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nickelsandcoatsTitle: I'll Give You Everything You Need (You've Given Me Everything I Want) 23/? || at Ao3
Author: Sarah/![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nickelsandcoats
Rating: NC17
Spoilers: Spoilers (eventually) for all of season 2!
Word Count: ~2,300 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.
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 || part xii || part xiii || part xiv || part xv || part xvi || part xvii || part xviii || part xix || part xx || part xxi
|| part xxii
Some of the dialogue in this part came fromarianedevere's wonderful transcript of TRF.
Greg’s steps were heavy as he walked into the darkened study, pausing at the door when he heard Mycroft’s voice (it sounds deeper, hoarser than normal) and the soft squall of a bird. Greg stepped fully into the small circle of light that surrounded part of the sofa. Mycroft was there, as a raven, speaking to a small, unobtrusive bird Greg couldn’t identify. When the strange bird was done, Mycroft nodded and the bird flew out the open window.
“Leave it open, please,” Mycroft croaked, stopping Greg’s hand in midair.
Greg complied, then sat on the sofa, drawing one leg up to sit side on so he could look at his partner. “What was that about?”
“A report,” Mycroft said, ducking his head to preen his chest feathers.
“A report on what?”
“On what you just did.”
Greg’s jaw clenched. “Are you spying on me?”
“Do not act as if you did not suspect it. Ever since Moriarty has made his presence known, I have had the birds keeping watch over you.” Mycroft stared at him, daring him to retort. “I want answers.”
“You want me to defend myself? What I just did bought your brother and John more time. I nearly got myself dismissed from the Yard, and you want answers? Here are your fucking answers, then. Moriarty set up a kidnapping, and because your charming brother has managed to piss off nearly every person at the Yard, when the little girl was recovered, she screamed her head off at her first glance at Sherlock. Thanks to his less than stellar record of being sympathetic, and due to Sally Donovan’s prejudice against him, I got dragged onto the rug to defend my decisions to use him on cases. The Super disapproved of my doing so, even though he knew full well that we’d been consulting with Sherlock for years now. I suspect that Moriarty’s been leaning on the Super, too. I went to bring Sherlock in myself, hoping that I could get this brushed aside if he cooperated. He refused, and so I had no choice but to come back with a warrant. And to ensure it got carried out, the Super decided he had to come too. So I warned John, and went back, against my better judgment, and placed Sherlock under arrest. John took my hint about following him, and punched the Super in the nose, and God, do I wish I’d got to see that. They both were arrested, Sherlock was clever enough to escape, and I managed to convince the Super not to pursue them. I told him that Sherlock had far too many hiding places scattered all over the city, and setting up surveillance on the most likely places he’d go was a better strategy. I was ordered to provide this list, which I faked, of course, and was told to go home and await further instructions. So, here I am.”
“I fail to see how that falls under protecting him. He’s now gone so far underground that I cannot track him.”
Greg paled. “What do you mean?”
“After your little escapade, Sherlock and John were tracked to a back alley only a few city blocks away, and then, after one of their assassin neighbours was killed in an attempt to save them, they disappeared. So, now, Inspector, I have Moriarty, whom I cannot track, trace, or find, on the loose with Sherlock and John, whom I cannot locate, flying blind into a situation that could end up killing one or both of them.”
“Mycroft, I had⎯”
“No idea? Yes, I suspected as much. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my brother.”
“Wait.” Greg reached out a finger, and Mycroft, after hesitating for a painful moment, perched on the very tip of it, watching Greg warily. “Go to your club,” Greg said. “John knows that it’s a safehouse, and one or both of them might end up there soon.”
Mycroft tilted his head, considering Greg with one ice-blue eye before he took flight. Greg watched him leave, and then shut the window with a quiet click, leaning his forehead against the cold glass.
Hearing this utter shite about Moriarty being Richard Brook, an actor Sherlock supposedly hired to play Moriarty was making John’s head spin. This Kitty Reilly must have swallowed a load of shite in order to believe Moriarty was really some out-of-work actor, and then to see Moriarty walk into her flat as if he belonged there, to see him carry on this act, made John burn with a strange anger he’d not felt before. He could feel something tingling just under his skin, making his heart thrum and his fingers flex. Sherlock’s glance calmed him somewhat, but the feeling didn’t exactly subside. It wasn’t until Sherlock ran back down Kitty’s stairs (and John felt a slight twinge of guilt for pushing the woman out of his way) that John realised it must be some form of magic, perhaps the same that Mycroft and Mum had used to rip Moriarty to pieces at the pool. But before he could ask Sherlock what it all meant: the feeling still rushing in his blood, the story Kitty wrote in the folder he was holding, how the hell Moriarty had known all of this about Sherlock, Sherlock was already pulling away, shrinking into himself.
