Hello there everyone,
Sorry for the lack of posting at the moment, life is rather complex right now, though entertaining to write sometimes it is just too much . I hope you are all well, and if you are not, i hope you will be soon.
PLEASE SHARE AND FOLLOW, MOST IMPORTANTLY REVIEW, CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM WELCOMED.
M.
John was out of his seat faster than he had even believed possible, it was almost like his bones were suddenly powered with pure flames, and he flew across the room with lightning speed, just behind the elder Holmes. Of whom had clearly inherited his brother's lanky legs, his stride ratio was almost triples johns quite easily. Mycroft was down the hall and through Sherlock's bedroom door with immense grace, when john rounded the corner Mycroft was crouched on the bed, over Sherlock, each of his slender hands either side of his brother's face. Sherlock was now sat, bolt upright, sweating profusely, and screaming with his whole lung capacity, it rattled the window panes. Sherlock, a man of such wit and calmness now wracked by sobs, hysterical tears running down his face, he clearly could see things the others could not. His hands clenched over Mycroft's, if this pained the elder Holmes he gave absolutely no sign, he just constantly whispered to him, 'sssssh Sherlock, sshhhh it's going to stop soon, its nearly over, heyyy now don't worry its ok,''. Sherlock's hyperventilation eventually slowed to form a slightly erratic pattern. Seemingly exhausted, his grip of Mycroft slacked and he fell into a deep sleep. Mycroft detangled himself, and wedged himself between Sherlock and the bedside wall, still on the bed. Not moving. This was clear. John true to his oath took up the arm chair beside the bed and in silence they watched the young man sleep. Unsure how long this tranquility may last.
Eventually when the sun began to stream through the curtains, John awoke, sorry to realize he had dropped off. He looked over and saw Mycroft, still completely awake staring at his brother with a fixed glare. 'I left you sleep', he said, 'He hasn't moved'. He spoke answering john's thoughts without a need for his utterance. John nodded, he glanced at the bedside clock. 5:30 am, Sherlock will wake soon he thought, and the man had already begun to stir. Making himself excused he left the room silently and went to the kitchen. He began to prepare the tea, in mugs and boiled the kettle.
He heard raised voices from the room next door and dashed in, abandoning the drinks, expecting the worst. Mycroft was holding his bleeding nose, Sherlock, back in his usual state had hit him upon waking up next to another figure, utterly disoriented. Under any other conditions this would have been rather entertaining, but right now, when Sherlock stormed past john into the kitchen. John could only think how much fun this would be, how to deal with a temperamental Sherlock…. How does one even begin?
