(It’s okay - I’ll write it right now. Sorry I haven’t done any of your others - my stupid writer’s block is being stupidly stupid stupidness. /ahem/ I hope you like this!)

…

Sherlock lay across the sofa, glaring at the many waiters and waitresses that swarmed around the Holmes Mansion living room. His Mother’s birthday had been last week, but since Father was away that day, Mycroft insisted on having another party today while they were all home. Sherlock rolled onto his side, resisting the urge to trip over the butler. A huge table was laid out in the centre of the room, filled with cakes and drinks and sandwiches and every other little nibbly food. Sherlock really didn’t see the point - Mummy was too ill to eat, Father would refuse to consume anything but wine, Mycroft would just purge the food out after the party, and the other guests would only stuff the food into their handbags and pockets to scoff later. 

Sherlock lay there for another ten minutes. The staff left the room silently, bursting into gossip as soon as they were out of Sherlock’s earshot. Sherlock sat up. The food was all there - it would all go to waste. He glanced at the clock. One hour and three minutes until the party officially started; one hour and twenty-seven minutes until guests started arriving. Sherlock smiled. He stood up and made his way over to the table.

Sherlock wasn’t that hungry. It was a Sunday, and he’d eaten on Wednesday, so when he grabbed his first bit of cake, he was surprised when his stomach rumbled. He frowned at his abdomen. Shut up! 

He glanced around before taking a huge bite of the cake. It was moist, and his teeth sank into it and left his gums tingling with the sickly sweetness. The icing was a bit dry, having been left in the fridge for a few hours, but the sponge was perfect. Sherlock swallowed and instantly consumed the rest of the piece. And another. And a piece of pie. And another bit of the cake. And… he felt sick, but he kept eating, taking bits of that and that and this and that and - wow. Sherlock’s brain was buzzing, his mouth fizzing with the sweetness of the desserts. 

He scrambled away from the table and leapt onto the sofa, holding a Bakewell tart in his hand. He jumped up and down on the cushions for a moment before leaping off again and running into the garden, grinning his little face off.

Father and Mycroft were deep in a discussion about politics when they saw Sherlock sprint through the huge garden, yelling at the top of his lungs about bees. The youngest Holmes smacked into the shed, toppling over onto his back and letting go of the tart. Mycroft ran over, his skinny frame trembling with laughter.

“What are you doing?” Mycroft frowned. His mouth betrayed him with a smile.

Sherlock didn’t - couldn’t - answer. He bent double, laughing his head off about something or other. He had actual tears in his eyes; his brain was overdrive with colours and scents and deductions. Mycroft sighed and picked him up, flinging his brother over his shoulder. They walked into the Mansion, still laughing. 

“Mycroft.” Sherlock smiled.

“Yes?”

“Want some cake?”

Mycroft smiled sadly. “No thank you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, the smile slipping slowly off his face.

(Hahaha! I love animal!chara fics – they’re always fun to write :D thank you so so much – I hope you like it!)

…

Mycroft felt humiliated. This was very possibly the most ridiculous situation he’d ever found himself in – and he’d worn crocs. He sighed. Of course it had to be today that he visited his brother. Of course Sherlock and John would come home and find him hiding under his own suit. And of course they would pick him up and take pictures and exclaim what a cute little rabbit he was. His only comfort was that Anthea wasn’t here – she’d have a fit of laughter. Mycroft glanced down. Being a rabbit… sucked.

“Who’s a good little bunny?” Sherlock cooed cruelly, a huge, snide grin on his face as he pushed a leaf of lettuce into Mycroft’s mouth.

“This is ridiculous.” Mycroft squeaked, stomping one of his front paws onto Sherlock’s lap. “I occupy a minor position in the British Gov-”

“Now now, eat up your vegetables!” John chuckled from behind Sherlock’s chair, his face lit up with glee. “You want to grow up big and strong!”

“He’s already big.” Sherlock grinned.

John burst out laughing, clutching the chair for support. Mycroft gave him the most dangerous look a rabbit could wear.

“Pass me my phone.” Mycroft ordered.

“Where is it?” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled.

“Jacket.” Mycroft glared at him.

John picked up Mycroft’s jacket from the floor, still chuckling, and plucked the phone from the pocket. “Who are you calling?”

Mycroft considered for a moment. “Call Harry. He can pick me up in the car. Tell him to hurry.”

Sherlock grinned. “No. Give me the phone.”

John obeyed the detective. “Who are you calling?”

“Lestrade.” Sherlock winked, entering a number.

Mycroft squeaked. He reared up on his hind legs, swatting at Sherlock’s hand with tiny, sharp claws. “Give me my phone!”

“You’re a rabbit!” Sherlock snapped. “How would you even hold it?”

Mycroft growled, his eyes glowing with hatred and his fur standing up. “If you utter one word to Gregory, I shall scratch your eyes out!”

John laughed out loud again. “You know, Mycroft, your threats just sound cute when you’re nine inches tall.”

