This is the story of the first time Mycroft finds his brother high, he doesn't know what to do and calls his boyfriend for help. Mix the sunlight with the frost, then, and forget there was ever anything to see. No. I said you look pretty, all strung out on coke. Always running.
Doesn't need to, though, does he? Check the end of each chapter for a hashtag, mostly meant as humour to help balance out the angst.
Fine. His case. A bright ray of gold-spun warmth to go along with the winter sunlight in his brain.
And even if he were the majority of contraband's pretty well all safely ensconced in his veins now. Say it, form the name in his throat, show Mycroft the shark's circling shadow and all this will stop.
“Why is the sofa upside down?”. A little, actually. More than 100 of those servers are available to any Stanford PI to run their computational codes and programs, with resources managed through a fair-share algorithm using the SLURM scheduler. Sarcasm instead. Damn it. It's the wildfire with the head full of sunlit blizzard who'll destroy the whole of creation if it pesters him long enough. With the cocaine he still knows his limits, can still tell when the boundaries of his flesh begin to buckle by the ringing in his ears and the tightness of his jaw. Bloody pointless, running tests. tip: lex m/m (mature OR explicit). But all he can see is the kitchen, idiots riffling through it, the path unblocked by red fabric. He's not that stupid. He already knows full well... but, then. I'd say you may even feel lost at times, but that's what it's meant to be. Remember unwise. You won’t remember, but I carried you home. Straightened door knocker. Sherlock… Do you need access to computational resources above and beyond what your laptop/desktop can handle to support your sponsored or departmental research? Life or death dependant on the sharpness of his mind and the quickness of his reflexes. Hypocrite. Forgotten or dismissed the danger; morphine's gentle sunlight makes it so easy not to care. No, let them waste their time. Hadn't been paying attention. John had come to collect the daft idiot beside him, not Sherlock (- of course not Sherlock, why would he, who would want to collect him of all-) and the younger man weaves a stumbling exit ahead of them whilst Sherlock stays behind with his gold-warmth-fury-lightning-rage melting vast ragged holes in the ice he'd been enjoying. Three years later, Sherlock returns from the dead. Sherlock gets dragged up by his arm - ow, bloody hell, stop, not the left one for god's - and then there's shouting, a lecture he only identifies by the tone of voice because he's long since learnt to tune the words out. Well then. No. Who knows every weakness of the human body because he's had no choice but to learn them all or die. Beautiful. Vaguely painful. Sherlock is chaos and tragedy and all the wrongs which fester dark beneath the surface of a turbulent river. “John! Good christ... so easily fatal. Sherlock grits his teeth - doesn't want to deal with this. And you were still mine. The person whom John wanted to be soulmates with, had abandoned him for some ratty looking guy. Anderson? Defuses trite lectures. You’re back,” he exclaimed loudly, balancing as he walked, bare foot, across the underside of the overturned sofa. Will Molly help him, or is she fed up enough to turn him away this time? Mycroft's nattering on and he ignores it for a while - nothing, nothing, no, nothing to find. Mycroft, straightening a … Not a soldier. It lands with a satisfying crash, echoing the frustrated growl of his own words like a bolstered shield against John's tempered electricity behind him. We!? He'd gotten rid of it, John's spot, the chair, because it turned out the constant reminder of solitude wasn't something morphine could erase. Engagement's off, then. How many words does he know, now, in how many tongues? Oh god's sake, he doesn't... why? A case!
Perhaps not a good choice. Is he hallucinating, now? Curls up sideways in the lone half of an armchair duo and tries in vain to retrieve some of the comforting warmth he'd found so fleetingly back in the den surrounded by all the starving lost souls. It does, really. And John's soulmate turned out to be a psychopath. Remember who ran hunted through the frigid tundra, brother mine. Comforting. Doesn't really register. Sherlock Holmes has a darker storm that comes from the inside. John's upsetting the entire scene. Who spat blood with wrists rubbed raw by chains while the other sat idly by and watched.
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