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nickelsandcoatsTitle: I'll Give You Everything You Need (You've Given Me Everything I Want) 12/? || 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: ~1,100 for this part
Pairings: Sherlock/John, 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, "SHERlocked" from the Sherlock Season 2 soundtrack by David G. 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 || part iv || part v || part vi || part vii || part viii || part ix || part x || part xi
Interlude--Moriarty
There is a name that has been whispered in the shadows for two centuries. No one dares speak it aloud, for fear of bringing his attention.
He was a man, just a man, an evil, twisted man who was born of Euryale, sister of the Medusa. He sprang from her fatherless and peerless and listened with fascination to his mother’s stories of blood and war and the endless screams of men.
He haunted the footsteps of Sherlock Holmes, the one son of the Morrighan he could touch. The elder son was untouchable, lofty and secure in his place in the government. No, Sherlock was easier. Sherlock would come and play his little games, that little dog of a doctor at his heels, earnest and far, far too in love with Sherlock to truly question why Sherlock and the man in the shadows were drawn together.
***
The first time he died, he fell over a waterfall. Sherlock was unscathed.
The second, from a gunshot wound given to him by Sherlock’s fucking doctor.
The third, it was from old age. Sherlock never found him in that life.
And then, after more deaths that were largely unremarkable, he died because he had caught Sherlock’s heart in his hand and wrapped it in Semtex.
Even the son of Euryale could not forsee how much it hurt to have the wrath of the Morrighan and her sons tear him to pieces.
***
“Mother, may I ask you a favour?”
There was nothing but black, deep and endless as the bottom of the ocean or the end of the stars.
James Moriarty stood, undaunted, waiting patiently for his mother’s response (she always took her time, especially when he asked a favour of her), hands clasped behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels.
He wanted to live again, as he was when he stood at the pool watching the great Sherlock Holmes think his doctor had betrayed him. This version of Sherlock was too good to pass up⎯the thought of prolonging the detective’s pain as he slowly, painstakingly ripped away everything from Sherlock’s life was delicious. He grinned into the blackness, watching for his mother. Ordinarily, he would have been content to wait until she saw fit to give him life again, but this life was far too good to have been lost so quickly.
Besides, he knew she wanted to hurt the Morrighan and her sons as badly as he did. No one but Mother was allowed to hurt him in such a way.
Mother appeared, abruptly as always, in front of him, hair wild and moving as if there was a slight breeze. No air stirred here in this place of waiting, where he came each time he died.
“What do you require?” she asked, lips opening just enough to let the sound escape.
“I want to go back, now, to punish them.”
“Exactly as you are?”
He nodded.
She stared through him, smiled a feral smile full of sharp teeth. “I see,” she said.
“They hurt me, Mother. I wish to seek revenge in this life, in this body.”
“And you want to play with them, too, draw it out, make it more…delicious.”
A small smirk.
She reached out and touched her hand to his cheek. The burn of her hand was cold as the center of the deepest points of the ocean. He pressed it harder to his cheek, relishing the pain. She would do as he asked. She always did.
“I will assist you where I can. I want to watch them burn.”
“All of them?”
“All.”
They grinned at each other.
“Go,” she said, pushing him away. “Go, and enjoy.”
“Oh, I will,” he replied as the world warmed and spun into colour.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of London. He pulled out his mobile, typed a few words, sent them off. Within the hour, he would have precise intelligence on the Holmeses, the little mongrel Doctor, and their mother.
When his email chirped at him forty-five minutes later, he was halfway through his second martini. Lazily, he clicked on the attachments, and sat up straighter when he saw what the Morrighan had done to the Doctor. And then, his eyes grew wide as he saw the pictures of Mycroft (and what a thorn in his side that all-seeing git was) with Sherlock’s pet DI, kissing in Mycroft’s study.
He gave a little gleeful chuckle. Oh, this was too perfect. Now he had so much more to play with! The two Holmes brothers, brought low by love. They would be clumsy, stupid, slow, and far too eager to protect their little pets. He sat back and started planning. This would have to be done carefully. He did not want to incur the Morrighan’s wrath until he was ready to deal with her. Mother would help with, he was sure.