Sherlock held up his hand for silence. The phone clicked. “Lestrade?”

“Hey, Sherlock. What’s up?”

“I think you should come over to Baker Street.” Sherlock grinned.

“Why?”

“Mycroft is here.”

“Oh. Okay. Be there in ten.”

“See you.” Sherlock ended the call, his smile widening.

Mycroft bristled with anger. “You rotten child!”

Sherlock chuckled. “Just for that… John, get the top hat from the wardrobe. We finally have a rabbit…”

(Oh stawp it you ;) Thank you so much! This one took forever to write because Mycroft refused to do what I told him. Anyway, I hope you like it!!)

…

Mycroft Holmes knew exactly what he was doing when he got involved with Greg Lestrade. He was just like that – he never did anything without weighing up the risks. If it involved leg-work, forget it. If it was something that involves CCTV, sitting on his bum and possibly eating cake, Mycroft would do it, no questions asked. However, dabbling in Chinese politics is a lot different to facing what’s in your heart.

And Greg Lestrade upset the whole balance of Mycroft’s otherwise tedious little world.

Greg arrived home one night to find Mycroft sat elegantly on the sofa, his jacket removed and the top button of his shirt undone. It was strange to see Mycroft so casual! Greg threw his own coat onto the chair and sat next to his boyfriend, squinting his eyes to see what Mycroft was watching on TV.

“Judge Judy?” Lestrade snorted. “You like reality TV?”

“I find it fascinating.” Mycroft murmured.

Greg didn’t push it. He leant back, closing his eyes and listening to the quiet rumble of laughter from the program. Mycroft coughed.

“Gregory.”

It wasn’t a question. “Mycroft.”

“Why are you with me?”

That made Lestrade open his eyes. “What?”

“Why are we together?” Mycroft’s eyes bored into Lestrade’s skull, as if trying to extract the answers from Greg’s mind directly. “Your wife left you – and you turned to me. Why?”

“I don’t know.” Greg blinked. “I…”

Lestrade mused over the question a second too long – Mycroft nodded, as if that confirmed something in his head, and stood up, picking his jacket off the sofa and pulling it on.

“Woah, where are you going?” Lestrade frowned.

“When we met, my life was dull.” Mycroft smiled softly, his usual cat-like grin turning into something more humane. “You brought colour to my life, Gregory, as sappy as that may sound. But after these few days, I see-”

“Few days?” Lestrade repeated.

Mycroft seemed annoyed by the interruption. “Yes. You have been staying late at the office and ignoring me. I know you are busy, but one should always make time for one’s… associate.” he coughed, returning to his original tangent. “After these last few days, I see that I simply do not fulfil your needs any longer. I am, in layman’s terms, not good enough for you. And so I take my leave.”

Lestrade half-expected Mycroft to bow or curtsey or something, but the Holmes simply nodded curtly and turned towards the door, taking his umbrella from the hat rack.

“Mycroft!” Lestrade barked. “Where are you going?”

“I am going to my apartment.”

“Oh no you’re not.” Lestrade grabbed the umbrella and thrust it back into the rack, pulling Mycroft’s sharply dressed arm towards himself. “I need you, Mycroft. Damn it, I love you!”

“Love is-”

“Don’t give me that ‘love is a vicious motivator’ crap.” Lestrade snapped. “Mycroft, you mean more to me than anyone else. You are good enough. Hell, I’m not the greatest guy, but I fell in love with you, and that’s gotta matter somehow.” he smiled. “I love you, you damn fool.”

Mycroft smiled more like his old snide self. “Care to prove it?”

“Gladly.” and Lestrade pulled the taller man down into a soft, caring kiss.  

(ANGST. Oh God – sorry this is late! This one actually kind of made me cry. I just… thank you so much for the prompt. I really, really hope you like it, and that it moves you as it did me.)

…

He went in a typical Holmesian way – quietly, respectfully, surrounded by his few loved ones. The usual black suit was replaced with a darker black suit, and his umbrella was resting against the table. Lestrade held one of his hands; Sherlock held the other, in a rare bout of genuine concern. The world stopped, just for a moment, and Mycroft Holmes slipped silently, slowly, into the deepest of sleeps.

The umbrella fell down.

Sherlock, Anthea and John walked silently back to Lestrade’s car, the DI himself trailing behind them with his head hung low. The car journey was silent. More than once, Anthea (driving) tried to put on the radio, but the glares of all three men froze her before she even touched the button. The car slid quietly to a halt outside Baker Street. Sherlock sat in the back, staring coldly at his hands.

“Hey, Greg-” John began quietly, but he stopped when he saw Lestrade’s face. He nodded politely and patted Greg’s shoulder, walking quickly into the flat with Sherlock in tow.

The knight fell down.

The tension was palpable. John and Sherlock sat in their respective chairs, staring into the distance. Nothing needed to be said. The anger and frustration and sadness washed over them like a wave, rattling through their heads as they thought more and more about this. Eventually, John got up.

“Tea?” he asked quietly.

