For the third movie, I want a scene where Sherlock introduced John to The Family (+Tewksbury), and John was all dumbstruck to meet them (powerful government official, influential leader of underground female organisation, youngest and most respectable lord, and the most brilliant Holmes despite being the youngest), and perhaps a little nervous too because we all know Sherlock would be too emotionally-constipated to help, only for Eudoria to ease up the tension by saying:

“So, this is your boy, Sherlock. Very nice to meet you, Doctor Watson.”

Foolishly Intelligent

Based on this request:  I love your imagines! I would like to request a Sherlock imagine if that’s alright? Something along the line of the reader being Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s far younger sister. She tries to connect with her brothers but often feels left out. She started in her teens by Learning everything about murders, investigation and politics in order to find common ground with her brothers. Ad an adult this leads to her being part of Scotland Yard and always giving Greg an heart attack due to jumping into dangerous situations. He’s had enough and decides after one close call too many to involve her big brothers to chew her out.

Here you are! *Familiar Characters are NEVER mine!*

Fandom: BBC Sherlock

Warnings: Angst, arguing, Caring big brothers that pretend not to care because one is a high-functioning sociopath and the other is Mycroft XD, mentions of possible crush??

Pairings/Characters: fem!reader, brother!Sherlock Holmes, brother!Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade

Greg Lestrade had had it. You were a wonderful detective, that much was true, but you had a bad habit. You liked to put yourself in dangerous situations ALL. THE. TIME! You would often quite literally throw yourself into harm's way to get the job done or to protect others. Greg normally wouldn't say anything even though it gave him a near heart attack every time. But since learning of Sherlock's fake death, it had become worse.

         The man could sort of understand where you were coming from. You had big shoes to fill with your brothers being who they were. Even as a child, you'd had trouble connecting with them. You had gone out of your way to learn and do things to help your relationship. And it wasn't that they didn't love you or respect you. It was that they could often have full conversations just through a look or that they would play their little deduction games and you would feel left out.

         You'd told Greg, after having a few drinks one night, that you had been trying since your teens to connect with Sherlock and Mycroft. You were just as intelligent as they were so you began learning about murder, investigations, and even politics from an early age. Still, nothing seemed to help you connect with them. You'd even joined the Yard to spend more time with Sherlock.

         But this last time was one too many for Greg. You had nearly died and the DI had a soft spot for you. In fact, you were the only Holmes the man could stand being around for more than a few minutes at a time. He didn't think he could take it if you kept running head-on into danger, but he knew you wouldn't listen to him. So, as he sat there next to your hospital bed waiting for you to wake up, he contemplated who you would listen to. There were only two people that popped into his head.

         With a soft sigh, Greg stood and left your room to make a call. "Hello, Gavin. Has there been a murder?" Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn't lose his temper now. "No, Sherlock." Sherlock scoffed on the other end of the line. "Boring. If you've nothing interesting to offer me, I'll say goodbye now."

         "WAIT!" Greg shouted, then a little more softly added, "Your sister's in hospital." For a moment, there was only silence. Then Sherlock spoke again, "Watson, call Mycroft. St. Bart's?" Greg confirmed and was promptly hung up on. You were going to hate him when you woke, but at least your brothers might be able to talk some sense into you.  

         Sherlock burst through the doors a little while later, with Mycroft sauntering in a few moments after. "Would someone care to explain why I have been dragged from an important meeting?" Mycroft asked, prompting Greg and John to glare at the younger Holmes brother. "You didn't tell him?!" Greg hissed before turning to Mycroft, "Long story short, your sister's here. She decided to go into a hostage situation, alone, with no sidearm." Mycroft's brows furrowed briefly before a look of pure rage came over his features for a moment.

         "And you didn't stop her?" Greg opened his mouth, but it was Sherlock who answered, "Oh please, Mycroft. Y/N would never listen if the lives of others are in danger. Not to Gordon anyway." Greg once again rolled his eyes. Would that man ever call him by his actual name?

         "He's right. She doesn't listen. She's always throwing herself into situations like this. I thought, when she wakes up, the two men she looks up to the most could talk some bloody sense into her. Maybe then she'll listen." Both Holmes brothers merely stared at the DI, causing him to huff and walk away with John at his heels. He couldn't deal with them any longer for the moment. He needed to return to your side.

         Just his luck, you were already awake when he pushed the door open. "Inspector," you greeted tersely. You had seen John behind him so you knew Sherlock wasn't far behind. "Don't look at me like that, Detective." You scoffed. "Like what? Like you betrayed my trust by calling them in? I know they're here. Might as well bring them in so I can hear all about how disappointed Mummy will be." Greg's brows furrowed in confusion. "Y/N…I just want you to be safe. Your brothers do too."

         "Oh? Which brothers? The one who chucks himself off a building and pretends to be dead for 2 years? Or the one who knows about it and says nothing? Or the ones who refuse to let me into their lives, no matter how hard I try? I know I'm not brilliant like they are, but I try, dammit. And this is the only time I ever seen them away from home. When I'm in hospital."