Finally, an hour later, he sent off a text to Mycroft, a taunt and a challenge all at once.
Then, he set off to find some ravens (not the Morrighan’s other children, no, that would be later), and planted them carefully in front of 221b (how plebian!) and Mycroft’s front door.
Now, to wait for the next move in the game. He crept back to his own home, crawled into bed, and dreamed of the screams of loss and the joy of ripping people apart piece by piece until there was nothing left of them but a snivelling mess of a human being.
***
The next morning, Sherlock opened the door to 221b and nearly stepped on the neatly decapitated raven artfully displayed on the stoop. There was a small puddle of jewel bright blood in the two-inch gap between the head and neck. He recoiled back with a gasp of horrified disgust, followed by a wave of relief that it was not one of Mother’s other children.
John nearly collided with him, having heard his gasp and come running down the last few steps. “What? What is it?”
Sherlock couldn’t answer him, still fighting back the inexplicable urge to vomit at the implications of this little message. John gently pulled him to one side so he could see, too. His jaw worked as he took in the sad tableau, and then he swallowed thickly. “It wasn’t one of⎯”
“No.”
“Right. There’s that, at least.” John crouched down and carefully, terribly gently picked up the corpse, laying it in the bin with care. He stood for a moment looking down at the bird before turning back to Sherlock, who already had his mobile out and was furiously texting.
“Mycroft had one, too,” Sherlock said, exchanging a worried glance with John.
“It’s got to be from Moriarty.”
“Yes.”
“And what does it mean?” John’s hand was flexing at his side as they strode down Baker Street, heading for the Tube.
“I don’t know,” Sherlock said shortly, but he pulled John in close to him, lacing their fingers together so tightly that both their knuckles turned white.
John said nothing, but clung on just as tightly.
part xiii
Author: Sarah/
nickelsandcoatsRating: PG13 for this part
Spoilers: Spoilers (eventually) for all of season 2!
Word Count: ~1,100 for this part
Pairings: Sherlock/John, 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, "SHERlocked" from the Sherlock Season 2 soundtrack by David G. 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 || part iv || part v || part vi || part vii || part viii || part ix || part x || part xi
Interlude--Moriarty
There is a name that has been whispered in the shadows for two centuries. No one dares speak it aloud, for fear of bringing his attention.
He was a man, just a man, an evil, twisted man who was born of Euryale, sister of the Medusa. He sprang from her fatherless and peerless and listened with fascination to his mother’s stories of blood and war and the endless screams of men.
He haunted the footsteps of Sherlock Holmes, the one son of the Morrighan he could touch. The elder son was untouchable, lofty and secure in his place in the government. No, Sherlock was easier. Sherlock would come and play his little games, that little dog of a doctor at his heels, earnest and far, far too in love with Sherlock to truly question why Sherlock and the man in the shadows were drawn together.
***
The first time he died, he fell over a waterfall. Sherlock was unscathed.
The second, from a gunshot wound given to him by Sherlock’s fucking doctor.
The third, it was from old age. Sherlock never found him in that life.
And then, after more deaths that were largely unremarkable, he died because he had caught Sherlock’s heart in his hand and wrapped it in Semtex.
Even the son of Euryale could not forsee how much it hurt to have the wrath of the Morrighan and her sons tear him to pieces.
***
“Mother, may I ask you a favour?”
There was nothing but black, deep and endless as the bottom of the ocean or the end of the stars.
James Moriarty stood, undaunted, waiting patiently for his mother’s response (she always took her time, especially when he asked a favour of her), hands clasped behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels.
He wanted to live again, as he was when he stood at the pool watching the great Sherlock Holmes think his doctor had betrayed him. This version of Sherlock was too good to pass up⎯the thought of prolonging the detective’s pain as he slowly, painstakingly ripped away everything from Sherlock’s life was delicious. He grinned into the blackness, watching for his mother. Ordinarily, he would have been content to wait until she saw fit to give him life again, but this life was far too good to have been lost so quickly.
Besides, he knew she wanted to hurt the Morrighan and her sons as badly as he did. No one but Mother was allowed to hurt him in such a way.