Sherlock didn’t answer. He didn’t answer the next day, or the next. He stared into space, stroking the violin but never playing it. The flat was silent most of the time – Sherlock refused to answer cases, and John was out at work all day, even weekends. John would come home and there would Sherlock be, in his chair, staring at John’s empty space, his eyes barely alive. Nothing about him seemed living. It was like the colour, fading before, was now completely drained from him, and the depression was sucking the colour from the flat too.

Some days, John couldn’t stand it. “Why are you just sitting there?! Surely he’d want you to do something with your life? He was worried about you – constantly, he said! So why are you still giving him cause to worry?”

But Sherlock would just stare right back, his lips barely moving as he whispered: “Would that make him come back?”

“No.”

“Then I will continue not to make that mistake.”

John had always known Sherlock was a machine. His emotions were programmed – he could be angry or sad or happy at the click of a metaphorical button. But the system was failing; the files were closing; the drive was shutting down. He was closing, disconnected, colourless, blank, and eventually, out of the blue… gone.

The violin fell down.

(I’ve actually done two where Mystrade have a baby called Marianne, so I’ll write the kid as a teen version of her :) thank you for the prompt!

Here are the two Marianne stories:
Part 1 - http://epicluna.tumblr.com/post/30328124057
Part 2 - http://epicluna.tumblr.com/post/30525630439)

…

“You know, Marianne, most kids get drunk, or high, or pass out in the gutter.” Lestrade gazed around the cells. “Of course you had to be different.”

The girl grinned too brightly for the setting, her dark blonde hair shaking above her shoulders as she shrugged. “What do you expect? The British Government is my Father.”

“What about me?” Lestrade pouted.

“You’re cool too.” Marianne smiled playfully.

The two of them were stood in HM Prison Holloway, London. Marianne stood in her temporary cell, looking out at Lestrade, who had been called in the middle of the night to come and bail her out. Tired and grumpy, Lestrade had begged Mycroft to help him out. No such luck. Besides, being a DI would be helpful.

Lestrade crossed his arms. “I have half a mind to leave you in there.”

“Okay.” Marianne shrugged. “I deserve it. Well, actually, the security system at school deserves this more than me. Have you seen the firewalls?!” she shook her head in disgust.

“Hacking school systems is one thing, but did you really have to access the White House?” Lestrade sighed.

“I was bored.”

Lestrade smiled. Marianne definitely took after Mycroft. The other day, Mycroft had nearly destroyed Gloucester. “But I was bored, Gregory!” Lestrade shuddered at the memory. He motioned for the guard to unlock the door, and Marianne stepped out, catching her Dad in a swift hug.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re grounded.”

“I know.”

Lestrade knew she could cause more havoc alone in her room on her computer than anything in the real world outside. It was only a matter of time before she learnt how to build and fly her own missiles. He didn’t mention this. The two Holmes’ walked quickly back to the car, then zoomed off towards home, Marianne texting on her phone.

Lestrade always wondered what had gone wrong with his daughter. Maybe it was Uncle Sherlock’s bad influence, always taking Marianne to different science lectures and making experiments in the kitchen. 221B was Marianne’s favourite place, apart from her room (and her permanent cell in Holloway, which was quite nicely decorated). Maybe it was the school, which was, according to Marianne and Mycroft, full of morons. Then again, and most likely, it was Mycroft’s fault, being so arrogant and pompous all the time. Marianne was bound to pick up some of his traits. Both parents just hoped she’d take after Lestrade and become a good person.

It didn’t look likely.

“Marianne?”

“Yes?”

Lestrade hesitated. “Can you promise me something?”

Marianne smiled. “Of course.”

“Don’t blow up the Pentagon. Or the Houses of Parliament.”

Marianne considered that. “We’ll see.”

(No, you don’t suck at prompting! I love that prompt – haven’t written a proper Mycroft fanfic in ages, so thank you very much :) I hope you like it!)

…

“You know, you could just phone me.” John sighed.

“What would be the point in that?” Mycroft cocked his head slightly.

John grimaced. He’d forgotten he was talking to a Holmes – human logic didn’t apply to them. He and Mycroft were sat in the Diogenes Club, in Mycroft’s office, a stack of folders on John’s lap and a pot of tea cooling on the table. John frowned at Mycroft, who looked annoyingly serene.

“Why am I here, and what’s with the folders?”

“Just a little re-con work.” Mycroft sighed softly. “Prostitutes, working for, or with, people in power. It is not the best situation for the economy, let me tell you.”

John almost spat out his tea at Mycroft’s casual use of the word ‘prostitutes’. It wasn’t the word that amused him – it was the fact Mycroft had said it. John calmed down and said:

“So you want me and Sherlock to go investigate?”

“Yes.” Mycroft smirked a little.

John flipped through the files, trying not to notice the pictures of scantily-clad women and failing. He looked up to see Mycroft watching him with interest.

“Anything else?”

Mycroft considered the question for a moment. “Yes. Has Sherlock told you yet?”

“Told me what?”

“About his crush?”

