A/N: Hello, lovelies! I'm back with a shiny new chapter and you should know that there will only be 2 more chapters. So, come hell or high water there will be only 2 more, regardless of length. Mainly because I've stopped caring about the chapters being a certain number to hit. But also because this little story has been going on for almost a year and a half and it's time to move on. BUT! It will be finished and you can thank Old Ping Hai, my tireless beta of many years, for that. She's awesome.
In this chapter I plug a plot hole in the movie, Anthea gets time to shine, and we learn about Mycroft! Yay!
I've also found a transcript of the movie and learned that I've done a few things out of order. Surprise, surprise, I am actually okay with this. My other fusions weren't as faithful to the movie as this one mostly has been, and I honestly needed the wiggle room.
Enjoy!
The first French lesson after the kiss, John thought, had gone well, but Sherlock seemed to be disappointed about something. John couldn't figure out where he'd gone wrong.
John had been very attentive, he thought. Well, as much as he could without tipping Joey off that they were an item. They met up after school.
"I can't believe prom is almost here," Sherlock sighed. "It's almost to the point where all the good suits and tuxes will be gone."
John shrugged. "My mum bought me a tux last year and she said that having one will be the most used thing I have in my closet."
"Does it still fit?" Sherlock asked.
John blushed. "I really haven't grown much, so it should."
Sherlock looked at John expectantly. John cocked him head to the side, but Sherlock huffed and walked off, throwing his arms in the air.
And that wasn't last time that they had similar conversations, all of them ending in Sherlock walking off frustrated.
Which was why John was sitting in the library, his leg bouncing up and down nervously, his heel tapping against the leg of the chair as he waited for Sherlock so they could start their French lesson.
Sherlock sat down in a huff and folded his arms across his chest.
"Hey, what's up?" John greeted.
"Let's get this over with," Sherlock snarled.
John's eyebrows shot up, "All right, then. Chapter eleven..." He turned to the appropriate page and began at the top. "Puis-je vous offrir un panais?"
"Non tu ne peux pas," Sherlock deadpanned.
John frowned and looked down at the response in the book, but it didn't match with what Sherlock had just said. But he plowed on, "Avez-vous vu le crayon de mon oncle?"
Sherlock sighed, "Peut-être que ç'est dans ton cul."
John sat back and looked up at him, "Hey, that's not in the this chapter. Let's do this right."
"Ç'est bête. Quand vas-tu me demander de sortir?"
John began to flip through the book trying to figure out what he had just said.
"Appelez-moi quand vous comprendrez," Sherlock said, tossing a piece of paper at him.
John looked at the paper and raised an eyebrow, it had Sherlock's phone number on it.
"Je suis tellement baisée."
Anthea wanted to punch Mycroft. Okay, so that wasn't anything new, but this time she thought that she might actually do it. She wanted to go to prom; the tall, posh git didn't. Because if he had, then they could have gone together and avoided ninety percent of what the bastard had been complaining about.
But no. He didn't want to go, so she would have to find another date. Anthea was so desperate yet that she was willing to throw herself at anyone who might glance her way.
She looked up just in time to see Jim leer at her and she barely suppressed the resulting shudder. There were a lot of arseholes at Baker Academy, but Jim took it to a whole new level. She would beg Bertie Gruner to take her to prom rather than stoop so low as to go with Jim Moriarty. Not that Anthea was Bertie's type. She had the wrong bits for that.
Anthea sighed and turned back to her locker. She opened it up and a piece of paper fluttered to the ground. She picked up and looked around, wondering who would have put something in her locker. But other than psychotic Jim there was only John Watson, who was chasing Sherlock Holmes and Sally Donovan, who was straight.
She turned over the paper in her hands, enjoying the soft, almost felt-like texture of the parchment. Written on one side of the paper in sepia ink were the words, "To the most fairest of the fair, Anthea, would you dare to grace your exalted presence with me to the prom Saturday next? Forever yours, William S."
On the back was a coupon to a dress shop in town called Tegan's that would allow her to pick out the dress of her dreams. It was mysterious and little strange, but she supposed it was better than having a dress magically appear in her locker. Now the question was to go or not to go?
On the one hand it was a teeny bit stalker-y, but on the other, she would get her date to prom because she was damn sure that Jim would never do anything even remotely considered romantic and she would be safe in that quarter.
She turned the card over in her hands as she thought about it. She closed the door to her locker and resolutely put the invitation in her back pocket. If she showed up to prom and the guy looked a creeper, she could bail. And at the very least she would a get nice dress out of it. So really, it was a win/win situation.
