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nickelsandcoatsTitle: I’ll Give You Everything You Need (You’ve Given Me Everything I Want) 4/? || at Ao3
Author: Sarah/![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nickelsandcoats
Rating: PG13 for this part
Spoilers: Spoilers (eventually) for all of season 2!
Word Count: ~2,100 for this part
Pairings: Sherlock/John, eventual Mycroft/Lestrade
Warnings: AU.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Mycroft's never given his feathers to anyone before, but one person wins him over without even trying.
Notes: Forflying_dreamz's prompt here at my shuffle meme post. She asked for #103, which was, for this part, "The Woman" from the Sherlock: Season 2 soundtrack by David Arnold and Michael Price.
This is a sequel to Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You). You really should read that one first before you read this story or this story will not make any sense. One last note: this story is set pre-Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You) and will eventually end up post-Reichenbach. Expect lots of angst.
part i || part ii || part iii
Sherlock dropped his duffel bag and looked around the small flat with only the smallest of sneers. Mycroft had chosen the flat for him while Sherlock had been stuck in that horrid rehabilitation facility (he was dying to know how Mother had reacted to Mycroft bunging him in there against his will and her wishes), and it wouldn’t do to show his pleasure that his brother had managed to find him a perfectly nice flat after all.
Mycroft always did have a sentimental streak a mile wide.
“I thought this would suffice, for now,” Mycroft drawled behind him. “I’ve taken the liberty of paying your rent for the next six months, and I’ve released some funds for you to pay your bills for that same duration. Do try not to spend every last pence on materials for your little….experiments. Food is vital, too, dear brother.”
Sherlock looked at him over his shoulder. Unable to actually thank his brother for his thoughtfulness, he merely grunted in response and bent to unpack his duffel, pulling out the violin that had been the bane and the boon of the facility’s staff depending on what mood Sherlock was in when he played, and setting it reverently on the small green sofa. He opened the case and carefully withdrew the bow, rosined it and then settled the violin on his shoulder, drawing out the first note of his favourite of Mendelssohn’s concertos. He lost himself in the music; the last he heard of Mycroft was his humming the harmony as he left the flat. Sherlock moved to the window and watched his brother swing the umbrella he always carried in time with his humming as he opened the door to the car waiting patiently at the kerb.
Four days later, Lestrade rang Sherlock, and in a rush of words Sherlock had to parse through, asked him to come round to Camden to look at a headless, fingerless, footless corpse.
Sherlock arrived on the scene and was greeted with a sneer from Sally Donovan and a cold shoulder from Anderson. He ignored both of them in turn and crouched down next to the body, peering at the wounds left from the dismembered fingers. Sharp knife, strong assailant, over six feet tall, male, worked as a butcher judging by the precision of the cuts. He rattled this off to Lestrade, who…wasn’t listening. This was new. Lestrade was talking quietly to someone on his mobile, back turned to the scene, shoulders hunched, a desire for privacy.
So of course Sherlock crept closer to eavesdrop.
“No, of course. I understand.” Pause. A sigh. “I’ll be there when I can. Hopefully in an hour⎯he’s here so I can fob some of this off on to my DS. See you then.” Lestrade rung off and turned, barely suppressing a shout when he saw Sherlock standing less than two feet away.
“Who was that?” Sherlock asked sharply.
“No one. None of your business, anyhow.”
An arched brow.
“Oh, sod off. I do have a life outside of work, unlike some.”
Sherlock drew himself up and stated his deductions clearly and precisely, and then stared down his nose at Lestrade. “I do hope my assistance will allow you to keep your dinner date,” he intoned with as much sarcasm as he could muster. “Seeing as how you wouldn’t have a life outside of work if it weren’t for me.”
“Sherlock⎯” Lestrade had the grace to look abashed, but Sherlock would have none of it. He spun on his heel and strode away from the scene, leaving Lestrade to shout for Sally to start combing their databases for men matching the description Sherlock provided. Lestrade went after Sherlock, who had turned the corner, to apologise, but by the time he turned the corner himself, there was no trace of the other man. Lestrade stopped and slumped a bit against the dirty brick wall, rubbing his hands over his face and heaving a sigh. If he would have looked up, he might have seen two ravens, one with feathers darker than the deepest black of night, and one with eyes the same strange blue-grey as Sherlock’s.
Lestrade arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes before his promised hour. Mycroft had just settled into his seat when Lestrade arrived, looking slightly distraught.
“What is it?” Mycroft asked, leaning forward and, without thought, catching Gregory’s hand in his.