         "Fine," Greg soothed, "Fine. Don't talk to them. I don't care. But you have to stop being so reckless and stupid, Y/N. For my sake." Greg gaze your hand a little squeeze before leaving the room and allowing your brothers to walk in. For a moment, you said nothing, watching the space Greg had just been occupying. You were trying not to cry. Your brothers didn't do well with hysterics.

         "Sherlock. Mycroft," you said. "Look at me, Y/N." You sighed softly. You knew you weren't exactly acting like an adult at the moment. That would get you nowhere with them. You swung your (e/c) eyes over to them. Sherlock stood with his hands in the pockets of his coat while Mycroft stared intently at you. They were both trying to deduce something about you. "Stop it," you ordered sharply, "Stop trying to deduce me and just ask me the question you want to ask." They exchanged a glance before turning back to you.

         "Inspector Lestrade informed us that you threw yourself in harm's way yet again." You shrugged a bit. "I would again too. There were children in there. The elderly." Sherlock let out a scoff. "And that makes it okay for you to be so monumentally stupid?"

         "I'm NOT stupid! Just because I'm not as callous as you are doesn't mean I'm an idiot, Sherlock! God, now I see the problem. It was never my fault we never connected. It was yours. You never tried." Your brothers stared at you in surprise. You had never spoken to them that way before. You rolled your eyes and groaned when your head began to hurt again.

         "Just go. Both of you. You can tell John and Inspector Lestrade that they are welcome here. I don't want to see you two again for a while." You turned your head away from them both, indicating that you were done with the conversation. You heard them open the door to leave. "Oh, and don't you dare call Mummy. I'll tell her myself when I know I'm alright." Neither of them said anything, but left the room.

         When you heard the door close behind them, you let a few tears finally fall. You hadn't wanted to blow up at them and you'd mostly likely end up apologizing later, but for now you were upset. You didn't have long to stew in your anger though before the door opened again. You turned to look and sighed. "I thought I told you to go."

         "And we did. You failed to specify just how long you consider to be a 'while'. We listened to what you said and now it is your turn to listen to us. Despite what you may think, you are no closer to 'connecting' with Mycroft or myself by running head-long into danger." You arched a brow at him. "Oh, you mean like you do?" Sherlock didn't look impressed, but you could see Mycroft trying not to smirk.

         "The point, little sister, is that, in spite of everything, your welfare is important to us. We need to know that you are safe. The career you've chosen lessens that likelihood, but deliberately putting yourself in situations where you could die destroys our hope for it completely."

         "Oh gee, Mycroft, you do care," you replied sarcastically. You let out another sigh, "Look, I'm sorry. I know you're right. Just…please. Please stop letting this be the only reason you even check in with me. I know I'm not like you two. I never have been, but stop shutting me out. Okay? If you can promise me that, then I will promise to try and be more careful. For Mother and Father's sake. And for Greg's." You tried not to let your face show any emotion. Nothing to give away anything.

         "Who?" You laughed lightly while Mycroft arched a brow. "We will discuss that topic at another time. I suppose I can agree to your terms. Sherlock?" Sherlock's blue eyes met yours and he nodded. You smiled; a genuine smile for the first time since they walked in the room. "Good. Now could you please leave? I'd really like to sleep now that I've been yelled at by both my brothers and my boss."

         They opened the door again and you sat up. "Oh, and seriously. Don't tell Mummy." With a chuckle, your brothers left and you laid back to get a little more rest. Mycroft and Sherlock nodded at Greg when they exited the room, knowing he'd heard everything anyway. Greg breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully things would get better now. Greg looked in at you and smiled when you gave him a tiny wave.

(a/n: I hope this does your request justice!)

The Party

Mycroft stood still at his mother fussed with his clothes and hair, making several checks and re-checks in a frenzied way that gave them both anxiety.

“This fit last month...did you put on weight?” She asked, then kissed the sting of her insult away. “My little bear cub.” Mycroft resisted the urge to wipe his cheek and instead stared passively forward. She smiled.