John spat out his tea again, earning an almost-glare from Mycroft. “Sherlock has a crush on someone?”

“Not just anyone…” Mycroft glanced at the tea stain on the rug. “Put the cup down, John.”

John obeyed. “Who, then?”

“You.”

“Me?!”

“You.”

“Wow.”

Mycroft seemed amused at John’s limited vocabulary. “Is it a surprise?”

John thought for a moment. “Not really. I mean, I had my suspicions that he was gay, but-”

“He’s not gay.” Mycroft almost rolled his eyes. He seemed to be the ‘almost’ man, suppressing what he really wanted to do into little chunks and then not doing them. “He’s confused and thinks he’s in love.”

“Oh.” John felt a bit disappointed. “So he’s not actually… he doesn’t actually like me?”

“I shouldn’t think so.” Mycroft shrugged. John nodded slowly.

A sharp buzz sounded from Mycroft’s phone – he took it out, excusing himself from John with a gesture, and read the text. He almost smiled.

Wrong. -SH

(I love this prompt! I don’t actually know how to drive, so Wiki Answers wrote a bit of this for me. Thank you, and I hope you like it!)

…

“This is unnecessary. If I needed to travel, I would use a taxi or a train, or Lestrade would drive me, or you could drive me.” Sherlock sat in the driver’s seat, his arms crossed and a petulant grimace on his face.

Mycroft sighed. “Yes, well, one day I will not be at your service, nor will Gregory, and you may find yourself somewhere without access to cabs or trains.”

“Then I won’t go out of London.” Sherlock snapped.

“You are learning to drive if it’s the last thing I do!”

“It probably will be.”

“Which is why I am wearing a helmet.” Mycroft tapped the white hat on his head with a small smile. “Now then. Put your seatbelt on.”

Sherlock complied with a scowl. Mycroft’s smile grew more pronounced.

“Now turn the car on.”

Sherlock inserted the key into the ignition and turned it, the engines below them rumbling silently. The expensive car might not have been the best choice in which to teach Sherlock Holmes how to drive, but it was the only car available apart from the Lamborghini.

“Make sure the clutch is in neutral.” Mycroft frowned.

Sherlock glanced at it, then sighed and pressed down on the gas pedal, expecting the car to start – but they just jolted forwards, the engine falling still. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“What did I say?”

“I don’t know, most of it was complete bull-”

“Right!” Mycroft coughed. “Do it again.”

Sherlock grumbled, but started again, and soon the car was inching forwards out of the garage. Sherlock grinned.

“I’m driving!” he exclaimed. His eyes were bright, and he was actually smiling properly.

Mycroft resisted the urge to smile too. Instead, he coughed, and said: “Yes, well done.”

“Can I drive properly now?”

“Yes, but- SHERLOCK!”

Mycroft was pinned against his seat as Sherlock pressed fully down on the gas pedal, making the car leap out of the garage like a lion from its den. Sherlock grinned manically as the car swerved around the Holmes mansion driveway, the wheels kicking up dust on the sandy ground. Mycroft clutched the seat for dear life; Sherlock leaned forwards over the steering wheel, loving every second.

“STOP!” Mycroft yelled.

Sherlock would do no such thing! He drove the car into a nearby field, swerving patterns onto the grass, and then back onto the driveway, almost tipping onto two wheels. The car screeched to a stop outside the front door. Mycroft slid back into his seat, breathing heavily.

“You… You are never EVER driving my car again!” Mycroft sighed.

“This is your car?” Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Yes- NO!”

The car jolted off again, back into the field and past a herd of cows – Sherlock gazed at them as they passed – but this time Mycroft took the wheel and guided them (still at full speed) back to the house, glaring at his brother until Sherlock stomped on the brakes. Mycroft quickly exited the car and slammed the door.

“Put this back in the garage,” Mycroft’s voice was deadly quiet. “and I will not punish you. Yet.”

He stormed back into the mansion, his fists clenching. Sherlock grinned.

“No charge!” he called.

(Ooh, I love a good Wholock! Well, okay, this is Torchlock, but it’s almost the same thing. Kind of. Anyway, thank you for the prompt, and I hope you like it!)

…

“Captain Jack Harkness, and who are you?” Jack winked.

Mycroft didn’t show any emotion on his face. He simply nodded slightly and said: “Mycroft Holmes. I am here on official business from the British Government. May I come in?”

“Well that depends.” Jack leaned on the doorway, a hand on his hip. “Can I see some ID?”

Mycroft looked a bit put-out, but he flashed one of his important cards and smiled his grin that he reserved for peasants. “Now may I enter?”

“Hmm…” Jack mused. “Have you got any other identification?”

“Jack, let him through.” sighed a voice from behind the Captain.

Jack turned round to see DI Greg Lestrade and his wife Gwen Cooper standing behind him with matching exasperated frowns.

“Gregory.” Mycroft nodded towards him.

“Hello Holmes. Jack, he’s safe. Let him in.”