Anthea decided to go right after school, Mycroft was off being angsty about Greggy asking him out to prom and wouldn't miss her. She rolled her eyes. Those two just needed to get their heads out of their arses, honestly, but it was not her problem unless either of them made it so. And so far they seemed content to just snipe at each other. Though she couldn't speak for anyone else that might be involved, she was just glad they kept her out of it. Well, other than Mike asking about Mycroft's take on the after-party meltdown.
Anthea paused. Mike seemed like a good enough guy. Knew his Shakespeare, didn't immediately stare at her tits, and still said hi to her in the halls, even after Mycroft and Greg got together. She wouldn't have minded it if he asked her to prom, but she wasn't sure what year he was in. She thought he might be in sixth form, but he also seemed older, too. She scoffed, not like it mattered, Mike wasn't the one asking her out.
When she got to Tegan's, she was a little surprised to find that it was a specialty shop that sold period clothing. From William the Conqueror up to the 1960s. The dresses were ready-made with a sign above the cash box saying that alterations were free. Around the shop were cinema and telly posters most likely from shows that featured their clothing.
There were five people, two men and three women in the shop all wearing variations of the same outfit, black trousers, white button-up and comfortable shoes, so Anthea assumed that they were all employees. She briefly wondered if there was a Tegan or if she had been made up or was no longer part of the shop, but the next moment answered her question.
The oldest of the lot, a woman with dark brown hair and warm, twinkling blue eyes spoke.
"Welcome to Tegan's," she said with a grin. "I'm Tegan, me or any of my staff can help you out."
Anthea smiled and pulled the coupon out of her pocket, "I have a coupon for a free dress."
The whole store erupted into excited twitters and squeals of delight.
Anthea took a step back, "I'm guessing you were warned ahead of time about me."
Tegan laughed. "You could say that. You must be Anthea, William told us all about you."
Anthea broke into a grin. "Only good things I hope."
The punk rock kid on the left grinned back, "Oh yeah, and I'm starting to think he way undersold you."
He stuck out his hand, "I'm Gwyn by the way, pleasure to meet you."
Anthea took his hand and shook it. "So what has the Bard done for you lot that would make you want to do this huge favor for him, because you can't tell me these dresses are cheap by any stretch of the imagination."
Tegan laughed again and everyone grinned. "Shakespeare is always a source of income from cinema to television to the stage," she tapped on Anthea's coupon, "but this Bard in particular is very dear to us and we'd love to help him out."
Anthea smiled. "Well that's good enough for me." She felt much more at ease about this mystery bloke now who she'd spoken to people who knew him.
She browsed the rows and rows of dresses, pausing briefly to look a couple that caught her eye. She was looking at a beautiful wine-colored dress when a thought came to her.
"What is he going to be wearing?" Anthea asked.
"His outfit is going to be made to match whatever you buy, so go off," one of the other women said, leaning on the counter with her elbows.
"Do all of you make the dresses?" Anthea asked, after pausing to look at an emerald brocade gown.
"Me, Gwyn, and Clara make the dresses," Tegan said, indicating the girl who had spoken, "while Rory and Caitlyn are designer/shopkeeps."
The remaining girl held up her hands, "I'm all thumbs, if I went anywhere near a needle I'd bleed all over the damned thing and the dress."
The last bloke just shrugged, "I'm just more artsy than crafty."
Anthea browsed some more before deciding on the first dress, the wine gown. She supposed that she should have picked something more Shakespearean, but she didn't think that a dress from that time period would fit through the doors at school.
"Beautiful choice," Tegan said when Anthea showed her. "Come on, let's put it on and see if there are any adjustments to be made."
Anthea tried on the dress and it only needed a couple of quick tweaks. She could pick up the dress tomorrow and it would be ready for her.
She squealed for joy and thanked them all before dashing out to her car. She couldn't wait for prom.
Mycroft stood outside Sherlock's door a moment trying to muster up the courage to finally do this. On the other side of the door he could hear the sounds of the telly going full blast. He should just come back later and turned away. He got only three steps away when he sighed. He had put this off long enough. He turned around and knocked on the door.
"Come in!" Sherlock called.
Mycroft opened the door and Sherlock glared at him. "What do you want?"
Mycroft's courage almost failed him again. "I just wanted to talk."
Sherlock scooted back further on the bed to give Mycroft room to sit and Mycroft immediately filled the space.