“Come now, and try not to stand in the corner like a wallflower.” Being with his mother was uncomfortable. She lumped them in together so close one moment that her rejections the next moment always felt viscerally painful. “You’re a handsome young man, I’m sure you’ll find that if you open a bit your peers will see that.” He was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Yes, Mother.” And then, so not to be accused of being dismissive, “I’ll try.” The party was a benefit, something his father was throwing to show off his house and family. While the mansion was normally so devoid of life that Mycroft had once gone a full week without seeing either his parents or brother (the latter of which was more concerning), it had been (through the effort of many maids) reformed into a warm and cheerful home. The chandeliers which normally gave off a pale white light now shone a rich yellow and the mirrors which were often covered in dust now sparkled. In fact, everything seemed to sparkle. It hurt his eyes and he was glad that Sherlock was asleep or at least content to pretend to be asleep in his room. Often at parties his anxiety stemmed not only from the pressure to interact well with others but also the constant worry that his brother would act out of turn. Today he had only one anxiety to plague him, wonderful. “Speak of the devil!” His father raised his arms jovially and his mother took her place nestled beside him. “I do hope he hasn’t been calling me a devil all evening?” His mother asked, widening her eyes and clutching her pearls. “If anything he’s the one most worthy of the title, devilishly handsome~” She pressed a kiss to his cheek and Mycroft watched her in awe, she always knew how to perform, to entertain. No wonder she was so disappointed in her children who drew attention clumsily or not at all. “And who’s this?” “My eldest, Mycroft.” At his father’s mention Mycroft straightened up and his mother placed a hand on his shoulder, now they were all connected, a perfect chain. “He’s smart as his mother, they both are. Mycroft, tell the Barton’s about your award.” Mycroft launched into a short speech about his award, which he’d gotten for being top of his class for four years running.  It had also doubled as a target on his back and he’d barely managed to get it home while avoiding being beaten to a pulp. He didn’t mention this however, he assumed it would be in poor taste. When he finished he dismissed himself with a soft “If you’ll excuse me?” and left when granted permission, his purpose fulfilled. There was truly nothing much to do at these events if he wasn’t being called over to brag. His father’s colleagues either didn’t have children or didn’t bring them to these events, which he was sure his parents wished they had the luxury to do. He wished he could be banished to his room like Sherlock, maybe he should act wild...be an absolute monster. He took a profiterole and popped it in his mouth whole, feeling sick from the sugar. It quelled his anger and he took another one, checking to see if he was being watched. Both of his parents were enthralled by whatever conversation was taking place and secure in his assertion that he wouldn’t be called again for some time, he left to solitude of the back garden. When outside the noise of the party had quieted to a muffled, quiet affair. The wind was cool and he could hear birds and frogs calling out to each other. He was attempting to identify them by species (which even he acknowledged was a bit of a low for him socially) when he was interrupted. “Hey, are you uh..Mycroft?” He turned. The rude interruption was a boy around his age with hair that was rebelling hard against being gelled down. Mycroft observed his second-hand button up, his too-large blazer and his shoes that clunked on the wood of the deck. He wondered how he’d gotten in. “Yes.” He said, making it clear that he was looking upon him in disapproval. “You are?” “Greg.” He said, making it clear that he was wholly willing to soldier on further into this interaction. “My parents told me to say hi to you.” “And you actually did it? I admire your dedication.” Greg smiled and Mycroft took care not to. “Sorry, am I bothering you?” He asked and Mycroft sighed. “No, I apologize for my rudeness. It’s not you who I’m angry with.” “Oh.” Greg hoisted himself up onto the railing and kicked his feet, the motion familiar. Mycroft noticed several bruises and bandaids. “Do you play football?” He asked, apparently hitting the nail on the head as the other’s face lit up. “Yeah! I’m great at tackling. My dad said if I keep playing I could get a scholarship to any school I want.” “Who’s your father?” “Um, he’s not here right now. He’s inside. He was talking to your dad and he wanted to make a good impression since he’s new so he told me to scram.” Mentally Mycroft placed him as Lestrade, a new hire in his father’s company that he’d only heard about once or twice. His father mentioned him twice as ‘new blood’ which was worrying. “You know, I can totally tell you’re a Holmes.” Mycroft leaned against the banister, continuing to stare out into the night. “Yes, it’s generally easy to tell who the host of a party is as they’re often most comfortable in the house but also the most anxious.” He said, knowing that this was not the response he was being led to. Greg took this in stride by plowing on with what he wanted to say. “You all look at me and cringe. Your mom and dad did it too.” “And my cat would do it as well if she were here. Your clothing...stands out.” “It’s my father’s jacket and these are shoes to grow into. Sorry I’m not used to being a snob~” “I..I would take care that father doesn’t hear you.” “Father?” Greg asked in disbelief. “What year is this?” Mycroft smiled slightly but didn’t look at the boy until he spoke