“Can I help?” John asked, reaching out to his partner.
“No,” Sherlock said, looking John straight in the eye. “I have to do it on my own,” he finished even as he changed and flew, faster than John had ever known him to, too fast for John to hope to follow, into the night.
John stood in the middle of the dark street for a moment, deep in thought, before he turned around and strode off. If he couldn’t get answers from Sherlock at the moment, he would settle for the next best person⎯Mycroft.
The guilt of leaving John behind and in the dark, both literally and figuratively, nearly made Sherlock turn back, but his resolve held on by a thread as he flew fast and hard, wings pumping as quickly as he could force them to. He flew to Bart’s, knowing that Molly would just be finishing her shift. He changed and slipped in through one of the barely used maintenance doors on the roof, moving quickly and silently down to the morgue.
Molly was just turning off the lights when he spoke. “You’re wrong, you know.” Molly gasped and jumped a little as Sherlock moved out of the shadows. “You do count. You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you.” He let one side of his mouth twitch in a sad smile. “But you were right. I’m not okay.”
Molly watched him, eyes steely. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Molly, I think I’m going to die.” And that was hard, hard to say to a woman he had hardly noticed until it was too late, a woman he needed now as much as he needed his mother, whom he had to speak with next.
“What do you need?”
Good. No quaver in her voice. She was strong, and if she could do this, all of them would be in her debt. But he had to tread carefully here, as he didn’t want to put her in further danger. He cleared his throat and asked, “If I wasn’t everything that you think I am – everything that I think I am – would you still want to help me?”
Molly’s chin came up as she repeated, “What do you need?”
“You.” He pulled out a stool and sat. She took off her bag and coat and sat down across the bench from him, nodding as he started to talk.
Forty-five minutes later, their plan in place, Sherlock left Molly to secure her supplies as he crept back up to the roof and changed. He perched on the edge of the roof for a moment and called softly for his mother, knowing that she would answer quickly if he let his distress come through in his cry. Her response rang in his ears, and he changed course to follow her call. When he arrived, he nearly gasped at how haggard she looked, how tired and drawn she was, and his heart was heavy at the thought that he was about to add a even greater burden on her shoulders. She was watching him, almost wary, as he approached her. He didn’t greet her with a kiss or a smile, as he normally did. Instead, he stood before his mother, squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and said, “Mother, I have to ask you to do something for me.”
“What is it you need?”
Sherlock swallowed hard. “I need you to hide my bond with John.”
The Morrighan said nothing. She did not need to. She had dropped the thin veil of her human disguise and stood before her son radiant in her rage, glorious in her fury and sorrow. Sherlock could not meet her eyes.
Finally, she calmed enough to hiss, “Never in all of your lives have I wanted to strike you down, if only to put some sense into your head! Why, why would you ever ask this of me?”
“I wish there was another way. I don’t have time to tell you everything now, Mother, but I can tell you, briefly, why I need you to do this.”
“Explain.”
“Mother⎯”
“Now.”
“Moriarty. He’s got a plan that requires me to die, or appear to die⎯I have a plan in place to keep me alive⎯but John and Lestrade are in danger. If it is not utterly convincing, if Moriarty and his men are not completely sure of my demise, they will kill John and Lestrade. Neither of them can know that I am alive, and our bond will let John know that. He must not know for his own safety. You and I both know what Moriarty is capable of, now. John must be kept safe. This has happened before, Mother, you know that. I must eliminate the rest of Moriarty’s network before we all can be safe.”
“Why can you not take John with you?”
“Because he must play the role of the grieving widower. He has to be kept in the dark so that he can convince those who might be watching him that I am truly dead. Taking him with me eliminates that option.”
“Do you have any idea what this will do to you? To John? Hiding your bond from him will be the same as if you were dead, Sherlock. And if I hide it from him, I must hide it from you as well.”
“I know,” Sherlock whispered, throat tight. “I wish there was another way.”