“Fine.” Jack eyed the man for another second, then let him pass into Torchwood Three.

Ianto Jones looked up from his desk at Mycroft. He was a tall, rather handsome, balding man with a sharp suit and a sharp nose – and an even sharper glare. Ianto nodded quickly at him, then turned back to his desk, blowing out his cheeks. Strange guy.

“Mr Jones?” Mycroft’s voice dripped with honey and knives.

“That’s right.” Ianto reluctantly looked up. “Hello.”

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Mycroft smiled quickly. “So you are part of this organisation, correct?”

“Correct.”

Behind them, Jack and Gwen exchanged glances, then turned to Greg, who rolled his eyes. Ianto and Mycroft kept talking awkwardly while Jack whispered:

“So who is this guy?”

“Like he says, he’s Mycroft Holmes. He’s the British Government. No idea why he’s here – he’d be better off eating cake with the Queen.” Greg sighed.

“I don’t understand.” Gwen frowned.

“Yeah, well, neither do I.” Greg grimaced.

Ianto seemed to be getting annoyed at Mycroft. “Why are you here again?”

“Just a spot-check.” Mycroft glanced down at his notebook.

“If this was a spot-check, you’d have sent one of your minions.” Greg called over.

Mycroft smiled. “You know me too well. I wanted to see how Gregory was doing, that’s all.”

Jack and Ianto glanced at Gwen, who stepped a bit closer to Greg. “He’s doing fine.”

“Good! That’s good.” Mycroft didn’t sound like he thought it was good. “Well, I’d better be off.”

He advanced up the stairs, gently placing a hand on Greg’s shoulder, then stepped over to Gwen.

“May I have a word?”

“Of course.” Gwen nodded.

They walked to the side of the room. Jack and the boys watched them for two minutes – Gwen got paler by the second – then Mycroft turned round with a smile and left without another word. Jack frowned at Gwen.

“What did he say?”

Gwen gulped. “Greg wasn’t kidding. He is the British Government.”

(I’m not American but I’ve seen the Mitt Romney stuff on Tumblr, so I think I know what you want. If I get it wrong, I tried, and therefore no-one should critisize me. Hell yeah Daniel Radcliffe. Thank you for the prompt, and I hope you like it!)

…

“Good coffee.”

“Thank you. Anthea made it.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Nice.”

There was an awkward pause.

“So, um, what blend is it?”

“I don’t know. I never thought to ask.”

“Oh.”

Another pause.

“So what do you think of Santorum?”

Mycroft glanced at Seb over his coffee. “You must have noticed by now that I rarely chat at mealtimes, Sebastian. Please-”

“Holmes, please!” Seb groaned. “This is the most awkward thing I’ve experienced since I shot Molly’s cat. Please just humour me!”

Mycroft sighed and set down his cup. “Fine. What would you like to talk about?” his voice was like a knife dripping with honey. Seb rather liked that mental image.

“Politics. Personally, I think they’re all bastards, but what do you think?”

“I think so too.” Mycroft agreed with a small smile. “American politics has a lot of influence on the world, and therefore we should try and get Britain’s points across in order to make it fairer for the whole world.”

Sebastian had drifted off somewhere between “American” and “has”, but he nodded in agreement. “Yes, absolutely.”

Mycroft continued: “Mitt Romney’s stance on gay marriage and rights in general has deeply founded faults. It may be true that some of his views are based on factual evidence and…”

Mycroft kept droning on for about ten minutes while Seb zoned out. He kept sipping his coffee. It was a nice beverage, if a bit sweet, and he liked watching Mycroft get excited about something, even if it was something Seb really didn’t care about. But then:

“…it is obvious that Romney and Santorum are in a sexual partnership.”

Seb spat out his coffee. “What?!”

Mycroft eyed him suspiciously. “Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

“Of course! It’s just – really?”

“Yes. Now then. Romney’s stance on gay marriage offends me personally too. I love you, and one day I may want to marry you. If the world denies gay-”

Seb spat out his coffee again. “You- what?”

“Sebastian, this table is mahogany.” Mycroft sighed.

“Sorry, sorry. But- you love me?”

“Yes, isn’t it obvious?”

“No!”

“Well. My apologies. I suppose I should have made it clearer.” Mycroft said the last part to himself.

“No, no! I-” Seb grinned. “I love you too.”

Mycroft smiled quickly, then returned to his coffee, brushing off the entire conversation like a true Holmes. “How is the coffee? The bit that’s still in your cup, that is.”

“It’s a bit cold.” Seb admitted.

“Well then.” Mycroft stood up and held out a hand. “We’ll have to entertain ourselves some other way.”

Prompt: Sherlock being bullied and comforted by John and maybe some Mycroft being a good big brother?

Prompt from the brilliant everythingispoetry.

I can’t wait for that cake! :D

…

“I know you killed him, you psychopath!”

Sherlock’s back was slammed into the wall, his head bouncing off the hard surface. He slumped forwards, head lolling, but the bully pushed him back again, pinning his neck down.