again a few minutes later. “What were you mad about?” Mycroft hummed quizzically. “You said someone made you mad earlier?” “Oh, my girlfriend.” Mycroft lied smoothly. Greg barked in laughter. “You have a girlfriend?” He cried, laughing so hard that Mycroft turned to him just in case he fell and required an audience to his subsequent embarrassment. “Well, she’s not my girlfriend. She’s a friend and I like her but I don’t know if she likes me.” He adjusted, mimicking a plot to a movie trailer he’d seen some time ago. “Well, let me help! I have four sisters, I can definitely tell you if she likes you or not.” “Ah.” He should just leave, just turn around and leave well enough alone but there was something in him that wanted nothing more than to stay planted here and try at being normal. “Well, she and I have known each other for a long time and I cannot for the life of me tell if she’s being friendly with me or if she’s flirting.” He began, pulling details out of thin air and lining them up. It was calming, he was sure that indicated something unflattering about him. “Sometimes when we’re walking she’ll hold my arm or when we’re sitting together she’ll position her legs over mine.” “Sounds like she likes you!” “That’s what I thought, but just this afternoon we got into argument. We were hanging out with our friends-” He was amazed Greg didn’t laugh at that line, he certainly would have if he weren’t consciously trying not to. “- and one of them, Yardsley, began asking if we were a couple and she became incensed. After they began arguing I suggested we talk about something else and she accused me of not sticking up for her. She left after that.” Mycroft sighed under the grief of the situation. “I just...I feel angry with myself for not standing up for her as much as I could have but I was also hurt that she was so angered at the thought of being with me.” He began to feel legitimately sad as his self-image problems crept to the surface, wonderful. “I just feel like I’ve failed on all fronts today.” “You didn’t fail! You just wanted to be friendly and fair to everyone. Yeardsley sounds like he was being a dick and your girlfriend or whoever sounds like she overreacted, but it also sounds like it could have been an honest question or maybe Yoursley and her have a history, you know? You did the best you could.” “Yes, just like how you did the best you could with Yardsley’s name.” “It’s a stupid name.” Mycroft burst into laughter, loud and short in the silence of the back garden. “Yes!” He agrees, doubled over. “It is a very stupid name.” Greg joins in this laughter and Mycroft feels something inside him adjust itself minutely. It feels like something has loosened, been made freer. “Perhaps we-” The sliding door was opened by his mother at that moment and it was as if the air had been sucked out of everything. She looked the two of them over coldly before smiling. “Gregory, your father has been looking for you!” She chided gently, ushering the two of them in.  “And Mycroft come here, I want to talk to you.” The two of them followed his mother to the living room, where Mycroft’s father was standing and regaling guests with a tale of some exploit or another. One of the men gestured Greg over and he obeyed, waving to Mycroft as he went. Mycroft waved back as he was dragged by his mother to another room. “I’m glad to see you making friends.” She said, in a tone that made clear the opposite. “Next time do you think you could- oh!” She tore her hand away from Mycroft, her fussing cut short. Horrified, she stared at her white glove which was covered in the melted remains of a profiterole he’d placed in there with the intent to eat it before he’d been interrupted. His heart beat so fast it pained him. “Mother-” “What is this.” He stayed quiet, debating whether or not to speak up. Was this a rhetorical question? Would she- “What IS this?” She repeated, hissing so as not to shout. “It’s...I’m sorry.” “I didn’t ask if you were sorry. I asked-” “Mycroft!” They both turned to see Greg, looking jovial as ever, standing in the doorway. “Hey, I have to leave so I wanted to say goodbye!” Glad for the intrusion, Mycroft walked over to the boy and held out his hand to shake. Greg used the hand to pull him into a hug. “I hope we get to talk again, tell me how it works out!” “I’ll walk you to the door.” Mycroft offered, taking care not to look back into the eyes that were boring into the back of his head. “What a gentleman~” Greg teased. When they reached the door Mycroft smiled and gave a polite ‘goodbye’ to the Lestrades, turning to go when Greg called out. “If she doesn’t like you then I can introduce you to some real girls!” Mycroft raised an eyebrow, apparently caught. He called back, undeterred. “Is it one of your sisters? I won’t put up with sly attempts to marry into my family Gregory!” “Yeah right, I’d rather marry you than have you date one of my sisters!” And with that he was gone, rushing down the driveway to meet up with his parents.     Recognizing his opportunity, Mycroft quickly made his way upstairs and into his bedroom, closing the door softly. Immediately Sherlock knocked on his wall in Morse code. ‘Is it over?’ to which Mycroft exhaustedly responded. ‘No. Sleep.’ Hearing nothing back he finally changed into pajamas and collapsed onto his bed. He would tell his father that he had eaten something off if he was asked where he’d gone. He would… He closed his eyes and thought of the boy he’d met. Greg Lestrade, what a peculiar character...He hadn’t known that people could radiate, hadn’t known that laughter could spark something inside of someone. He hadn’t known that the thought of marriage, of a future, could fill him with anything but anxiety and dread.                He hadn’t known that a person could be made of light.    

