A/N: These are just ficlets, mini-fills, and mini-mini-fills of prompts on the sherlockbbc_fic kink meme. I'll be putting the prompt (which will be italicized) and then the ficlet or whatever. They're too short to be placed in their own story so just think of this as a collection of short stories. These could be considered part of the same universe and tied together (and if not, I'll mention that they're not). I don't think that I'm going to post them by part (as you can see a common thread among the first four by their parts) but, rather, by their tone and content. These first four are somewhat of a melancholy state.
Also note that there aren't any spoilers - where at least I don't think there is. If I think so, I'll put "Spoilers!" in big, bold letters, yeah?
I hope you enjoy!
Sherlock always smells a little bit like lavender.
-From Anonymous (at 2011-06-27 08:31 pm) on Part XVII.
Lavandula multifida and Night Owl
He carries a bit of lavender in his inside jacket pocket in remembrance of his Mummy, who's favourite flower was lavender - Lavandula multifida.
Sometimes, when things just becomes too much, he smells it and, instantly, he's back in his mother's kitchen (she'd have vases of it all over the kitchen), where'd she make him a cup of tea - just the way he likes it - and gently stroke his black curls as he worked through his bouts of anxiety that he used to get real badly when he was a kid. Everything would immediately be set back in place, the guards that Sherlock had spent years building would instantly be put back up, and Sherlock would get back to the matter at hand, able to get through the day.
Mycroft, on the other hand, carries a bit of tobacco in his inside jacket pocket in remembrance of his Father, who always had the smell on his tweed jackets and in his favourite books - Georgetown's Night Owl Pipe Tobacco.
Mycroft could always distinctly smell it when his Father leaned in real close to tell him something, an excited look on his face as if he had an important secret to tell him even if his news was nothing too exciting. It didn't matter - his and Sherlock's Father could make anything sound interesting, from his lectures on English literature from the early nineteenth century to his quite humourous stories about the other professors and students at the university. He had smelled that distinct scent of tobacco on a female student of his Father's when he was fifteen - he didn't say anything about it, though. He couldn't - he had to keep the family together, naturally.
A/N: Well, this following one was a picture prompt, so I'll just put the words from the picture shall I?
My Father died in an earthquake. I told Mycroft that the earthquake started 'cause he was so fat. He's been on a diet ever since.
- From skint_writer 2011-07-09 10:59 am on Part XVII; original origin of picture unknown.
Scherzo, piangono
My father died when I was - uh, when I was five or so.
He died in an earthquake.
Yeah - he died in the 1980 Irpinia earthquake in southern Italy, where, incidentally, he was there - in Conza - with his mistress, a young, fit, blond girl from his early nineteenth century literature class. She, on the other hand, survived the earthquake, but became paralyzed from the waist down due to the subsequent injuries she had sustained from the earthquake. A few years later, however, she was found, locked in her dormitory, in a pool of blood after she knocked her head against a table.
At my father's funeral, I overheard my great-Aunt Wednesday whispering to my great-grandmother Morticia that God had punished him for cheating on his wife.
Ever since she had heard the news, my mother had been sitting in this big, wicker chair that was a family heirloom. She had just been sitting in fount of the window facing the driveway, as if my father's big, black car - a 1939 Rolls-Royce Wraith - would come bounding up the long, winding driveway and he would pop out, fresh-faced and grinning, in his tweed jacket, carrying some books, with a pipe in his mouth.
Whether she was sad, angry, or happy about her husband's death, no one knew. She never said and nobody ever asked.
My father's series of mistresses (as it later came out that this now paraplegic blonde was not the only woman he was seeing or had seen) weren't invited to the funeral, although, that's not to say many flowers and wreaths weren't sent to our house or placed on his grave., all of which were promptly tossed out or removed.
As I didn't know what caused earthquakes at the time - and, still, today, I have only the faintest knowledge of their causes - I loudly proclaimed that the earthquake started because my older brother, Mycroft, was so fat.
My proclamation was received by some stilted, slow chuckles, the slight turning of my mother's head in my direction, and the biting of his bottom lip by my brother.
In the summer of 1981, my brother began a diet - and has been on it ever since.
So, I just watched 'The Doctor's Daughter' where Doctor Who explains to Donna that he was a dad once.
John or Lestrade sees Mycroft interact with kids and they realise he'd make a brilliant father. Mycroft explains that he once was.
Perhaps an attempt on MH's life got his partner and kids killed / his wife left him and took them with her. Up to author anon.
- From Anonymous (at 2011-07-07 03:04 pm) Part XVII
Vedova
Lestrade gently rocks his new-born daughter in his arms and he softly smiles down at her as she attempts to open her eyes and smile back at him. Instead, she gurgles out some spit. Lestrade's smile grows wider as he slowly flickers his glance at his wife, Molly, who is now deeply sleeping in the hospital bed only a few feet away from him.