Gregory stiffened, and Mycroft, immediately realising the source of his distress, let go. That was the first time they had deliberately touched each other since the night of Sherlock’s overdose. But Mycroft’s hand was almost instantly caught back up in Gregory’s, and here he was, asking silently through every line of his body, if this was okay. Mycroft smiled and turned his hand so he could link his fingers through Gregory’s and stroke the back of his hand with his thumb. A little bit of the tension leeched from the detective’s body, and Gregory gave him a small smile in thanks.
“I think I’ve upset your brother,” he said after a long moment of staring at their interlocked hands.
“Whatever did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything⎯he took my comment out of context, as usual.”
Mycroft hmmmed and tapped the back of Gregory’s hand with his index finger.
“He heard me on the phone with you, and I told him I had a life outside of work, unlike some. He then spouted off his deductions, told me I was lucky to have him as if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have a life outside of work, and then he stalked off.”
“Sherlock doesn’t always understand that comments do not necessarily apply to him. He assumed you were demeaning his dedication and took offence, even though I am sure you didn’t mean it that way. He has never been able to joke around or discern when someone is joking.”
“I know. I was frustrated and wanted to get here and not keep you waiting,” his cheeks heated in a blush, “and so I got snippy.” He paused. “But here’s the weird thing, yeah? I went after to him to apologise, and I should’ve been able to see him after he turned the corner⎯it wasn’t long enough for him to have got far⎯but he had vanished. Completely. I have no idea where the sod got to in less than a minute.”
Mycroft frowned a bit, and then joked, “Maybe he flew away,” and forced a laugh that sounded horribly fake to his ears, but Gregory seemed not to notice.
“Maybe,” he chuckled as the waiter approached with their drinks.
They were sipping the last of their wine slowly, feet brushing shyly under the table, when Mycroft blurted, “Would you come back to mine?”
Gregory’s eyes widened in shock.
“For a drink,” he added hastily. “I find that I don’t want our evening to end quite yet.” He could feel his cheeks heating and prepared himself for the inevitable rejection that would come. It had taken months for them to even touch, and the first time they do, he acted like a lovestruck idiot and invited the man back to his house! Mycroft had not been this rash in years, and now he knew why.
Gregory’s smile was heartbreaking. “I’d love to,” he said.
Mycroft only just stopped himself from asking “Really?” and instead smiled back.
“But I’ll have to take a cab⎯I left my car at my place.”
“Nonsense. My driver can take us.”
Twenty minutes later, Mycroft was opening his front door and trying not to feel too self-conscious at the size of his house. Surely Gregory would not be intimidated by it, but it was quite posh, too posh he thought with a wince as he turned on the hall light and saw the interior through Gregory’s eyes.
Gregory let out an appreciative whistle. “Nice place,” he said, “It suits you.”
“Thank you. I can give you a tour if you’d like.”
The smile he got was a bit wicked. “Some other time.”
Mycroft’s stomach dropped a bit and then filled itself with a fluttery feeling as the insinuation sunk in. “Gregory, I think you should know that while I would quite like to, well, move forward, I don’t think I am quite ready⎯”
Gregory cut him off with a squeeze of his hand and an understanding grin. “I want to move forward too, but I agree, tonight’s not the time. We’ve got plenty of it, and I don’t want to rush this or you. Agreed?”
Mycroft felt tension he didn’t know he had been carrying bleed away as he nodded. “Thank you.”
“Anytime. Now, I think you mentioned drinks?”
Mycroft pulled on his hand and led him down the hall to the kitchen, where he reluctantly dropped Gregory’s hand to pull down two wineglasses, open a bottle of red, and pour. Gregory took the bottle and gestured for Mycroft to lead the way.
He settled them in his sitting room, setting the glasses on a small side table by the sofa before turning to set a fire in the fireplace. Gregory set the bottle on the coffee table and admired the paintings as Mycroft stacked the wood and lit the match. Soon, the fire was crackling and growing, and Mycroft stood up slowly, heart pounding for reasons he couldn’t quite fathom. Gregory was stood in front of the sofa, glasses in hand. He handed one to Mycroft, allowing their fingers to brush, and then cleared his throat and raised his glass.
“To moving forward,” he said, without hesitation.
“To moving forward,” Mycroft repeated, touching his glass to Gregory’s. They took a long sip, holding each other’s gaze.
Mycroft sat down slowly, unwilling to break his gaze, and Gregory followed suit, sitting sideways on the sofa, drawing one leg up so that his knee brushed Mycroft’s thigh. With a cheeky grin, he held his hand palm up on his knee, and Mycroft took the unspoken hint, carefully tracing Gregory’s palm with his index finger. That small action elicited a shiver and darkened pupils, and Mycroft found himself grinning at the knowledge that his touch had produced that reaction. He met Gregory’s eyes, warm and bright, and lost himself in them.