“I will do this, only because I can see a kernel of wisdom in what you have said. But be aware, Sherlock, of the grave consequences you will face upon your return. John may have forgiven you in your pasts, but he may not in this present.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said. The Morrighan watched him for a moment, sensing there was something else he wanted to say. “Mother, would you keep him safe? Would you watch over him and make sure he lives? Would you keep Mycroft and Greg safe?” He paused and then continued in a smaller voice, “And would you watch over me, too?”
“Sherlock,” his mother said, gentling a little from her wrath, “I have always watched over you, and I will always do so. I will do my best with your John.
“But, child, do not think for one moment that I approve of your plan, and know that your husband will not either. I do not wish for you to lose him because of your actions. I can only hope that you understand this and that you know the outcome better than I.”
Sherlock nodded, beyond words now. The end was coming ever nearer, and he had to return to Bart’s for the endgame. His mother stepped forward and kissed his brow, cupping his cheek in her hand.
“Go,” she said. “Go, and be brave and true. Tell him you love him.” Her voice broke. “Tell him you love him, because that is what will sustain him through your absence. If he is like me, he will hear you say it every night in his dreams, just as your father does for me.”
Sherlock looked at her for a long moment. “I may not be able to see you for a long time,” he whispered. “I don’t know how well Moriarty and his kind can track you, and I cannot risk you, too.”
“I will come to you when I can, child,” the Morrighan said, “But I will never be far. Do not ever think that you cannot call for me, if you need me. I will risk anything for you and your husband and your brother, just as you will for your John.”
He looked down at the ground, unable to meet her eyes. If he looked at her now, he would never leave, and that would be the end of everything. “Thank you, Mummy,” he finally whispered as he heard the crack that signalled her departure. He sighed and turned in a small circle, breathing in deeply before releasing his breath in a second sigh as he changed back.
The flight back to Bart’s was uneventful, and as he landed on the roof for the last time that night, he turned back over his shoulder in time to see his mother’s wing flicker out of existence. He pulled out his phone and sent a series of quick texts, with the final one summoning John to Bart’s. With those pieces of the plan in place, he sat down on the edge of the roof, letting his legs hang over the edge. He pulled John’s feather from his coat pocket and held it up at eye level, watching as the air buffeted the fine barbs near the end of the vane. He brought it in close, inhaling the smell of tannin, wool, and John that was imbued deeply in every molecule of that feather, before resting it in his lap as he watched the moon sink lower and lower.
Six hours to go.
part xxiv
Author: Sarah/
nickelsandcoatsRating: NC17
Spoilers: Spoilers (eventually) for all of season 2!
Word Count: ~2,300 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. 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 || part xii || part xiii || part xiv || part xv || part xvi || part xvii || part xviii || part xix || part xx || part xxi
|| part xxii
Some of the dialogue in this part came from
arianedevere's wonderful transcript of TRF.Greg’s steps were heavy as he walked into the darkened study, pausing at the door when he heard Mycroft’s voice (it sounds deeper, hoarser than normal) and the soft squall of a bird. Greg stepped fully into the small circle of light that surrounded part of the sofa. Mycroft was there, as a raven, speaking to a small, unobtrusive bird Greg couldn’t identify. When the strange bird was done, Mycroft nodded and the bird flew out the open window.
“Leave it open, please,” Mycroft croaked, stopping Greg’s hand in midair.
Greg complied, then sat on the sofa, drawing one leg up to sit side on so he could look at his partner. “What was that about?”
“A report,” Mycroft said, ducking his head to preen his chest feathers.
“A report on what?”
“On what you just did.”
Greg’s jaw clenched. “Are you spying on me?”
“Do not act as if you did not suspect it. Ever since Moriarty has made his presence known, I have had the birds keeping watch over you.” Mycroft stared at him, daring him to retort. “I want answers.”
“You want me to defend myself? What I just did bought your brother and John more time. I nearly got myself dismissed from the Yard, and you want answers? Here are your fucking answers, then. Moriarty set up a kidnapping, and because your charming brother has managed to piss off nearly every person at the Yard, when the little girl was recovered, she screamed her head off at her first glance at Sherlock. Thanks to his less than stellar record of being sympathetic, and due to Sally Donovan’s prejudice against him, I got dragged onto the rug to defend my decisions to use him on cases. The Super disapproved of my doing so, even though he knew full well that we’d been consulting with Sherlock for years now. I suspect that Moriarty’s been leaning on the Super, too. I went to bring Sherlock in myself, hoping that I could get this brushed aside if he cooperated. He refused, and so I had no choice but to come back with a warrant. And to ensure it got carried out, the Super decided he had to come too. So I warned John, and went back, against my better judgment, and placed Sherlock under arrest. John took my hint about following him, and punched the Super in the nose, and God, do I wish I’d got to see that. They both were arrested, Sherlock was clever enough to escape, and I managed to convince the Super not to pursue them. I told him that Sherlock had far too many hiding places scattered all over the city, and setting up surveillance on the most likely places he’d go was a better strategy. I was ordered to provide this list, which I faked, of course, and was told to go home and await further instructions. So, here I am.”