Keeping it a Secret (Lestrade X Reader)

Summary: Requested by Anonymous; the reader is a Holmes and is in a secret relationship with Lestrade. A/N: I hope that this is what you wanted! And I am so sorry that it’s so long. I love, love, love Lestrade, but I’ve never really written anything for him just yet. This is such an awesome request, though, I love it. Sorry it’s late, I’ve been on vacation and when we got back, I began moving into my apartment.

FROM: Greg You free tonight? _ You glanced to your brother, Sherlock, who didn’t seem to be interested in the reason why you and Greg both had your phones out. You quickly typed in a response. - TO: Greg I might be - You glanced at Sherlock again. He was kneeling down next to the body, eyes scanning and looking for clues. You hadn’t originally wanted to come along with him, but you knew Greg would be there and that made it all a little better. You looked over at Greg just as he hit ‘Send’ and put his phone down. He grinned at you. - FROM: Greg Do you think Sherlock would notice if you went out? - You shook your head. - TO: Greg If he did it really wouldn’t be any of his business. Why are you texting on the job, young man. Get to work! - You put your phone in your back pocket and heard a laugh coming from the other side of the crime scene where Greg had put himself. You walked over to Sherlock, kneeling down beside him. “Anything?” You wondered. “A few ideas.” He mumbled, turning the corpse’s hand over a few times, looking for something. Your phone dinged again and Sherlock’s eyes drifted towards you. “Who are you texting?” He wondered. “Why?” You asked. “Is there something wrong with texting?” “No, I text all the time.” His attention went back to the hand, his eyes scanning over the wrist. “You just don’t usually text this much.” He said simply. As if on cue, your phone dinged again. “So, whoever you’re texting must be someone special, then. You’ve been going out more, making more of an effort in your appearance, you’ve been happier, I’ve been reliably informed that being happier is almost inevitable in the earlier stages of a romantic relationship. You have a boyfriend.” He dropped the hand in the middle of his deductions, resting his arms on his knees and looking at you. “What does it matter to you?” You asked trying to keep your face neutral. You didn’t want to give anything away, not yet, at least. “You’re my little sister. It matters a great deal to me.” You grinned and stood to your full height, looking down at him. “There’s nothing to worry about.” You pulled your phone out of your back pocket, checking both texts from Greg. - FROM: Greg How about dinner, then? At my place? - FROM:Greg And your brother seems to be doing all of the work for me. The other guys just think I’m taking notes. - You smiled and shook your head once again. - TO: Greg What time? - Sherlock stood up, finished with his part. “Lestrade?” He called. Greg quickly put his phone in his pocket and rushed to Sherlock’s side, ready to hear what happened. You joined the trio, ready to listen. Sherlock explained what happened step by step, turned and gesturing around the crime scene dramatically, as usual. He was always the dramatic one. You tried to get him to do school plays, thinking that, since he was such a drama queen, he wouldn’t be too bad. Mycroft was a star, you were certain Sherlock would be too, but alas, he never wanted to. He participated in Hamlet, only because you begged him every hour of every day, but that was it. Greg looked over, saw another officer taking notes of everything Sherlock was saying, and leaned to you. “Would seven o’clock be alright?” He whispered. You were worried that Sherlock would catch it, but he was still turned around, pointing to the roof of the house. “Sounds perfect.” You grinned looking up at him. He smiled back at you, both of you in your own little world when Sherlock spun back around. “Are you two listening?” He asked. You broke eye contact with each other, turning your attention to Sherlock. His eyebrows were furrowed, eyes glancing back and forth between you two. “Of course we are.” Greg defended. “What was the last thing I said?” You looked at each other. Neither of you had heard it. You shrugged, taking a shot in the dark. “She was pushed from the roof.” He said nothing. Just stared at you were a long second. “Not even close.” “In their defense,” John butted in. “you don’t listen to them half of the time.” “Yes, but this is interesting.” Sherlock argued. John only sighed. XXXXXXXX Greg followed you back to the flat, going over the last details of the case before going back to work. You planted yourself on the couch, hoping Greg would sit beside you. Instead, he went to John’s chair as John typed the case up on his laptop and Sherlock made himself a cup of tea. Your phone dinged with a message again. - FROM: Greg Should we tell them now? Or later? - TO: Greg I think Sherlock’s ego is still a little shattered from us not listening to him today, lol. Let's give it a little while then tell him. - You continued texting back and forth until Sherlock, who had finished his tea and was now sitting in his chair, got tired of hearing the constant dinging coming from your phones and made his deduction. “Are you two texting each other?” He asked, annoyed. “What makes you think that?” Greg asked, locking his phone and putting it on the table beside him. “Because every time (Y/N) hits ‘send’ she glances at you and your phone rings. And vice versa.” Greg shrugged. “Must just be a coincidence.” He stood, having all of the information he needed to make the arrest and bring the case to a close. “Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” As he was walking out he