If they tried, the two men might be able to remember what they talked about that night, sitting on Mycroft’s sofa and finishing off the first bottle of wine, and then a second. But what they would best recall would be the feeling of Gregory’s hair under Mycroft’s fingertips, the weight of heads resting on shoulders, the gradual dimness of the room as the fire died out, and the taste of wine on each other’s lips as they shared their first kiss goodnight outside of the guest room door.
Mycroft pulled away and gently brushed a hand down Gregory’s arm to grasp at his hand. Gregory squeezed back and then leaned up just slightly for another kiss. “Goodnight, then,” he murmured against Mycroft’s lips.
“Goodnight, Gregory,” Mycroft whispered as he pulled away.
When he got to the end of the hall, he turned and saw Gregory still stood in the doorway, a faint smile on his lips as he shook himself and then entered the room proper, shutting the door with a quiet click. Mycroft grinned and allowed himself a little skip as he floated back to his room.
That same evening, the Morrighan found herself comforting her youngest. She had joined him on the roof and saw the inspector’s reaction to his hurtful words. But Sherlock, as ever, had misunderstood the emotion behind Lestrade’s actions and thought them done in exasperation, not remorse.
And now she was sitting on the edge of her son’s bed, running her hand through his curls just as she had when he had been a child in need of comfort.
They hadn’t needed words: Sherlock hurt and she soothed without him needing to name the hurts that ran deep in his soul. She knew them and saw them as she had since the day of his birth, and she knew who could cure them.
Hours passed in silence, and finally, just as the stars were emerging in the sky, Sherlock spoke, voice rusty from disuse.
“I am lonely, Mother.”
Her heart cracked at the weight of that admission.
“I know, child. Sleep, and dream well.”
His eyes slid closed and his breaths deepened and evened out. She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his ear, whispering, “It won’t be long now. Just wait a little longer, and you will be whole again, I swear it.”
At her words, whispered thousands of miles away, John Watson awoke with a quiet gasp, chasing the last haunting image of his dream: grey-blue eyes and a single, floating black feather, identical to the one under his pillow.
part v
Author: Sarah/
nickelsandcoatsRating: PG13 for this part
Spoilers: Spoilers (eventually) for all of season 2!
Word Count: ~2,100 for this part
Pairings: Sherlock/John, eventual Mycroft/Lestrade
Warnings: AU.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Summary: Mycroft's never given his feathers to anyone before, but one person wins him over without even trying.
Notes: For
flying_dreamz's prompt here at my shuffle meme post. She asked for #103, which was, for this part, "The Woman" from the Sherlock: Season 2 soundtrack by David Arnold and Michael Price.This is a sequel to Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You). You really should read that one first before you read this story or this story will not make any sense. One last note: this story is set pre-Here Is What My Heart Will Give You (and Here Are the Things I Will Give Up for You) and will eventually end up post-Reichenbach. Expect lots of angst.
part i || part ii || part iii
Sherlock dropped his duffel bag and looked around the small flat with only the smallest of sneers. Mycroft had chosen the flat for him while Sherlock had been stuck in that horrid rehabilitation facility (he was dying to know how Mother had reacted to Mycroft bunging him in there against his will and her wishes), and it wouldn’t do to show his pleasure that his brother had managed to find him a perfectly nice flat after all.
Mycroft always did have a sentimental streak a mile wide.
“I thought this would suffice, for now,” Mycroft drawled behind him. “I’ve taken the liberty of paying your rent for the next six months, and I’ve released some funds for you to pay your bills for that same duration. Do try not to spend every last pence on materials for your little….experiments. Food is vital, too, dear brother.”
Sherlock looked at him over his shoulder. Unable to actually thank his brother for his thoughtfulness, he merely grunted in response and bent to unpack his duffel, pulling out the violin that had been the bane and the boon of the facility’s staff depending on what mood Sherlock was in when he played, and setting it reverently on the small green sofa. He opened the case and carefully withdrew the bow, rosined it and then settled the violin on his shoulder, drawing out the first note of his favourite of Mendelssohn’s concertos. He lost himself in the music; the last he heard of Mycroft was his humming the harmony as he left the flat. Sherlock moved to the window and watched his brother swing the umbrella he always carried in time with his humming as he opened the door to the car waiting patiently at the kerb.
Four days later, Lestrade rang Sherlock, and in a rush of words Sherlock had to parse through, asked him to come round to Camden to look at a headless, fingerless, footless corpse.
