Crimson and Blonde

by tfbl

Sherlock is still Sherlock, even if Holmes is just made up. He's a 5,000 year old Vampire whom has just met his Mate. Of course, John Watson has no idea and never will if Sherlock has anything to say about it. A character whom is genderfluid as well as another that is pansexual feature very heavily in this so if the concept bothers you read this as you choose.

36. Chapter 36

Chapter .28

Women cannot do figures, they say.

They must be shielded from the "harsher" side of life, from war and bloodshed and the "tendencies" of men.

Mortals claim that men can plan war but sewing is beyond them.

That their desire for control is absolute and they are always, always, strong.

Many of the immortals thought that when males laughed it was a cause for concern, but that when females did it there was nothing to worry about, for they are always laughing.

Well.

Anthea has bloodied her dagger until the blade gleams black and Andrew can swear like a sailor and each have administered poison and drawn up battle plans and disemboweled the countries' ruler in his sleep. Andrew has sat by Mycroft's side and smoked and thrown back shots while Anthea has doled out cards with a practiced hand while laughing a deep throated laugh and spun words and equations and spider webs complicated enough to make the quickest of minds spin.

Mycroft, if he so desired, can weave and spin and sew and select fabrics with an expert eye.

Mycroft is often in control, except when he is not. When being the British Government takes its toil and the meetings are one right after the other and yet another attempt on his life is made. When his fangs come out and he desires to rip out throats and his eyes alone say enough. That is when Anthea makes him sit as she brushes the inside of his wrist and takes care of things with a few strokes of her pen.

Andrew and Anthea (him and her, sister and brother, the suit wearer and stocking donner) maintain an acceptable level of control most of the time. Breaking wrists and dealing with governmental leaders and firing off words and buttons and orders with machine fire precision as well as a host of other things that do not bare mentioning. When it is too much and their hands give them away (stiff as they pluck at this hem or that and say stop it, stop it now) Mycroft will grant an hour or two off (or eight or ten) before cupping Andrew's face or mentioning some new tie pins that he knew had caught Anthea's eye or requesting that tea to be brought into the office and unless the city has exploded that all messages be placed on hold.

When Mycroft laughs, when his grim expression falters, it is not a cause for worry, Sherlock knows. (Except, of course, when it is). When his Mate laughs, long and low with fangs exposed, then it is a cause for worry (or full fledged fear, whichever you prefer).

So, Sherlock occasionally thinks, if mortals claim that men are this way while woman cannot do this, and immortals assume that this is the truth, and two vampires (one male and the other both and the same) prove that it is not so in every sense of the word…. well it really begs the question of whom the idiots are, doesn't it?