“I fail to see how that falls under protecting him. He’s now gone so far underground that I cannot track him.”
Greg paled. “What do you mean?”
“After your little escapade, Sherlock and John were tracked to a back alley only a few city blocks away, and then, after one of their assassin neighbours was killed in an attempt to save them, they disappeared. So, now, Inspector, I have Moriarty, whom I cannot track, trace, or find, on the loose with Sherlock and John, whom I cannot locate, flying blind into a situation that could end up killing one or both of them.”
“Mycroft, I had⎯”
“No idea? Yes, I suspected as much. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my brother.”
“Wait.” Greg reached out a finger, and Mycroft, after hesitating for a painful moment, perched on the very tip of it, watching Greg warily. “Go to your club,” Greg said. “John knows that it’s a safehouse, and one or both of them might end up there soon.”
Mycroft tilted his head, considering Greg with one ice-blue eye before he took flight. Greg watched him leave, and then shut the window with a quiet click, leaning his forehead against the cold glass.
Hearing this utter shite about Moriarty being Richard Brook, an actor Sherlock supposedly hired to play Moriarty was making John’s head spin. This Kitty Reilly must have swallowed a load of shite in order to believe Moriarty was really some out-of-work actor, and then to see Moriarty walk into her flat as if he belonged there, to see him carry on this act, made John burn with a strange anger he’d not felt before. He could feel something tingling just under his skin, making his heart thrum and his fingers flex. Sherlock’s glance calmed him somewhat, but the feeling didn’t exactly subside. It wasn’t until Sherlock ran back down Kitty’s stairs (and John felt a slight twinge of guilt for pushing the woman out of his way) that John realised it must be some form of magic, perhaps the same that Mycroft and Mum had used to rip Moriarty to pieces at the pool. But before he could ask Sherlock what it all meant: the feeling still rushing in his blood, the story Kitty wrote in the folder he was holding, how the hell Moriarty had known all of this about Sherlock, Sherlock was already pulling away, shrinking into himself.
“Can I help?” John asked, reaching out to his partner.
“No,” Sherlock said, looking John straight in the eye. “I have to do it on my own,” he finished even as he changed and flew, faster than John had ever known him to, too fast for John to hope to follow, into the night.
John stood in the middle of the dark street for a moment, deep in thought, before he turned around and strode off. If he couldn’t get answers from Sherlock at the moment, he would settle for the next best person⎯Mycroft.
The guilt of leaving John behind and in the dark, both literally and figuratively, nearly made Sherlock turn back, but his resolve held on by a thread as he flew fast and hard, wings pumping as quickly as he could force them to. He flew to Bart’s, knowing that Molly would just be finishing her shift. He changed and slipped in through one of the barely used maintenance doors on the roof, moving quickly and silently down to the morgue.
Molly was just turning off the lights when he spoke. “You’re wrong, you know.” Molly gasped and jumped a little as Sherlock moved out of the shadows. “You do count. You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you.” He let one side of his mouth twitch in a sad smile. “But you were right. I’m not okay.”
Molly watched him, eyes steely. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Molly, I think I’m going to die.” And that was hard, hard to say to a woman he had hardly noticed until it was too late, a woman he needed now as much as he needed his mother, whom he had to speak with next.
“What do you need?”
Good. No quaver in her voice. She was strong, and if she could do this, all of them would be in her debt. But he had to tread carefully here, as he didn’t want to put her in further danger. He cleared his throat and asked, “If I wasn’t everything that you think I am – everything that I think I am – would you still want to help me?”
Molly’s chin came up as she repeated, “What do you need?”
“You.” He pulled out a stool and sat. She took off her bag and coat and sat down across the bench from him, nodding as he started to talk.
