the_government

HAVE SOME HEADCANONS

Tue, 01 May 2012 01:30:24 GMT

John Watson doesn't wear his dog tags, after all, he's no longer in the army. Though, with Sherlock, they might prove necessary.

He does, however, wear one token of his army days.

The bullet that nearly took his life, the one he dug out of his own shoulder himself with a pair of forceps, staring into a bit of reflective windscreen from their bombed-out convoy, he wears it, knotted into a leather band that he tucks underneath the buttoned cuffs of his civilian shirts.

He hasn't taken it off since he had the bracelet made.

Every morning when he wakes up, he greets it with a fond "Fuck you"

after his shower most mornings, he crosses his right arm over his left shoulder, lining up the bullet on his wrist with the hole it left in his shoulder. His girlfriends never really understood his scar. Some skirted it in their lovemaking, with wide eyes and bitten lips. Some fetishized it, calling him their hero and kissing it. John gently eased them away from it, and they assumed that he was sensitive to it, started calling him beautiful.

As soon as they had left, John rolled his eyes. Beautiful? For fucks sake.
The scar was ugly
he didn't give a fuck.

In fact, he rather liked it. Not enough to fetishize it, not enough to want women to put their lips and tongues over every inch of it. No, there were other areas of his body that were far more sensitive to that sort of touch.

But he wasn't shy about it, wasn't ashamed of being misshapen or ugly. He still worked fine. He wasn't useless. He had gone through life as being a pleasant looking, pleasant sounding, short British bloke, and if he didn't show anyone his scar, it was because normal polite blokes didn't go around tearing their shirts off. And for god's sake, he had enough to be insecure about, if he was going to go that road, without the bullet wound to help him. The height, for one thing.

And he certainly wasn't ashamed of how he came to be wounded. Nor was he ridiculously proud of it. It was just a fact of his life-- he was ambushed, he did what he could to save his men, he took a bullet, he handled the numbness, the wet feeling of his own blood dribbling down his arm as he tried to help his company. He didn't save any more lives than he could have, no miracles happened. Miracles rarely do. The ones that could live, he made sure that they would. The ones that couldn't....he made their transition as painless as possible.

John Watson wasn't emotionless, but he didn't romanticize war. and he didn't romanticize his scar.

Which was when, after a particularly trying night sitting upright, wedged between a concrete block wall and a cold stone pillar, his right arm extended, drawing a bead on a house across the street as his mad flatmate was god knows where doing something decidedly illegal, he never voiced a complaint about the ache he felt, the twinges of pain shooting across his shoulderblades and down his spine, the aching in the back of his skull. He simply rolled his shoulders once, craned his neck from side to side, and shrugged off his coat.

"John, sit down on the couch"
He didn't ask. He figured Sherlock would make it clear eventually. He sat, kicking off his shoes, relaxing, then felt the couch dip as Sherlock sat down next to him.
"Face away from me"
John shrugged, turning, crossing his legs until he was facing out the windows of their flat. He felt Sherlock's hands rest on his shoulders.

"You were standing guard for a long time. You're stiff"
"it's nothing"
"you'll wake up in pain tomorrow."
"No I won't," he said, easily, leaning ever so slightly backwards. "Go on, then"
"tell me if it's too much pressure"
he nodded, and felt Sherlock's long fingers against his scalp, pushing his head forward and down, gently but firmly until his chin touched his chest. He let out a long sigh.

Sherlock's hands continued down his neck with a firm pressure, not rubbing, just pressing down the lengths of his muscle, the movement warming the constricted flesh, sending blood to aching tendons. He knew Sherlock's knowledge of anatomy was perhaps even greater than his own, trusted him to do this, and yet, when Sherlock's hands found his shoulders---one smooth and rounded, the other, uneven, puckered, and rough, he couldn't help but wonder, how Sherlock would treat his scar. Would he tiptoe around it, treat it more fragile, worry it would hurt John to have it handled? Would he spend all his time on it, reducing John to a single area of stricken and marred flesh?

