Here's the second story one-shot.
I apologise for any mistakes.
2. Sherlock and Mycroft's mother dies
John couldn't believe his ears and the doctor's jaw dropped open. Sherlock's mother had died in the early hours of that morning. It was now 9:30pm and the man had only just decided to alert his little brother to the news. The ex-soldier's eyes danced from the tall, slightly overweight, man with the umbrella that he was, rather thoughtlessly, tapping on the floor underfoot, to his brother in his typical chair, wanting to see how he was taking the news his older sibling had just, very indelicately, dumped on him. His usually expressive face was blank and his multicoloured eyes were fixed on the open door beside the chair John was sitting in, the door that led to the stairs out of the flat. A signal Mycroft Holmes took as his cue to leave.
John's gaze followed the tactless man and his umbrella as he sauntered out of the room before returning his attention to his friend. The world's only consulting detective remained seated in his chair, his position almost exactly the same as it had been moments earlier, barring his right hand which had been raised and placed over his mouth, as though he was inhaling a scent on his knuckles. The hand was trembling, clasped so tightly that the knuckles in question had turned white.
John, having decided it would be the best course of action, remained silent. His eyes softened as he took in the break in the man's demeanour and he witnessed the exact moment his friend's protective barrier came crumbling down; he watched with a heavy heart as salty tears welled up in his friend's eyes, spilling over and running down his friend's face like warm fingertips on his cheeks, gathering at his chin and dripping onto his white shirt. John stood, holding out the box of tissues that was sitting on the desk by the window. It was with Herculean effort that the detective refrained from accepting the proffered tissue knowing that, it he caved and took the tissue, wiping at the tears would only serve as proof that the man was, in fact, crying.
"Sherlock," John's voice held a soft tone as he regarded his flatmate, standing beside the coffee table near the sofa, wanting to give him friend space if he refused to cooperate, "Sherlock;" he tried again, failing to receive a response the first time, "look at me." The detective forced his red, watery eyes to focus on his friend; the second his gaze fell on the soft, understanding expression in his eyes, he broke. His body shot forwards in the chair and he buried his head in his hands.
John instinctively stepped closer to his friend, placing his hand gently on his shoulder. He didn't see the point in trying to assure him that he would be okay. That wasn't what the detective needed now. Instead, he required reassurance that John would be there for him through this no matter what, as it didn't appear as though his brother would be.
Sherlock sobbed, the comfort he was receiving from his friend seemingly encouraging the tears, and John waited patiently for him to finish, not wanting to interrupt him. Not wanting the detective to suppress his emotions. But when the sobs became louder, John left his position beside his friend, closed to door to give him some privacy and then returned to him, crouching in front of him and gently pulling his hands from his face, holding them in his own, playing with his fingers.
"Look at me," John's voice was quiet, his eyes fixed on his friend and when Sherlock hesitantly met his gaze, John set about reassuring him, "its okay to cry, Sherlock," he smiled softly, "you don't have to be ashamed. I'm here; I'm not going to leave you to deal with this on your own."
Sherlock nodded, finally accepting the tissue his friend held out to him again, and wiping at his eyes and nose. John remained crouched in front of him, just watching; carefully comforting him. He waited patiently and by the time the detective had calmed down it was the early hours of the morning.
Thank you for the reviews.
Please, let me know what you think, its a little different from what I initially had planned.
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