic
Rating:PG
Spoilers:None
Warnings:None
Drabble:
Hero
"Heroes don't exist!" Sherlock screamed at the figure lying in the bed in front of him. The only reaction he got was the steady bleeping of the heart monitor and the gentle woof of the respirator.
The sounds were hateful and all Sherlock wanted to do was rip everything out, to silence the sound of his failure.
"Sherlock." The hand on his shoulder turned him around, and as two arms held him close, he felt anger drain and a hollow feeling of pain replace it.
"John, why did he have to be a hero?"
"Because that's what brothers are for."