John held his breath.

Sherlock pressed with both hands, the exact same pressure on each side, running a strong line over his shoulder blades and down to the small of his back. He cupped his hands over John's shoulders, pulling them gently back, then forward, squeezing the muscles. He rubbed matching patterns with the heels of his hands over the broad muscles of John's upper back, knuckles grinding out the knotted musculature. The scar tissue under his left hand was treated the exact same as the smooth skin under his right---with a firm, knowing touch that provided blissful relaxation in place of pain.

John could have wept. He wasn't being handled like a porcelain doll or being revered as a curiosity. He was being cared for, just as himself. as John.

He felt loved.

The pain was gone, and soon Sherlock's hand stopped moving, though John's skin still felt warm and boneless from their ministrations. He caught one pale hand as it moved from his back, slipping his strong fingers in between the long, thin ones of his masseuse.

"Thank you Sherlock"

He felt Sherlock shrug

"Nothing of interest happened tonight. We will return tomorrow night and my safety could depend on your marksmanship. If you're in pain, I could be....." he trailed off, as John raised their hands together, pressing Sherlock's palm flat against his shoulder

"Not for that...well, yes, for that, but mostly for"
Sherlock huffed out air, indignantly

"Obvious, John. You don't favor that shoulder, You use your left hand as your dominant, with no apparent discomfort. There's nothing physically wrong with your shoulder. The scar tissue does make it a bit more difficult to feel knots in your muscle, but that's all."

John smiled, shaking his head. He marveled at how such a little action caused him no pain now.

"I'm going to bed, then." He released Sherlock's hand, rising from the couch, turning so his friend could see the smile on his face. He rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "You should do the same"
"I have to check on one or two experiments, and plan a course of action for tomorrow."
"Sherlock."
"And then I will go to bed, yes."
"Good." He patted Sherlock's shoulder once "Because I won't have you making rash decisions on too-little sleep if I'm going to be the one saddled with saving your arse"
"You do an admirable job of it, John."
"Sleep well, Sherlock"

He was on the fourth step when he heard it, almost inaudible.
"You're welcome, my dear John."

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Sun, 29 Apr 2012 21:33:46 GMT

"John."

"Not now, Mycroft. In fact, not ever."

Mycroft flicked an imaginary speck of lint off his trousers. He was used to vague unpleasantries. He got them all the time. In fact, John's were nicer than most. Usually people threatened him with gross bodily harm.

"John, you know you can't get rid of me that easily."

He smirked as John threw up his hands in perturbed surrender, his small form retreating into the kitchen to no doubt turn the kettle on. He heard running water, and then a soft click. So he was going to be polite. Excellent

"You know Sherlock's away, you know exactly the second he'll return, and you have my mobile number. So what brings you here, Mycroft?" He could detect a razor edge of anger beneath the etiquette of the words.

"My brother," he began, pausing to accommodate the squeak of the armchair as the doctor sat opposite him "Has never been one for rash decisions. In fact, he's taken rather a longer time about this one than I find prurient"

"So you're here because...he's not taking your case? Well it's not like that's ever happened before. Shall I hide his cigarettes again?"

Mycroft chuckled "I'm afraid this is a bit more of a personal matter. You see, Sherlock often doesn't know what's best for himself, and as--"

"Nope. No no no." John stood, without even pouring the tea. Mycroft watched him stalk to the door, opening it with a bang.

"If you're that much of an idiot, Mycroft, as to think I would ever get involved in a personal issue of Sherlock's especially one that involves you trying to make decisions for him, you can go straight to hell. I don't care if you withdraw our secret service detail or sic Moriarty's dogs onto us. I'll handle them myself. I might even handle you if you don't get the hell out of my flat, right this instant."

His rage was so beautiful. Mycroft grinned at him, smoothly rising to his feet. He walked toward the open door, pausing in front of John. His gaze narrowed into John's angry glare.