Sherlock arrived on the scene and was greeted with a sneer from Sally Donovan and a cold shoulder from Anderson. He ignored both of them in turn and crouched down next to the body, peering at the wounds left from the dismembered fingers. Sharp knife, strong assailant, over six feet tall, male, worked as a butcher judging by the precision of the cuts. He rattled this off to Lestrade, who…wasn’t listening. This was new. Lestrade was talking quietly to someone on his mobile, back turned to the scene, shoulders hunched, a desire for privacy.
So of course Sherlock crept closer to eavesdrop.
“No, of course. I understand.” Pause. A sigh. “I’ll be there when I can. Hopefully in an hour⎯he’s here so I can fob some of this off on to my DS. See you then.” Lestrade rung off and turned, barely suppressing a shout when he saw Sherlock standing less than two feet away.
“Who was that?” Sherlock asked sharply.
“No one. None of your business, anyhow.”
An arched brow.
“Oh, sod off. I do have a life outside of work, unlike some.”
Sherlock drew himself up and stated his deductions clearly and precisely, and then stared down his nose at Lestrade. “I do hope my assistance will allow you to keep your dinner date,” he intoned with as much sarcasm as he could muster. “Seeing as how you wouldn’t have a life outside of work if it weren’t for me.”
“Sherlock⎯” Lestrade had the grace to look abashed, but Sherlock would have none of it. He spun on his heel and strode away from the scene, leaving Lestrade to shout for Sally to start combing their databases for men matching the description Sherlock provided. Lestrade went after Sherlock, who had turned the corner, to apologise, but by the time he turned the corner himself, there was no trace of the other man. Lestrade stopped and slumped a bit against the dirty brick wall, rubbing his hands over his face and heaving a sigh. If he would have looked up, he might have seen two ravens, one with feathers darker than the deepest black of night, and one with eyes the same strange blue-grey as Sherlock’s.
Lestrade arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes before his promised hour. Mycroft had just settled into his seat when Lestrade arrived, looking slightly distraught.
“What is it?” Mycroft asked, leaning forward and, without thought, catching Gregory’s hand in his.
Gregory stiffened, and Mycroft, immediately realising the source of his distress, let go. That was the first time they had deliberately touched each other since the night of Sherlock’s overdose. But Mycroft’s hand was almost instantly caught back up in Gregory’s, and here he was, asking silently through every line of his body, if this was okay. Mycroft smiled and turned his hand so he could link his fingers through Gregory’s and stroke the back of his hand with his thumb. A little bit of the tension leeched from the detective’s body, and Gregory gave him a small smile in thanks.
“I think I’ve upset your brother,” he said after a long moment of staring at their interlocked hands.
“Whatever did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything⎯he took my comment out of context, as usual.”
Mycroft hmmmed and tapped the back of Gregory’s hand with his index finger.
“He heard me on the phone with you, and I told him I had a life outside of work, unlike some. He then spouted off his deductions, told me I was lucky to have him as if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have a life outside of work, and then he stalked off.”
“Sherlock doesn’t always understand that comments do not necessarily apply to him. He assumed you were demeaning his dedication and took offence, even though I am sure you didn’t mean it that way. He has never been able to joke around or discern when someone is joking.”
“I know. I was frustrated and wanted to get here and not keep you waiting,” his cheeks heated in a blush, “and so I got snippy.” He paused. “But here’s the weird thing, yeah? I went after to him to apologise, and I should’ve been able to see him after he turned the corner⎯it wasn’t long enough for him to have got far⎯but he had vanished. Completely. I have no idea where the sod got to in less than a minute.”
Mycroft frowned a bit, and then joked, “Maybe he flew away,” and forced a laugh that sounded horribly fake to his ears, but Gregory seemed not to notice.
“Maybe,” he chuckled as the waiter approached with their drinks.
They were sipping the last of their wine slowly, feet brushing shyly under the table, when Mycroft blurted, “Would you come back to mine?”
Gregory’s eyes widened in shock.
“For a drink,” he added hastily. “I find that I don’t want our evening to end quite yet.” He could feel his cheeks heating and prepared himself for the inevitable rejection that would come. It had taken months for them to even touch, and the first time they do, he acted like a lovestruck idiot and invited the man back to his house! Mycroft had not been this rash in years, and now he knew why.
Gregory’s smile was heartbreaking. “I’d love to,” he said.
Mycroft only just stopped himself from asking “Really?” and instead smiled back.
“But I’ll have to take a cab⎯I left my car at my place.”
“Nonsense. My driver can take us.”
Twenty minutes later, Mycroft was opening his front door and trying not to feel too self-conscious at the size of his house. Surely Gregory would not be intimidated by it, but it was quite posh, too posh he thought with a wince as he turned on the hall light and saw the interior through Gregory’s eyes.