"Look I–" Mycroft began but an explosion on the telly drowned him out. He picked up the remote and turned it off. "I know you hate that you have to sit home because I refuse to play by the rules," he continued.
Sherlock scoffed, "Like you care."
Mycroft pressed his lips together and sighed, "Of course I care. I am just a firm believer in doing something because you want to and not because everyone is doing it."
"Well, thanks to you and Mummy, I don't get that luxury," Sherlock sneered. "I am the only sixth former that was asked to the prom, and I can't go because you don't feel like it."
Mycroft ran his fingers over his mouth and closed his eyes. He opened them and said, "God, I don't even know how to say this."
"Wow, Mr Silver Tongue himself at a loss for words, I don't believe it," Sherlock mocked.
"I'm not perfect, Sherlock," Mycroft replied sourly.
"Could have fooled me," Sherlock muttered.
"You think I'm perfect?" Mycroft asked in confusion.
"So cool and collected and not caring about anything or anyone, so yeah," Sherlock said rolling his eyes. "In fact I always wondered what changed. You seemed to be so popular and then you gave it all it up."
Mycroft stretched out his legs on the bed and crossed them at the ankles. He put his hands on his lap and sighed. "Bertie never told you we went out, did he?"
"Bollocks," Sherlock deadpanned, drawing his knees up to his chest.
"Just before our sixth form for the summer," Mycroft replied, his tone deadly serious.
"But you hate Bertie," Sherlock tried to reason.
"I do now," Mycroft said with a bitter laugh.
"So why?"
"He was so fit," Mycroft self-mocked.
"Be serious," Sherlock chided.
"I am," Mycroft explained. "It was right after Father left and I was willing to do anything to feel. Bertie pressured me into..." and he coughed discreetly.
"All the way?" Sherlock asked in horror.
Mycroft shrugged helplessly. "Everyone was doing it and it hurt. A lot. So when I told him I wasn't ready and that I didn't want to do that again, at least not for a while, he dumped me."
Sherlock stared at him like he'd grown an extra head.
"And that's when I vowed to never do anything just because everyone else was, Sarah's party excepted," Mycroft said.
"This is the biggest, juiciest piece of gossip I've never heard, so why doesn't the whole town know?" Sherlock asked, moving to sit up on his knees.
"I may have told Bertie that if anyone found out, I would tell the whole school that he has a tiny wee." Mycroft giggled, but cleared his throat when he caught Sherlock glaring at him. He rubbed his hands on his jeans nervously.
"Why didn't you tell me this about him sooner?" Sherlock demanded.
"I tried at the party but you didn't want to listen to me then, so I figured it was best to let you form your own opinion on him," Mycroft explained.
"Does Mummy know? About what happened between you and Bertie?" Sherlock's voice took on a low growl.
"Not as such," Mycroft hedged. "I mean, she knows that we went out and then broke up but not why. She would go postal."
"But you helped her hold me hostage anyway?" Sherlock's voice was bordering on hysterical as he rose off the bed to tower of his brother. "I'm not as stupid as you think I am, I wouldn't make the same mistakes you did."
Mycroft looked up helplessly, "I guess I thought I was protecting you."
"By not letting me figure things out for myself?" Sherlock leapt off the bed and Mycroft scrambled to follow.
"There are some things that shouldn't have to be experienced if you can avoid them. You can't always trust the people you think you can rely on," Mycroft pleaded.
"I guess I learned that one, because I sure as hell can't trust you," Sherlock hissed. "Now out."
Mycroft didn't even bother forming an argument and just walked out, wincing as Sherlock slammed the door behind him.
Mycroft was on his bed staring at the ceiling and wondering where it all went wrong. He stood up and went to the window. Outside on the old tire swing, Sherlock dangled listlessly.
"God damn it," Mycroft muttered. "I can't believe I'm actually going to do this."
A/N: It always bothered me that Bianca and Cameron go from kissing in the car to her being pissed at him that he hadn't asked her to prom yet. But there were no scenes in between that indicated that they had even talked since the kiss, so I bridged the gap.
Google French is always awful, but here's what I was trying to say
Puis-je vous offrir un panais?- May I offer you a parsnip?
Non tu ne peux pas- No you may not
Avez-vous vu le crayon de mon oncle?- Where is my uncle's pencil
Peut-être que ç'est dans ton cul- Maybe it's up your ass
Ç'est bête. Quand vas-tu me demander de sortir?- This is stupid. When are you going to ask me out?
Appelez-moi quand vous comprendrez- Call me when you understand
Je suis tellement baisée- I am so fucked