"You know in the Diogenes, when you guessed how I bullied Sherlock all those years ago, you weren't far off."

"Come again?"

One step forward. John stood his ground. What a brave little soldier. Now chin up. Incoming fire.

He leaned in, his tall form imposing. A lesser man would have cowered. flinched just slightly. John was steady.

"I'm going to do it again, you know. It's not what he wants, but it'll get him there."

"Mycroft. What are you doing"

"I'm nicking his smurf"

"Sorry?"

"I'm breaking his action man"

Mycroft's lips brushed the hollow underneath John's ear, at the exact second Sherlock Holmes reached the top step. Mycroft congratulated himself on his perfect timing, especially since three tenths of a second later, his face was pressed against tacky bamboo wallpaper and his arm was twisted uncomfortably behind his back

"Welcome home, my dear brother" He choked out through his wince.

"John, let him go."

"After I kill him, he can go anywhere you'd like him to go"

"John"

"I'm serious, Sherlock. I don't care if he is the bloody government. Where does he get off thinking"

"John. please."

They shared a look, full of seriousness and deep emotion. Mycroft felt the pressure on his arm lessen, and finally receed entirely.

"If you come here again I will shoot you in the head before you've crossed the threshold, do you understand"

"Perfectly. I shant need to trouble you again, shall I Sherlock?"

The look he received from his brother was murderous.

"No, Mycroft. I don't believe you shall."

"An excellent decision. My regards to Mrs. Hudson."

He took the seventeen steps quickly, and was into the waiting car outside, before John broke the pause in the room he'd just left. His bluetooth crackled to life in his ear, transmitting from the little bug he'd placed under John's collar.

"I've missed something, haven't I? That was...that was some sort of...what, brotherly competition? I'M NOT STRETCH ARMSTRONG."

A pause.

"It's a toy Harry and I used to fight ov---listen. Whatever you saw, was all your brother's crazy....craziness. I don't know. Welcome back. Kettle's on. At least the tea makes sense, even when nothing else does. Sherlock?"

"It must have really meant a lot to him"

"You're doing that thing again, where you assume I have even the foggiest idea of what you're talking about"

"You don't know."

"Of course I don't know! How can I, when your mind-"

"This is rather something I'd thought you'd notice by now, John. It's more your area."

"My area"

"mmm, precisely."

"Tea?"

soft laughter, closer now. "Don't guess. You know my methods, John. Apply them"

"To... you. You want me to deduce you"

"Very good, John. Yes. Please"

"You didn't let me kill your brother. So he's not the real issue."

"Top form, John. continue."

"You're standing...really rather close to me. I--"

"excellent, and?"

"You're ...angry. No...jealous. Of...That's how---Oh. oh."

"In words, John."

"You're not angry at Mycroft because he kissed me, well you are but not JUST. You're jealous. He said about...how he would bully you into doing what he wanted, about a decision you had to make. It was me. He kissed me because he wanted you to feel threatened into action. Because...because you want me."

"Brilliant, John. Positively fantastic."

"You really think so"

"I always have"

"He really is an idiot then. How long has it been for us, two months?"

Mycroft knew he really should learn to take out his own frustration better. This was the second umbrella he'd snapped in two weeks, and they weren't getting any less expensive.

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Thu, 12 Apr 2012 22:38:14 GMT

"Good Morning Sir, and what can I get for you today?"

"One large coffee, black. Thank you"

"And can I have a name to put with your order, sir?"

Mycroft stared over the counter, his eyes narrowing at the bubbly young barista.

"No."

She didn't seem fazed, typing something into her computer, and told him the total.

"That should be right up for you!" She smiled at him, eyes twinkling. He was perplexed. He had been brisk and a little bit rude to her. Most people didn't interact with Mycroft Holmes in such a ...chipper way.