Forty-five minutes later, their plan in place, Sherlock left Molly to secure her supplies as he crept back up to the roof and changed. He perched on the edge of the roof for a moment and called softly for his mother, knowing that she would answer quickly if he let his distress come through in his cry. Her response rang in his ears, and he changed course to follow her call. When he arrived, he nearly gasped at how haggard she looked, how tired and drawn she was, and his heart was heavy at the thought that he was about to add a even greater burden on her shoulders. She was watching him, almost wary, as he approached her. He didn’t greet her with a kiss or a smile, as he normally did. Instead, he stood before his mother, squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and said, “Mother, I have to ask you to do something for me.”
“What is it you need?”
Sherlock swallowed hard. “I need you to hide my bond with John.”
The Morrighan said nothing. She did not need to. She had dropped the thin veil of her human disguise and stood before her son radiant in her rage, glorious in her fury and sorrow. Sherlock could not meet her eyes.
Finally, she calmed enough to hiss, “Never in all of your lives have I wanted to strike you down, if only to put some sense into your head! Why, why would you ever ask this of me?”
“I wish there was another way. I don’t have time to tell you everything now, Mother, but I can tell you, briefly, why I need you to do this.”
“Explain.”
“Mother⎯”
“Now.”
“Moriarty. He’s got a plan that requires me to die, or appear to die⎯I have a plan in place to keep me alive⎯but John and Lestrade are in danger. If it is not utterly convincing, if Moriarty and his men are not completely sure of my demise, they will kill John and Lestrade. Neither of them can know that I am alive, and our bond will let John know that. He must not know for his own safety. You and I both know what Moriarty is capable of, now. John must be kept safe. This has happened before, Mother, you know that. I must eliminate the rest of Moriarty’s network before we all can be safe.”
“Why can you not take John with you?”
“Because he must play the role of the grieving widower. He has to be kept in the dark so that he can convince those who might be watching him that I am truly dead. Taking him with me eliminates that option.”
“Do you have any idea what this will do to you? To John? Hiding your bond from him will be the same as if you were dead, Sherlock. And if I hide it from him, I must hide it from you as well.”
“I know,” Sherlock whispered, throat tight. “I wish there was another way.”
“I will do this, only because I can see a kernel of wisdom in what you have said. But be aware, Sherlock, of the grave consequences you will face upon your return. John may have forgiven you in your pasts, but he may not in this present.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock said. The Morrighan watched him for a moment, sensing there was something else he wanted to say. “Mother, would you keep him safe? Would you watch over him and make sure he lives? Would you keep Mycroft and Greg safe?” He paused and then continued in a smaller voice, “And would you watch over me, too?”
“Sherlock,” his mother said, gentling a little from her wrath, “I have always watched over you, and I will always do so. I will do my best with your John.
“But, child, do not think for one moment that I approve of your plan, and know that your husband will not either. I do not wish for you to lose him because of your actions. I can only hope that you understand this and that you know the outcome better than I.”
Sherlock nodded, beyond words now. The end was coming ever nearer, and he had to return to Bart’s for the endgame. His mother stepped forward and kissed his brow, cupping his cheek in her hand.
“Go,” she said. “Go, and be brave and true. Tell him you love him.” Her voice broke. “Tell him you love him, because that is what will sustain him through your absence. If he is like me, he will hear you say it every night in his dreams, just as your father does for me.”
Sherlock looked at her for a long moment. “I may not be able to see you for a long time,” he whispered. “I don’t know how well Moriarty and his kind can track you, and I cannot risk you, too.”
“I will come to you when I can, child,” the Morrighan said, “But I will never be far. Do not ever think that you cannot call for me, if you need me. I will risk anything for you and your husband and your brother, just as you will for your John.”
He looked down at the ground, unable to meet her eyes. If he looked at her now, he would never leave, and that would be the end of everything. “Thank you, Mummy,” he finally whispered as he heard the crack that signalled her departure. He sighed and turned in a small circle, breathing in deeply before releasing his breath in a second sigh as he changed back.
The flight back to Bart’s was uneventful, and as he landed on the roof for the last time that night, he turned back over his shoulder in time to see his mother’s wing flicker out of existence. He pulled out his phone and sent a series of quick texts, with the final one summoning John to Bart’s. With those pieces of the plan in place, he sat down on the edge of the roof, letting his legs hang over the edge. He pulled John’s feather from his coat pocket and held it up at eye level, watching as the air buffeted the fine barbs near the end of the vane. He brought it in close, inhaling the smell of tannin, wool, and John that was imbued deeply in every molecule of that feather, before resting it in his lap as he watched the moon sink lower and lower.
Six hours to go.
part xxiv
