Complete 180 from the last one. And now to bed... It's been very fun to catch up on reading everyone's stories! You are all so brilliant and talented. :)
December 10th prompt is from Werepanther33: Mycroft.
Holmes drew bow over strings, smoothly, producing a pensive sound. It was very late, or perhaps early. Dawn had not yet arrived.
He looked down into the streets below, covered in a film of dirty snow, bad for tracking, and lit by the dimmest lamps; bad for pursuit.
Fortunately, he had nowhere to be, and for a few hours yet, at least, he was content to remain in his fire-warmed study, pondering the final results of his last case and coaxing tunes from his violin.
A figure appeared out of the grey nothingness. Holmes paused, his hand hovering as he observed.
Only a limp identified it as Watson. His injury was pronounced with the cold, and by his apparent haste. Holmes abandoned his playing, turning away.
Watson had come seeking him; that much was certain.
Hurried footsteps and gasping inhales confirmed his hypothesis, as Watson burst through the door without knocking.
"Holmes," he breathed. He was leaning heavily on his cane, trembling with exertion and adrenaline. Holmes looked him over sharply. Bad news. He was bearing bad news.
"What is it?" He demanded.
Watson's chest heaved. He smelt of smoke, his shoulders tensed. "Fire," he said haltingly. "There's been... a fire. There was only one victim, they've taken-taken him to the hospital."
"Who was it?" Holmes asked quietly, numb. He knew the answer before it was pushed from frozen lips.
His friend's dark eyes were heavy.
"Mycroft."