“Why did you kill him?!” the bully spat.

“I don’t know what you mean!” Sherlock whispered.

Another punch landed onto his ribcage and Sherlock fell forwards onto his knees, gasping for air.

“You killed Carl Powers.” the bully growled.

“No I didn’t!” Sherlock resisted the urge to laugh at the boy’s incompetence.

“Then who did?!”

“I don’t know!”

“Liar!” the bully aimed another kick to Sherlock’s face, landing his boot right on Sherlock’s cheekbone. The younger boy yelled out, now lying flat on the floor. He struggled onto his elbows, spitting out blood.

“Th-This is very out of character for you. You usually tease me about being smart or gay. Why the sudden interest in Powers?” Sherlock asked.

“None of your fucking business!” the bully growled.

Sherlock grinned. “Are you two in a relationship?”

The bully stood still for a moment, then let out a gigantic yell and pounced on Sherlock, punching his face. Sherlock lay there, his vision swimming, trying to prise the boy off. Everything went red.

“Hey!” someone yelled. The bully looked round – and then he was against the wall, someone’s arm pinning him like he pinned Sherlock. “You’re going to turn around, walk away, and never come near my brother again. Do you understand me?”

“What the f-”

The arm tightened. “I could make you disappear from the face of the planet, but I’m being very very calm, so I won’t. However, if you do this again, I will personally make sure you and your gang of misfits never walk again. Do you understand me?”

The bully nodded quickly and the someone let him run off, back into school. The older boy helped Sherlock to his feet and brushed down his uniform.

“How many times is this, Sherlock?” the stranger whispered in a honey-like voice.

“I lost count.” Sherlock mumbled.

“You can’t keep doing this!”

“It’s not my fault, Mycroft!” Sherlock snapped. “They just… they’re idiots, the lot of them.”

Mycroft looked at Sherlock for a moment more, assessing his injuries. “Let’s get you to the office. Mummy won’t be pleased.”

Sherlock leant on his brother’s shoulder and hobbled into school, the other students staring at him as they walked. He didn’t care. Morons. They eventually got to the nurses’ office and Mycroft dropped him into an empty seat before walking back to class, calling someone possibly important on his mobile phone. Sherlock sighed.

“Hello?” a short blond boy walked into the room, his eyes widening when he saw Sherlock.

“Hello.” Sherlock mumbled.

“Bullies?”

“How did you know?” Sherlock frowned.

The blond boy just threw him a tight-lipped smile and sat next to him, looking over Sherlock’s injuries. “I’ve seen this before. You’re not alone, you know.”

“Who are you?”

“John Watson.” the blond smiled. “I’m training to be a doctor, so I’m always either in class or in here.” he gestured to the office. “If you need me, I’m here for you.”

“I don’t need you.”

John laughed once. “Okay. But I’ll be here anyway, just in case.”

Sherlock glanced at the boy – kind, short, friendly. Someone genuine, someone nice. That was rare in people nowadays. He smiled.

“Would you like to… be friends?”

John beamed. “Okay!”

Sherlock smiled. It hurt his face, but he didn’t care. John was nice. That’s all that mattered.

(Thank you for the prompt! Fem!Moran turned out to be a bit more chatty than normal!Seb. I really hope you like it – sorry it took so long!)

…

John walked into the bar (that sounds like the beginning of a bad joke) and looked around, stepping up to the counter and ordering a beer. The bartender smiled and went to the tap to fill up a pint glass, sliding it towards John, who caught it on his fingertips. John sipped his drink for a few minutes, not really paying attention to anything. His new job was a bit more insane than he’d thought, and he needed a good drink to steady his thoughts. The door opened and shut behind him, and then a woman was sliding into the seat next to him, ordering a drink from the bartender. Her short blonde hair was somewhat greasy, and she wore a stained brown top and army trousers – but she smiled as soon as she noticed John, clapping a hand to his shoulder.

“Hello, John.”

John looked up and grinned. “Sabrina!”

“Good to see ya.” Sabrina Moran winked at John. “How are you?”

“Good, thanks, you?”

“Yeah, I’m okay. Working on a job.”

“What kind of job?”

“Top secret stuff.” Sabrina shrugged. “Some government git came round the other day – he wants- never mind.”

“You can tell me – I’ve had more than my fair share of government people.” John took a long gulp from his beer.

Sabrina sighed. “The boss is called Holmes.”

“Holmes? Oh, Mycroft Holmes?”

“That’s the one.”

“Me too.” John grinned.

“No way!” Sabrina laughed.

“Yup. For some reason he wants me to spy on his brother, Sherlock. Sherlock’s a nice enough bloke. Bit eccentric.”

“He’s a perfect match for you, then.” Sabrina grinned. John just smiled. “My guy is insane too. Jim Moriarty. Heard of him?”

John shook his head. “Nope, sorry.”

“Well, if you do hear of him, you’re in trouble, that’s all I can say.” Sabrina sighed and took another sip of her drink.

“Is he good-looking?” John winked.

