punchmeitssubtext: (Default)
Cannibalism jokes and resfeber, Molly and Sherlock (several weeks after 2x03)
A long-overdue kiss, Molly and Sherlock (mid-3x03; Christmas Eve/Christmas Day)
Promising beginnings, Molly and Sherlock (immediately post-3x03)
A frank talk, Molly and Mycroft (about three months after 3x03)
Illness and another evolving relationship, Anthea and Mycroft (spanning post-3x03 to the end of the counterattack log)
Discovery, naming, and birth of Matthew John William Hooper, Molly and Sherlock et al (six to eight months after 3x03)
Matthew meets his uncle, Molly, Mycroft, and Sherlock (five days later)
Attack and subsequent counterattack, Anthea, Ferox, Molly, and Sherlock et al (two years later)
Breakfast and aftermath, Anthea, Mycroft, and Sherlock (morning after)
Discovery of twins and a partnership formalized, Molly, Mycroft, and Sherlock et al (four weeks/six weeks later)
Coming to an arrangement, Anthea and Mycroft (shortly after the wedding??)
punchmeitssubtext: (John! We're gay!)
It was something of a given that the Holmes brothers tended to intrude on one another's privacy without either warning or apology. After a difficult adolescence and young adulthood, it had very nearly become habit (which, in retrospect, probably explained a good deal of the resentful and angry behavior), although that habit had somewhat faded after Sherlock's false death and resurrection.

Until today, at least.

The door of Mycroft's home banged open, and Sherlock stormed in, bringing a gust of the rain and muggy air from outdoors with him as if it were generated by the billowing drape of his coat. With no explanation aside from several furiously muttered obscenities, he slammed the door behind him and then practically threw himself onto his brother's couch, curling up in an awkward, angry ball.
punchmeitssubtext: (Hmn. Distracting.)
The Holmes siblings did not, as a general rule, observe one another's birthdays. Christmas might merit a phone call in a good year; occasionally something would turn up on Bastille Day or after a particularly bizarre case or political scandal. Sarcasm always featured heavily. Whatever remarks were tossed back and forth tended either to contain so much cutting wit as to cancel out any grain of underlying sentiment, or to be outright scathing.

One might imagine, having observed these two brothers before one of them had fallen from grace and a hospital roof, that they hated each other. And one might imagine that hadn't changed when the younger brother rose from the grave in a proverbial blaze of glory.

But what no one was privy to was the contents of the package that slid through Mycroft Holmes's mail slot on an overcast Saturday.
punchmeitssubtext: (I don't have friends. I just have one.)
(Warning: man I wrote this in like an hour and also there's a Real Person in it but not in a creepy way.)

A soldier's life is terrible hard, says Alice )
punchmeitssubtext: (John! We're gay!)
It was shaping up to be a pleasantly slow Saturday afternoon at Baker Street. After a late-starting morning, they'd sorted through a handful of emails and texts together, then Sherlock had settled in with the violin and started playing a medley of The Who. (Living with John had brought his musical knowledge forward by about a hundred years, albeit in a sort of patchy way.) About halfway through "Teenage Wasteland", though, he stopped abruptly.

"God, I've just remembered. We're out of eggs and it's Sunday tomorrow. I'm going to run downstairs--do you need anything?"
punchmeitssubtext: (I will tolerate this touching.)
Sherlock Holmes did not, as a general rule, remember birthdays or favorite colors or even a handful of the major holidays. His concept of time was skewed and his understanding of interpersonal relationships relied almost entirely on biological markers and verbal cues. He hated parties. He hated people insisting on traditions. He hated the assumption people made that holidays meant you automatically violated your own privacy and spilled your innermost thoughts.

And yet.

And yet here he was at Angelo's, watching the thin icicles on the window-frame shimmer in the headlights of passing cars.

This is mad, John had said, that first morning after, and he couldn't disagree. It made him a little angry, almost, a little upset that his own comfortable view of the world had been so skewed by a single outside influence.

But it still felt better than the drugs or the cigarettes or even most of the case work.

So he waited.
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