looked towards you, grinning. Being brave, he winked and walked out. Luckily, Sherlock didn’t catch it. “Is he your boyfriend?” You pretended not to hear him. XXXXXXXX “How do I look?” You asked John. Sherlock was back in his room and you took the opportunity to sneak out. He wouldn’t have stopped you but he would have asked questions; questions you didn’t want to answer just yet. John hadn’t gone home just yet and, being one of the few who know about your relationship with Greg (you had asked for advice several times), you decided to ask him if you looked okay, not wanting to miss an imperfection. “You look great.” He smiled. “Date tonight?” He asked quietly. You only nodded. “Good luck, then.” You grabbed your purse and coat, ready to walk out when footsteps entered the living room and stopped. “Where are you going?” Sherlock wondered. “I thought you didn’t have plans tonight.” “I made some with Molly. Last minute.” You planned to text her and have her save your life in the cab, if he were to ask her about it. He looked at you up and down. “Molly’s working late tonight. You’re going on a date.” You sighed. You couldn’t keep using Molly as an excuse. “Yes, I am.” You said. You guessed the truth would out itself eventually. “Well, where is he. I might like to meet him.” Sherlock said, trying to be friendly. “I’m meeting him.” “Where?” “His place.” He stayed silent as a smirk crawled onto his face. He looked at you as if he had caught you in a lie; as if he had discovered our darkest secret and was planning to use it against you. “Have fun.” He sat down, pulling out his phone. You made it halfway down the stairs before he called after you. “And be sure to tell Lestrade that I said ‘hello’.” You stopped in your tracks, wide eyed. You turned around, marching back up stairs. “What?” You asked, entering the living room. “Tell Lestrade I said ‘hello’.” “What makes you think I’m going to see Lestrade before you do?” It was weird calling him Lestrade, but you had to keep up an act. “I know you’re going to see him tonight. He mentioned he had plans tonight-a date at his place. He was going to be cooking, of course. Then you two were texting back and forth at the crime scene and here-I just assumed that you two were involved in a romantic relationship.” You stayed silent, not knowing how to respond. You didn’t want to admit that he was right, but you also really didn’t want to lie to your brother’s face. Not just because he could tell if you were lying or not, but because you would feel horrible if you did. You had never lied to Sherlock. Not knowingly, anyway. He took a deep breath. “You could do worse. George is a good man.” “Greg.” You corrected. He stared at you. “So it’s not Lestrade?” You heard John chuckle quietly. You two found it hilarious that he still wasn’t able to remember Greg’s first name. “No, Sherl, Lestrade’s name is Greg. Not George.” “Oh.” He nodded. “Who is George, then?” “No idea.” You spun around, finished with the conversation. “Don’t wait up!” XXXXXXXXXX You knocked on the door as the cab drove off. You heard the clattering of dishes and maybe a swear word or two from behind the door before it opened, revealing Greg, oven mitts covering his hands. “Come on in.” He moved out of the way with a smile as you walked in, taking off your coat. He quickly pulled off the mitts, helping you remove your coat and putting it on the coat rack by the door. You hung your purse there as well, not wanting to forget it. Again. “Sorry I’m little late.” You said, turning to face Greg. You wrapped your arms around his torso and his went around your shoulders as he pressed a quick kiss to your cheek. “It smells wonderful, though.” You complimented. “I hope you’ll like it. I haven’t cooked anything like it in years, so I don’t know if it’ll taste as wonderful as it smells.” He responded. You only hugged his torso a little tighter. “I’m sure it will be fantastic. Is it ready?” “Just pulled it out of the oven.” You grinned, excited, and let go of him, walking to the dining room where plates were already set out. He pulled out a chair for you, pushing you in as well before disappearing into the kitchen, finishing dinner. XXXXXXXXXX Greg was no chef, you both could agree on this (though you never said it out loud-he did), but dinner wasn’t so bad. A little burnt, but you really weren’t expecting perfection. You were both just happy to spend the evening together without having to worry if Sherlock saw you or suspected anything. He did come up in conversation, however. “He will start to get suspicious eventually. I told him I had a date tonight and I shouldn’t have.” Greg shook his head. Dinner was finished and you both sat on the couch. You were leaning against Greg while his arm rested on the back on the couch, both of you ignoring the pile of dishes in the sink “He was already suspicious, and Sherlock Holmes doesn't like to stay in the dark for long.” You added. “What do you mean?” “He knows.” You sat up and turned around, facing Greg. “I tried to leave while he wasn’t in there. He caught me last second and asked where I was going. I tried make Molly my excuse again, but she’s working late and I didn’t know...you see where this is going.” Greg only nodded. “But, at least we don’t have to worry about telling him. He knows. He told me I could do worse.” Greg chuckled as you laid against him again. “I’m glad we don’t have to worry about that anymore.” “Me too.” You agreed. “Now we just have to tell Mycroft.” Greg swallowed. “Do we?” “At some point.” You sighed. “Oy vey.” XXXXXXXXXXX Sorry if this wasn’t exactly what you wanted. I might do a part two for this one, if anyone is interested. Requests are open so don’t be afraid to send some in!