Sabrina shrugged. “He has certain wily charms.”

Sabrina and John laughed for a bit and downed their drinks, ordering two more.

“Tell me about Sherford.”

“Sherlock.”

“Same thing.”

“He’s really tall, can run really fast, and a complete genius. He knew everything about the war-” John and Sabrina looked away from each other at that. “-but he’s a nice guy. Sort of. Once you get to know him, I guess.”

“Jim’s like that too. He’s funny, but he can be really scary. He could probably crack any code, break into any building. Proper genius, that one.” Sabrina smiled almost proudly.

“Well, it’s good to see you again, Moran. Here’s to the genius boys.” John raised his pint glass and clinked it against Sabrina’s with a grin.

“Cheers!” she winked.

(Thank you so much! I loved every second of this prompt, so I hope you do too!)

…

“Why am I here, Mycroft?”

“I need to show you something.”

“And that’s worth kidnapping me in a car, is it?”

“Yes, it is.”

Mycroft pushed the door open and led John into a large room. It was a comfortable, old-fashioned sort of room – quite out of place in a Government building – but two security guards moved to John’s back as soon as they entered. John instantly felt threatened.

“Um, Mycroft-”

“This is better dealt with here than at your flat.” Mycroft picked up a large yellow folder from the table, turning to John with a grave face. “I would say I am sorry, but this is of national importance. Emotions have no place here.”

“What is it?” John frowned.

Mycroft handed John the folder wordlessly. The shorter man sank into a chair – Mycroft doing the same – and opened the folder to examine it. At first it was just paper and documents that John didn’t care about or understand, but then there was a picture, blown up to A4 size and slightly pixelated. Bad quality it may be, but John recognised it instantly.

“This is a joke.”

“I never joke.” Mycroft said quietly.

John glared at him. “Why have you got a picture of my sister?”

“She is, in your terms, a ‘right proper genius’.” the phrase sounded weird in Mycroft’s posh voice. “She is a trained assassin, who has killed-”

John laughed loudly, interrupting Mycroft. “I’m sorry, but this is ridiculous. My sister is not an assassin, or a Bond girl, or whatever you want to call her. She’s my sister. We don’t get on, it’s true, but I know that she’s not a killer.”

Mycroft’s eyes flicked to the folder then back to John’s face. He smiled softly. “You do not believe me.”

“Nope.”

Mycroft sighed and got up, clicking a button on a small remote control as he did so. A large TV on the wall flickered to life, and Mycroft pressed another button, his eyes fixed on John’s face. A CCTV video of a woman in dark clothes played on the screen – the woman was fighting in an alley, a gun in her hand, beating the living daylights out of three men. There was no sound on the footage, but John could almost hear the punches as they landed, the men’s faces smacking on the ground when they fell. The woman turned to the CCTV camera, suddenly stock-still. She grimaced and shot the camera with the gun. The screen went black. Mycroft turned to John.

“Was that your sister?”

John glanced back at the photo. It was an image from the video he’d just seen. “Yes, it was.”

“You believe me?”

Pause. “No.”

Mycroft sighed. “John-”

“I believe that Harry is a good person. I believe that she’d never do something like that unless she had to, to protect someone. What I don’t believe is you and your boys-” John glanced at the bodyguards. “-coming to tell me about this. Why don’t you leave her alone?”

“If this wasn’t your sister, would you be acting like this?” Mycroft’s voice was soft, but there was a trace of bitterness to it.

John glared at the man. “If this was Sherlock-”

“Sherlock did do something like this.” Mycroft snapped. He coughed, regaining his posture. “That is why I want you to talk to your sister. We will send a SWAT team to help you.”

John threw the folder down on the chair. It was a childish move, he knew, but he was too angry to care. “I’m not doing it.”

“You will do it.” Mycroft sounded bored now. He waved his hand, and the bodyguards stepped forwards, their hands hovering above John’s shoulders. The short man shrugged them away and walked out of the room alone, head hung low. Mycroft sighed.

“I want constant surveillance on Dr Watson.”

“Yessir.” the bodyguards nodded.

“And get my brother on the telephone before John is home. I’ll need Sherlock on my side. If anyone can convince John, it’s him.”

…

Part 2: http://epicluna.tumblr.com/post/29006781340

(Thank you very much! Moricroft is a brilliant ship – it’s a shame not more people ship it, really. I love it. That’s a great prompt, don’t worry! I hope you like it!)

…

The intercom crackled. “Good morning, Jim.”

Jim Moriarty looked up from his chair. He smiled and waved at the one-way-mirror, then looked around his cell. The walls were still covered in scratches, the word ‘Sherlock’ written over and over again. Jim went back to staring at the mirror, his head lolling slightly to the side.

“Are you going to talk today?” the intercom asked.

Jim grinned and mimed zipping his lips.

“Pity.”