Mother appeared, abruptly as always, in front of him, hair wild and moving as if there was a slight breeze. No air stirred here in this place of waiting, where he came each time he died.
“What do you require?” she asked, lips opening just enough to let the sound escape.
“I want to go back, now, to punish them.”
“Exactly as you are?”
He nodded.
She stared through him, smiled a feral smile full of sharp teeth. “I see,” she said.
“They hurt me, Mother. I wish to seek revenge in this life, in this body.”
“And you want to play with them, too, draw it out, make it more…delicious.”
A small smirk.
She reached out and touched her hand to his cheek. The burn of her hand was cold as the center of the deepest points of the ocean. He pressed it harder to his cheek, relishing the pain. She would do as he asked. She always did.
“I will assist you where I can. I want to watch them burn.”
“All of them?”
“All.”
They grinned at each other.
“Go,” she said, pushing him away. “Go, and enjoy.”
“Oh, I will,” he replied as the world warmed and spun into colour.
He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of London. He pulled out his mobile, typed a few words, sent them off. Within the hour, he would have precise intelligence on the Holmeses, the little mongrel Doctor, and their mother.
When his email chirped at him forty-five minutes later, he was halfway through his second martini. Lazily, he clicked on the attachments, and sat up straighter when he saw what the Morrighan had done to the Doctor. And then, his eyes grew wide as he saw the pictures of Mycroft (and what a thorn in his side that all-seeing git was) with Sherlock’s pet DI, kissing in Mycroft’s study.
He gave a little gleeful chuckle. Oh, this was too perfect. Now he had so much more to play with! The two Holmes brothers, brought low by love. They would be clumsy, stupid, slow, and far too eager to protect their little pets. He sat back and started planning. This would have to be done carefully. He did not want to incur the Morrighan’s wrath until he was ready to deal with her. Mother would help with, he was sure.
Finally, an hour later, he sent off a text to Mycroft, a taunt and a challenge all at once.
Then, he set off to find some ravens (not the Morrighan’s other children, no, that would be later), and planted them carefully in front of 221b (how plebian!) and Mycroft’s front door.
Now, to wait for the next move in the game. He crept back to his own home, crawled into bed, and dreamed of the screams of loss and the joy of ripping people apart piece by piece until there was nothing left of them but a snivelling mess of a human being.
***
The next morning, Sherlock opened the door to 221b and nearly stepped on the neatly decapitated raven artfully displayed on the stoop. There was a small puddle of jewel bright blood in the two-inch gap between the head and neck. He recoiled back with a gasp of horrified disgust, followed by a wave of relief that it was not one of Mother’s other children.
John nearly collided with him, having heard his gasp and come running down the last few steps. “What? What is it?”
Sherlock couldn’t answer him, still fighting back the inexplicable urge to vomit at the implications of this little message. John gently pulled him to one side so he could see, too. His jaw worked as he took in the sad tableau, and then he swallowed thickly. “It wasn’t one of⎯”
“No.”
“Right. There’s that, at least.” John crouched down and carefully, terribly gently picked up the corpse, laying it in the bin with care. He stood for a moment looking down at the bird before turning back to Sherlock, who already had his mobile out and was furiously texting.
“Mycroft had one, too,” Sherlock said, exchanging a worried glance with John.
“It’s got to be from Moriarty.”
“Yes.”
“And what does it mean?” John’s hand was flexing at his side as they strode down Baker Street, heading for the Tube.
“I don’t know,” Sherlock said shortly, but he pulled John in close to him, lacing their fingers together so tightly that both their knuckles turned white.
John said nothing, but clung on just as tightly.
part xiii
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-05-11 07:36 am (UTC)...fuck. I need my tent, my sleeping bag, and some popcorn. I don't think I was properly camping this shit before.
no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 04:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-11 10:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 04:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-05-23 08:21 pm (UTC)And OH MY GOD, this is getting better and better. I love it so much. ♥
Jim, whoaa, he's so creepy and sending ominous messages as always. I can't wait to see what comes next. ♥
no subject
Date: 2012-05-29 04:29 am (UTC)