If You Won't
Title: If You Won't
Author: BipolarMolar
Rating: M
Pairings: John/ Mycroft, Sherlock/John
Summary: Sherlock has a bond with John- call it friendship, call it love but he denies it. The two men are skirting around the issue and Mycroft reckons he may as well court John himself.
Disclaimer: Any characters you don't recognise from the Sherlock television series, I made up. But I don't own the Sherlock franchise- the Baker Street boys belong to the BBC , Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no money from this.
I apologise for any errors, I don't have a beta yet so I'm going solo. If you like this story, then please review, or favourite the story or author. Reviews would make my day and help stir the creative processes. Thank you. Also, this is an M slash story- so it's going to involve male-on-male action. If that offends you then I wouldn't recommend saying this. Just saying.
Enjoy.
Sherlock was having a good day. He was close to solving this case, he could feel it. The anticipation hung in the air, tingled on rapidly-moving lips as he spoke at length. It was only an hour later that he noticed that he was speaking to himself. John must have left a while ago, not bothered to tell Sherlock. Sherlock frowned, glancing around their shared living room. It was later than he thought (dull) for the limp light of the lamp sent thick arching shadows scattered in the corners of the room. Somehow the room seemed colder when John wasn't in it. He sighed, huddling down on the sofa, settling into the foetal position, movements slow, languid.
Ever since John had moved into 221B Baker Street, he had brought change with him. Nothing unmanageable- John wasn't like that- but there were subtle differences in Sherlock's life now that he had a flatmate. A colleague. A friend. Eating, for one thing. Things like sleep and food never really mattered to the Consulting detective. It was transport, nothing of importance. That moment when you wake up, still wrapped in the hazy layers of sleep and you're disorientated, don't know where you are? Yes, well, Sherlock loathed that. It made him feel odd; he could almost feel his brain cells dying. And as for eating…forget it. That was simply another way of distracting yourself from the workings of the world. Also, how was he supposed to catch killers if he was bloated with steak and kidney pie?
But then John came and suddenly it was 'Try and eat something, Sherlock' or 'You need to sleep, Sherlock' . If anyone else had said that, Sherlock would have dismissed their concern with an imperious wave of a pale hand. But somehow, John didn't make it sound like nagging. Sherlock would sometimes accuse John of mollycoddling him ( ' You're not my babysitter, John. I am perfectly able to look after myself') but John was never fazed. He carried on with the resilience of the soldier he was and the kindness of the doctor he was.
He reached for his violin as he lingered on these thoughts. He began to play, an idle tune, whimsical even that he had composed a few years ago. Plucking at the strings of the Stradivarius always helped. It ordered his thoughts with, ensured that his mind was running seamlessly from one deduction to the next and the next and-
A shadow fell over him. Not bothering to open his eyes(somehow it seemed natural to veil his gaze when playing the instrument- it made him give sufficient attention to the music) he began to speak in the rapid, staccato way that was so very idiosyncratic. The voice he employed when revealing the mental framework behind his dramatic deductions.
'Good, John, you're here. I'm close to solving the case, I'm certain that Carly Whitlock didn't kill her husband. She's not the killer but she was working with him- the shade of lipstick used to write the death threat is the same as the shade she was wearing when she first-'
'Sherlock,' the man interrupted and that was when Sherlock opened his eyes.
'Mycroft. ' Sherlock acknowledged irritably.
It wasn't John Watson standing over him, as he'd initially thought; it was Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's elder brother. Dressed simply but elegantly in a charcoal-grey three-piece suit, Mycroft oozed confidence and condescension from every pore. Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock regarded his brother over the polished wood of the violin.
No briefcase with him so he's not going to inform me of a crime he wants me to solve - Mycroft always brings the documents to back it up.
He doesn't smell of Rosewater so he's not checking up on me for Mother's sake- at the end of every visit, she hugs him and he smells of her perfume later.
To the best of my knowledge, I haven't recently broken any laws, stepped on any toes or done anything that could warrant Mycroft coming here to reprimand me on something… which leaves-
'I take it you're here for a social visit, Mycroft?' Sherlock watched intently for his brother's reaction. To his surprise, something, an emotion, indescribable, flitted across Mycroft's face before his look cooled, as he gained control of himself. The only thing that Sherlock thought, was that Mycroft had looked(just for a second) nervous. This was impossible. Everything from tell-tale teenager to influential adult, Mycroft had approached matters in, yes, a more cautious way than Sherlock but with the same cold confidence. They were far more intelligent than their peers. What was there to fear?