She had been in labour for over twelve hours and had almost personally thrown Sherlock out of the room when he bursted in to drag Lestrade away for authorization on a case and then, failing at that, trying to peek a glance at her...nether regions. Nevertheless, to Lestrade, she looks like an angel, her muddy brown hair haphazardly tied in a messy bun, her cheeks flushed, her mouth slightly drooped, her -
Lestrade's train of thought is interrupted by a pointed clearing of the throat. He turns his gaze towards the door and finds Mycroft Holmes standing there, a small smile on his face. "Congratulations, Gregory", he says in his very formal, sort of condescending voice.
"Uh - thanks", he responds back in a cracked voice. Lestrade clears his throat and says it again in a firmer voice, "Thank you, Mycroft."
Mycroft gives him another smile and takes a few steps towards Lestrade, to get a better look at Lestrade's daughter. He glances down at her. "What's her name?"
Lestrade warily looks at Mycroft, knowing fully that he already knows the answer to that question, but is trying to be polite and friendly. Obviously, that is not the strongest suit in the Holmes family. "Dorothy." A beam of pride rises in Lestrade's chest as he turns his gaze back to his daughter. "Dorothy Sherlock Lestrade."
This is received with a quirked eyebrow from Mycroft, but he doesn't say anything. With the amount of time both mother and father has spent with his brother and the unlikelihood of Sherlock ever fathering one of his own, it's quite obvious that they'd name their daughter after him. However, when Lestrade asks him "Would you like to hold her?" that - that takes him a bit by surprise.
"Could I?" he whispers out, and what seems like hope and cheerfulness flashes across his normally calm, impassive face.
Lestrade gives Mycroft a small smile. "Of course - Sherlock's not the only Holmes brother that has saved my arse countless times." But, even then, Lestrade still cautiously places Dorothy in his arms and something hard and protective flashes in Lestrade's eyes as he carefully watches Mycroft shift Dorothy in his arms.
However, his daughter seems to fit perfectly in Mycroft's arms as he gently rocks her in his arms and coos some endearments and lullabies in Italian, French, and, Lestrade supposes, Mandarin. The fact that Mycroft is doing this with no effort at all - even though Lestrade believes that the Holmes can do anything - amazes him to no end.
After a few minutes of silence, Lestrade finally says, "Wow - you're good at this father business."
Mycroft's purses his lips together and remains silent for a few moments. "Well, I am one - well, I used to be one."
Lestrade stiffens and his mind attempts to backtrack, but, no, he tells himself. If there's one thing he's learned about the Holmes through the years is to never go back. Still, what he asks next is a bit of a challenge. "Ah - what happened? If you don't mind me asking."
Mycroft clears his throat and he seems to be thinking of what to say next. Lestrade can practically see the cogs working. "It happened ten years ago - my wife, Eleanor, and I took our two children, Josephine and Aldous to the countryside for a nice weekend." Lestrade sees Mycroft's throat working to swallow. "Well, I popped out to go rent a boat so that we could row to a small island across the way and" - he pauses a moment. "And, when I came back, they were - dead. Killed by a mob boss that I had pushed a bit too far."
Lestrade has to work to beat back the image of a certain anti-heroic vigilante from his thoughts. "Ah - I'm so sorry, Mycroft."
Mycroft looks up, as if surprised by Lestrade's apology. "It's alright, Gregory - but thank you anyways."
The first time Sherlock realizes he's in love with John is when he sees his blogger standing in the bathroom, waiting for the water to heat up in the shower, scratching his ass cheek through thread-bare, worn out Y-fronts.
Yep, pretty much my entire prompt. Art or fic fill, either way and I'm a happy ducky.
-From Meredydd (at 2011-07-02 10:53 pm) Part XVII
Ma l'amo
Perhaps he's always been in love with John, he thinks.
It's very possible.
The feelings may have been there all along, under the surface, developing out of sight and out of mind. It wouldn't be impossible, but he should have been able to realise these feelings and attempt to stop them before he was in too deep (although the likelihood of that succeeding is highly unlikely). Alas, he deduces, he was in too deeply before he realised what was going on.
If he was a more sentimental man, he would say it was love at first sight. If he was a more paranoid man, he would say it was all part of Moriarty's nefarious plan to "burn the heart out" of him.
And, now, all of these unknown and dangerous feelings are just bombarding Sherlock the moment he passes by John, standing in the bathroom, waiting for the water to heat up in the shower, absentmindedly scratching his right ass cheek through his blue, thread-bare, worn out Y-fronts.
Sherlock lets out an annoyed and resigned sigh and goes to find John's gun so he can shoot up the wall. Maybe, he'll shoot the sun since he knows where the bloody thing is located now.