The door opened, revealing a tall, suited man with his hands in his pockets. His hair was thinning, but he had a presence in the room that made Jim instantly turn round and notice him. The man’s eyes bored into Jim’s, as if trying to extract his secrets by force. Jim smirked. Two could play at that game. He stared right back at the man, deducing everything – high-pressure job, very rich, on a diet, having an affair, worried about something… oh, a family member. A younger brother? Of course. Jim’s grin grew wider.

“Mr Holmes, I presume.”

It was the first time Jim had talked in weeks. The man was slightly taken aback, but he didn’t show it. He walked around Jim’s chair, perching himself on the edge of the table.

“You know who I am.”

“Mr Mycroft Holmes. I’ve heard about you.” Jim’s throat scratched, his voice coming out more forcefully than he’d intended.

“Then you know my brother.”

“Sherlock.” Jim sneered. He glanced at the walls, where the name was written, then back at Mycroft, who was still staring at Jim intently.

“Does your family know where you are, what you are doing?”

Jim barely suppressed a laugh. “Family? Oh, no no no!”

“You have no family?”

“Why, do you feel sorry for me?” Jim smiled sweetly.

Mycroft adjusted his tie with a cough. “What are your intentions towards my brother?”

“Are you jealous?”

“Do not turn this back on me, Mr Moriarty.” Mycroft’s voice had that honey-like quality that he reserved for peasants. Jim didn’t like it one bit.

“Professor, if you please.”

“Professor Jim Moriarty?” Mycroft pulled a little notebook from his pocket and noted that down. “From where did you receive your professorship?”

Jim shrugged. “That is classified.”

Mycroft laughed once. “The classification is moot here.”

“Still can’t tell you. One must have secrets, doesn’t one?” Jim grinned.

Mycroft shuffled in his place. “Where do you live?”

“Classified.”

“Have you got people working for you? What are their names?”

“Classified.”

“What do you hope to accomplish?” Mycroft glared.

Jim leaned forward, his smile widening so much it was scary. “I just want to stop being bored.”

Mycroft leaned forward too. He stared Jim down. “And why are you bored?”

Jim smiled softly. “Not enough distractions.”

…

Not exactly slash, but I hope you liked it anyway!!

(Of course! Thank you for the prompt – I love Mystrade ;) Sorry it’s so short… but I hope you like it!)

…

Mycroft was sure that he was dying.

His forehead was burning, his stomach kept gurgling, his nose kept running, and his throat itched. Therefore, due to the data, he was sure that he would be dead within two hours – one and a half minimum. He sprawled out on his bed, groaning.

“Don’t be such a drama queen.” Greg sighed.

Lestrade had been called over to the Holmes mansion to bear witness to Mycroft’s death. He had brought two cans of soup and a DVD of ‘Mulan’, which he was currently playing on the large flatscreen in Mycroft’s bedroom.

“I am dying, Gregory.” Mycroft said thickly, his throat burning every time he spoke. “I do not have time to watch cartoons.”

“You are not dying, and it’s not a cartoon! It’s a fantastic, animated, award-winning musical. Now shut up and eat your soup.”

“I am dying! Why won’t you listen?”

“Because you have a cold, Mycroft. Everybody gets colds at some point, even the British Government, so just lie down and watch the movie. Look, your soup’s getting cold.” Greg sighed.

Mycroft groaned and snatched up a tissue, sneezing noisily into it. Greg looked faintly disgusted, but he picked up the soup spoon with a smile. Once Mycroft had sorted his nose out, Greg spooned some of the soup into Mycroft’s mouth, forcing him to swallow. The elder man glared at Greg.

“I do not need to- MMF!” another few spoonfuls.

“Yes you do.” Greg grinned.

He took the now finished bowl of soup off Mycroft’s lap and settled beside the man, slinging an arm round his shoulders. Mycroft sat as still as a statue. Gregory Lestrade was in his bed, an arm on his back, smiling at the TV. Mycroft sighed. It hurt his throat.

“Thank you, Gregory.”

Greg beamed at Mycroft. “That’s alright, Holmes. It got me out of work, anyway.”

“Oh, yes. That reminds me, the Prime Minister-”

“-will have to wait until you’re better.” Greg said softly.

Mycroft frowned. “But Saxon-”

“-will have to wait! Look, you’re not going to get better if you keep doing this. Do you want me to go?”

“No!”

“Then watch the movie!” Greg sighed.

They sat in silence for a moment, Greg’s hand rubbing circles on Mycroft’s back and neck. It felt nice. Mycroft yawned, sinking back into the pillows a bit, finally relaxing. His throat still itched, his forehead still felt like Hell in summer, but if this was dying, he didn’t mind it. Greg was here. That’s all that mattered.

Mycroft yawned again. “Don’t leave me, Gregory.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” Greg smiled.

*clears throat*

So I fanfic’d.

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8350632/1/The_Three_Things_Mycroft_Needs

It’s a WIP, so please be patient.

Title: The Three Things Mycroft Needs

Summary: Mycroft Holmes is an enigma wrapped in a mystery, baked in a cake and covered in syrup. What will happen when the three things the British Government needs to function are taken away?

Please enjoy and leave a review!