By Any Name (10/11): London II

Chapter Summary:  Back in London, John and Sherlock have a few friends to see...and one old enemy (though they've never been introduced).

Read on AO3

When they finally got off the plane, John was stunned by how at home he felt.

Heathrow hadn’t exactly been a source of happy memories—limping off the plane from Afghanistan with no one to greet him was the worst—but everything was suddenly, absurdly British. From the accents of the customs agents to Costa coffee, it felt like they’d just been on holiday for a few days and were now back to their own world.

Then Sherlock was walking swiftly towards a man in a painfully boring suit with a sign for ‘Mr. Wilson’, and John remembered that they were not quite out of the woods yet.

At least they were English ones again.

John thought they’d be going to the Diogenes Club—it was, after all, a Saturday, the only day Mycroft seemed to have off and the only day Sherlock found him there without fail (if he thought that John didn’t notice Sherlock sending several texts each Saturday with a gleeful look on his face he was an idiot). Instead, they drove deep into central London, up to an oddly normal set of flats.

The boring suit bloke (he didn’t even provide a fake name) stayed in the car, so John and Sherlock went up alone. Sherlock seemed to know the way, not pausing to even check the number of stairs. John followed, suddenly nervous. He’d spoken to Mycroft once or twice on the phone, and sent emails and texts, but he hadn’t seen the man face to face since he’d shouted at him before Sherlock’s funeral. The words ‘biggest disgrace of a brother he’d ever seen’ might have been said.

Mycroft’s flat was on the third floor, the only door in sight other than the lift. It occurred to John that Mycroft must be rich. It made sense—important government position, unlimited usefulness (except in getting his brother to cooperate)…if he was Mycroft’s boss he would give him anything.

Sherlock didn’t even bother knocking, he simply drew a tiny key from under his watch and waved it in front of the peephole. The door swung open without a sound and Sherlock strode in, John behind him.

The flat looked oddly…normal for the lair of the British Government. A small living room greeted them— a chair next to a fireplace, walls of books and a cabinet of odd objects John couldn’t even hope to guess at. There was a door leading off the room at the far end. John glanced towards Sherlock, but before he could suggest knocking Mycroft came through the door, stopping dead in his tracks just over the threshold.

Sherlock stepped forward, his shoulders suddenly tense. “Hello brother.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s face twitched, just a little but enough to make Sherlock straighten his back. John was braced for some sort of lecture about breaking into the flat, or taking too long, or something along those lines.

He was not at all expecting Mycroft to surge forward and pull Sherlock into a tight embrace.

Judging by Sherlock’s squawk, he hadn’t been expecting it either. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake…”

“Quiet,” Mycroft ordered, not letting go even as Sherlock attempted to make himself as angular as possible. “I’ve been concerned.”

Sherlock sighed deeply, but John noticed him leaning into his brother’s hold. “As you can see, we’re both fine. Now let me go.”

Mycroft appeared to notice John for the first time as he let go of Sherlock. He looked at John in that same piercing way he had the first night they’d met, when John had been perhaps a little bit afraid of him. Then he held out his hand.

“Thank you, John. For bringing him back.”

John did not let his mouth drop open, though he came close. “You’re welcome.” He shook Mycroft’s hand firmly, trying to show a little of his gratitude for all the help on their travels.

Mycroft let go and turned abruptly to the bookshelf. “Well, let’s get to business, shall we?” He pulled an old, battered book off the shelf—except it didn’t quite come off. There was a soft click and a section of the bookshelf swung open, revealing another room with a desk, chair and several computers humming quietly.

“Brilliant,” John whispered.

Sherlock glared at him, but Mycroft looked gratified. “I do still need to work from home occasionally.”

Sherlock strode into the hidden room. “You mean you work from here whenever you can find an excuse.”

Mycroft looked like he was going to retort, but John got between them. “Can’t you two stop pretending you don’t care about each other for more than three seconds at a time?”

“No,” came from both Sherlock and Mycroft.

“Of course not,” John agreed, rolling his eyes. “What was I thinking? Can we please talk about this murder?”

Mycroft nodded. He crossed to the desk and tapped a few keys on a modest-looking laptop. The screens around the room lit up with a news article headed HEIR’S DEATH STILL UNSOLVED.

“Ronny Adair, twenty-six, had a fiancée but they broke it off last year when they both came out, still good friends, found dead in his childhood bedroom by his mother and sister.” Mycroft read the facts off with complete disinterest. “He was staying with them for his sister’s birthday—otherwise lives alone in Kensington. Frequent visitor to a lot of the gay clubs in the area, well liked, no known enemies.”

John frowned. “Doesn’t sound like he’s involved in the Web at all.”

“He isn’t.”

“So why would Moran kill him? Does he want to draw us out?”

“As far as we know, Moran is unaware that Sherlock is alive and that you are anywhere other than America,” Mycroft answered. “Moran chose not to follow you because coordination of the Network from another continent would have been a nightmare. Sentiment may have also had something to do with it.”

“Sentiment?”

“Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty were lovers. Didn’t you know?”

John stared at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not. They appear to have had a quiet love affair going on for some time.”

John closed his eyes. “Right, fine. Is there anything else we should know about Moran? Other than that he’ll shoot me on sight if he knows Sherlock’s alive?”

“Any pertinent information was in the file I sent you last night. Did you not read it?”

“He’s a sniper, went bad in Iraq, came back to London, was secretly Moriarty’s right-hand man that we somehow never knew about…also Moriarty’s lover, since when do psychopaths feel love?”