He waited at the end of the counter as was expected, and watched appraisingly as the younger male barista poured his cup. The youth looked at the ticket, puzzled, and turned to the brunette woman at the till
"who's this for?"
"Oh! You...I'll take care of it, Jeremy"
"His name can't actually be..."

She had moved to the end of the counter, her dark brown eyes locking with Mycroft's, and she smiled brilliantly at him.

"Your coffee's ready, Control."

Mycroft nearly dropped his umbrella.

"I...thank you..." his voice trailed off, speechless

"Name's Anthea. Have a good day, sir. Try to avoid any international incidents with South America, yeah? Bad for business."

"I'll...do that."

After he'd finished the cup, he realized she had been wearing a nametag the whole time
One that most certainly had not said "Anthea."

He obviously needed more coffee.

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Thu, 12 Apr 2012 02:15:19 GMT

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Mon, 09 Apr 2012 21:54:23 GMT

Punchmeitssubtext's last ficlet got me thinking if The Motherfucking Kween doesn't know Sherlock is alive, what if
what if
what if Mycroft doesn't know

"it would take Sherlock Holmes himself to fool me"
-------------------------

Doctor Watson,

The late Sherlock Holmes identified as a 'high-functioning sociopath." I don't know what moniker he bestowed upon me, except for perhaps "meddlesome git." I'd hoped one day he'd realize I was doing what I could to be a brother to him. He was always angry to have his intelligence surpassed. I would have changed that if i could. I know it meant more to him. But isn't that the curse of all younger siblings? To try to match the elder? To show that they're not second best in anything but age?

If my younger brother had only known how much I envied him. Not for anything he'd done, but for who he was. There's a curse to being the smarter one, not that he'd ever believe it. I envied him the ability to be his irascible, irritating self, to have the freedom to whisk about in that ridiculous coat of his, to be so alive. Yes, there were times when he sunk to the very depths of human existence, but even his highs and lows seemed preferable to my immutable plateau.

The Virgin and the Ice-man, they called us. Better to be untouched (as a temporary condition) than to be forever untouchable.

I must say that at first, I thought he had something up his sleeve, one last remarkable feat of humanity and intelligence from my younger sibling. I confirmed the identity of the body in the mortuary, I knew if he had faked his own death it was important that I not let my supposition of his farce be known. I anticipated him to contact me within several days. I would have helped him hide, assisted his emigration, provided spies all over the world to track down Moriarty's men.

I have heard nothing from him.

And so, after three months, it is inevitable for me to accept that Sherlock Holmes is in fact, dead. I have put money into his accounts, had my people in his most-traveled countries (France, the Czech Republic, India) on the lookout for him, diverted as many resources as possible in the search for him. The money remains untouched, report after report comes back in the negative. The possibility that he had survived and yet, that I have not found him becomes less and less likely as time progresses.

At some point in a eulogy, a person might share a heartwarming anecdote of the deceased's youth, and how they'll remain forever young in their memories. I regret to say I have no such memories of my brother. We did not play together, at least not in sense that people usually understand. I was seven years his senior, by the time he gained enough intelligence to be thought of as pleasant company, he had decided that I was his arch-enemy, his competition. And I'm ashamed to say I did put him in his place without much care to his feelings. He claimed he doesn't have them, but both you and I know that's not quite true.

In closing, Doctor Watson, I hope this internet correspondence does not further grieve you. Although I know you, like my late brother, are loathe to accept my input and resources (indeed, that you often viewed them as an annoyance) It is nevertheless my duty to offer them to you freely. Whatever you may need, you have only to ask. Consider it a repayment for doing what I couldn't, for being someone Sherlock Holmes considered a loyal and valuable friend. In his partnership with you, I do believe he finally surpassed me as the better brother.

-Mycroft Holmes

Postscript - You shouldn't feel any obligation to reply, after all, without my brother to connect us we are quite strangers. Still, if you should ever want some quiet company, the doors of the Diogenes club are open to you. I am there quite often, having more free time than usual these days. -MH

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