Gregory let out an appreciative whistle. “Nice place,” he said, “It suits you.”
“Thank you. I can give you a tour if you’d like.”
The smile he got was a bit wicked. “Some other time.”
Mycroft’s stomach dropped a bit and then filled itself with a fluttery feeling as the insinuation sunk in. “Gregory, I think you should know that while I would quite like to, well, move forward, I don’t think I am quite ready⎯”
Gregory cut him off with a squeeze of his hand and an understanding grin. “I want to move forward too, but I agree, tonight’s not the time. We’ve got plenty of it, and I don’t want to rush this or you. Agreed?”
Mycroft felt tension he didn’t know he had been carrying bleed away as he nodded. “Thank you.”
“Anytime. Now, I think you mentioned drinks?”
Mycroft pulled on his hand and led him down the hall to the kitchen, where he reluctantly dropped Gregory’s hand to pull down two wineglasses, open a bottle of red, and pour. Gregory took the bottle and gestured for Mycroft to lead the way.
He settled them in his sitting room, setting the glasses on a small side table by the sofa before turning to set a fire in the fireplace. Gregory set the bottle on the coffee table and admired the paintings as Mycroft stacked the wood and lit the match. Soon, the fire was crackling and growing, and Mycroft stood up slowly, heart pounding for reasons he couldn’t quite fathom. Gregory was stood in front of the sofa, glasses in hand. He handed one to Mycroft, allowing their fingers to brush, and then cleared his throat and raised his glass.
“To moving forward,” he said, without hesitation.
“To moving forward,” Mycroft repeated, touching his glass to Gregory’s. They took a long sip, holding each other’s gaze.
Mycroft sat down slowly, unwilling to break his gaze, and Gregory followed suit, sitting sideways on the sofa, drawing one leg up so that his knee brushed Mycroft’s thigh. With a cheeky grin, he held his hand palm up on his knee, and Mycroft took the unspoken hint, carefully tracing Gregory’s palm with his index finger. That small action elicited a shiver and darkened pupils, and Mycroft found himself grinning at the knowledge that his touch had produced that reaction. He met Gregory’s eyes, warm and bright, and lost himself in them.
If they tried, the two men might be able to remember what they talked about that night, sitting on Mycroft’s sofa and finishing off the first bottle of wine, and then a second. But what they would best recall would be the feeling of Gregory’s hair under Mycroft’s fingertips, the weight of heads resting on shoulders, the gradual dimness of the room as the fire died out, and the taste of wine on each other’s lips as they shared their first kiss goodnight outside of the guest room door.
Mycroft pulled away and gently brushed a hand down Gregory’s arm to grasp at his hand. Gregory squeezed back and then leaned up just slightly for another kiss. “Goodnight, then,” he murmured against Mycroft’s lips.
“Goodnight, Gregory,” Mycroft whispered as he pulled away.
When he got to the end of the hall, he turned and saw Gregory still stood in the doorway, a faint smile on his lips as he shook himself and then entered the room proper, shutting the door with a quiet click. Mycroft grinned and allowed himself a little skip as he floated back to his room.
That same evening, the Morrighan found herself comforting her youngest. She had joined him on the roof and saw the inspector’s reaction to his hurtful words. But Sherlock, as ever, had misunderstood the emotion behind Lestrade’s actions and thought them done in exasperation, not remorse.
And now she was sitting on the edge of her son’s bed, running her hand through his curls just as she had when he had been a child in need of comfort.
They hadn’t needed words: Sherlock hurt and she soothed without him needing to name the hurts that ran deep in his soul. She knew them and saw them as she had since the day of his birth, and she knew who could cure them.
Hours passed in silence, and finally, just as the stars were emerging in the sky, Sherlock spoke, voice rusty from disuse.
“I am lonely, Mother.”
Her heart cracked at the weight of that admission.
“I know, child. Sleep, and dream well.”
His eyes slid closed and his breaths deepened and evened out. She leaned forward and brushed her lips against his ear, whispering, “It won’t be long now. Just wait a little longer, and you will be whole again, I swear it.”
At her words, whispered thousands of miles away, John Watson awoke with a quiet gasp, chasing the last haunting image of his dream: grey-blue eyes and a single, floating black feather, identical to the one under his pillow.
part v
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2012-03-01 06:37 pm (UTC)That's, uh. About as coherent as I'm going to get.
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Date: 2012-03-02 01:18 am (UTC)I love your icon, btw.
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Date: 2012-03-04 09:14 am (UTC)This is what you do to me, you amazing creature.
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Date: 2012-03-01 10:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-03-02 01:19 am (UTC)♥