Mark Gatiss just tweeted me. MARK GATISS JUST TWEETED ME. MARK FUCKING GATISS JUST TWEETED ME.
Here's how our first meeting went, basically:
Me: If BBC had a show called 'Mycroft' what would it be about?
Him: Mycroft, presumably.
*facepalm*
He's such a troll and I love him so much, I cannot. You do not understand how happy I am. ;_;
Oh, and for any of you fuckers who think I'm an idiot because "duh, a Mycroft show would be all about Mycroft!", I was expecting a little (lots) more than that (duh). Keep the name-calling to yourselves, eh?
But anyway, I'm still happy enough to celebrate, so I decided to post another chapter, hooray! I wasn't supposed to post this yet since I would have liked to get the fourth chapter done before posting this, but MARK FUCKING GATISS JUST TWEETED ME. At this point, I don't really care anymore! ^_^
Sorry for the long author's note. Neither Brit-picked nor beta'd. Still don't own it.
Sherlock prided himself at being detached from his emotions. It was very efficient solving crimes without having to worry about life and death. The less emotions he allowed in his mind palace, the better.
However, there was something so irksome that it knocked down the walls of his carefully-constructed walls without any effort; something so irrational and bothersome that it brought out a particularly unwanted emotion of Sherlock's to the surface.
Thunder.
Sherlock Holmes was afraid of thunder, and unfortunately for him, thunder was England's best friend.
He had had the fear for it since he was a child. Every thunderstorm in his childhood consisted of Sherlock hiding underneath the blankets, covering his ears and crying for the thunder to stop. Thunder made it hard for Sherlock to think properly, and he vaguely remembered begging Mycroft to keep him company, because Mycroft was his big brother and he wasn't afraid of anything. The memories of eating tomato soup and grilled cheese, watching reruns of Doctor Who on the telly and reading adventurous pirate stories came to Sherlock's mind. They were things the brothers used to do during a thunderstorm. After all that, when the inevitable curfew arrived and the Holmes' had to go to sleep, the pair of them would climb into Mycroft's bed and sleep together – Mycroft protecting Sherlock from the big, bad thunder and Sherlock listening to the sound of his brother's heartbeat.
Sherlock would never admit to missing his big brother sometimes.
Of course, Sherlock didn't have Mycroft to help him out this time. He could if he asked the hidden camera on the mantle by the skull nicely, but he wasn't going to go down that far over a rapid change of temperature. Mycroft wasn't his own personal teddy bear despite his noticeable weight gain.
But Sherlock wanted to sleep, goddamn it. His mind had been whirring on and on for four consecutive days working to solve a rather intriguing case about a serial killer on the Tube and was now completely exhausted.
Sherlock sulked. He wished the impending thunderstorm would go away. The thunder hadn't started yet, but Sherlock didn't need his deductive skills to know that it would come very, very soon.
The hidden camera was starting to look very tempting now.
Then it clicked.
John.
The revelation jostled Sherlock from his position on the couch. He had been previously lying motionless across it, hands steepled under his chin, but his head was now swivelling around trying to find his flatmate, body still in the same position.
His eyes scanned the clock on the other side of the room – 2AM. John must be asleep.
Sherlock wondered if John would allow him to sleep on his bed for that night. He hadn't done this in a long while, sleeping with someone during a thunderstorm. He and John have been flatmates for a little under five years now, but former was always awake when thunderstorms came.
We've slept together before. This wouldn't be any different, Sherlock mused. With that in mind, he gracefully got up from the couch (how he rested on it for a long time whilst avoiding back pain was anybody's guess) and headed for the stairs.
He could hear the distant rumblings of the thunder now and trod faster up the stairs. Sherlock reached the top. He was minutely surprised when the door opens with just a slight push of his hand. Sherlock quietly stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.
Sherlock turned around. If he wasn't surprised at the unlocked door, he certainly was surprised now. On the bed looking adorably cute (not that Sherlock would ever say that) sat John Watson, eyes blearily looking up at him from under mussed up hair.
"Thunderstorm," John said, as if that was sufficient enough to explain everything. He shifted himself a tiny bit to the right, making more space for Sherlock beside him. John patted his bed to invite him over and then moved to lie back down against the pillow.
"How did you know?" Sherlock asked.
"Mycroft texted me," John replied, showing Sherlock the text.
Don't be surprised if Sherlock
sleeps with you tonight. He's
rather terrified of thunder. A
bit of a warning, he's a bit of
a kicker during storms.
Mycroft
Sherlock bristled and hissed, "I am not terrified of thunder! I simply do not like it."
John didn't respond, too exhausted to make fun of this new piece of information. He closed his eyes and waited for Sherlock to drop down beside him.
Sherlock felt grateful and relieved as he took off his shoes and robe. He was grateful because John didn't make fun of him (the solar system incident was still fresh in his mind) and relieved because he didn't have to sleep alone tonight.
He slipped under the duvet and promptly started to sleep on top of John. The latter goes still as a rock.
"Sherlock?" John inquired slowly.
"Yes?" said Sherlock, equally as slowly.
"Are you cuddling me?"
"Yes, of course. What does it look like I'm doing?"
Sherlock stared at him. John stared right back.
"Okay, then," John answered finally. Sherlock stared at him confusedly for a little while longer before dropping his head down on John's chest again.
As Sherlock's breaths started to even out, John started envisioning Sherlock as a child. A curious little boy, maybe, with a mop of dark and unruly curls. He'd have a wooden sword and a pirate's hat, running around the mansion (Sherlock certainly looked rich with his fashionable choice of clothing) playing with his brother. Oddly enough, John could only imagine child Mycroft as a shorter version of himself complete with the suit and tie. Maybe he was born with it?
John had to remind himself that Sherlock was human, and that humans all have a fear of something. For Sherlock it was thunder. He then imagined Sherlock and Mycroft on the same bed listening to the rain pattering down the windows, the former feeling protected in the arms of his big brother.
"Stop thinking, I can hear you thinking. It's annoying. You're going to wake up the whole street," Sherlock whined. A roar of thunder suddenly echoed throughout the room, and his grip around John grew infinitesimally tighter.
John smiled and ran a hand through Sherlock's hair. He certainly didn't mind a glimpse of Sherlock's past, even if it was the middle of the night.
"Good night, Sherlock. Sleep well."
The thunder roared. Sherlock didn't even flinch.
I love Sherlock's human side. I hope it didn't get too OOC. *cringes*
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