“From their correspondence it appears to have been more sex than love,” Mycroft offered. “They kept La Fiore busy for nearly a year until she refused to be their ‘sext owl’ anymore.”

“Lovely.” John briefly wondered when this had become his life.

“I said dangerous, and here you are,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yes, thank you, I know,” John snapped. Ignoring Mycroft’s bewildered look, he gestured to the screens. “Back to the question at hand—why did Moran kill Adair?”

“Moran and Adair have been seen together at a few clubs; they don’t appear to be lovers but there’s certainly some connection there.” Mycroft waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, this is your chance to catch Moran and have something to pin on him legally. He’s been very careful so far, this is the first murder where he’s actually left some evidence. The gun he used is one of a kind in Europe, at least; Scotland Yard can’t pull it together for that very reason. You give them Moran, and that’ll be it for the Web and for any danger to you two from Moriarty’s will. You’ll be free to concern yourself with little problems again.”

Sherlock cracked his knuckles. “Well, we mustn’t stand about. We’ve got to go see Mrs. Hudson and get her ready for her part—”

“Not to mention telling her you’re alive,” John interjected.

“That’s what I just said!”

“We can’t just waltz in…”

“You can sort this out on your way to Baker Street,” Mycroft said firmly, indicating the door. “Do call when you have everything sorted out, and I will notify the police.”

“We can do that ourselves,” Sherlock snapped as he walked towards the door, “we’re going to see Lestrade…”

But before Sherlock could say when they were planning to see their Scotland Yard friend, the front door opened and Greg Lestrade stood there, more gray hair than before and worry lines etched deeply into his forehead. Nevertheless, he was smiling, but when he saw Sherlock and John all the colour went out of his face.

“Gregory, step in, quickly,” Mycroft said urgently. Greg obeyed, his face slack with shock. John shifted uneasily, the guilt at deceiving their friends he’d been swallowing all year coming into his throat.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Smoking again, Lestrade? Those things will kill you.”

John wanted to strangle him. He thought Greg might be about to, just for a moment.

The Detective Inspector growled. “Oh, you bastard.”

Sherlock wisely realized that perhaps that might have been a Bit Not Good. “Graham, I—”

“Shut up,” Greg said firmly, and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. “You utter, utter, mad bastard.”

John’s throat went tight as he watched Sherlock hesitantly return the hug. “I had no other choice, but I realize this must have been…difficult.”

Greg gave a strangled laugh and let go of Sherlock, holding him at arm’s length. “Bit of an understatement, that.” He turned to John. “And you knew the whole time, did you?”

“Not the first week,” John said immediately. “I swear, Greg, I didn’t—”

This time John found himself being squeezed half to death. “You’re both bastards,” Greg said, voice muffled by John’s shoulder. “Not much of a surprise, really.”

John swallowed around the lump in his throat. He hadn’t quite realized how much he’d missed Greg. “Sorry,” he replied. “We did have a good reason, though, there were—”

“Snipers, one for you, one for me, and one for the lovely Mrs. Hudson?” Greg pulled away, grinning at John. “Yeah, Moriarty was a twat. Good job he offed himself, it’d be a shame to arrest someone for his murder.”

John’s head was spinning. “How did you know that?”

Greg blinked. “The Yard—well, some of us—have been working on it all year, with some help from your Homeless Network and a couple of others. Your names are cleared, you’re welcome.”

John sighed with relief. “Thank you.” Mycroft had told the two of them not to worry about the tabloids and Richard Brook, that he’d deal with them, but the worry had still been there.

“That’s why I’m here,” Greg went on. “We were going to celebrate—although now I see there was more to be glad for.”

“We?”

Greg glanced at Mycroft. “So you didn’t tell them, Myc?”

Sherlock stared between Greg and Mycroft. “What did you just…” His eyes widened with horror. “No. No.”

John caught on. “You can’t be—you two?”

Mycroft blushed.

John shook his head in amazement. “I can’t believe…” he looked at Sherlock and started laughing. Sherlock looked like someone had told him Father Christmas wasn’t real.

“Congratulations,” he finally managed to wheeze. “Didn’t expect that, but…congratulations.” He tried to get a grip on himself, looking anywhere but at Sherlock and Mycroft.

Greg grinned, looking a bit sheepish. “Thanks, mate.”

Sherlock still looked shell-shocked.

“Well,” Mycroft said, clearly trying to salvage the situation, “you two had better get to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson may need some time to recover from the shock…”

“She’s not the only one who’s had a shock,” John said slyly.

“And you will need to get yourselves into position,” Mycroft continued, blush still high in his cheeks.

“Because it’s already past one, and Moran will definitely come to shoot someone before dark,” John agreed. “We do need eight hours to cross the street.”

Mycroft glared at him, but John just smiled. “Come on Sherlock, Mycroft’s right. We should go home. Let’s leave them to their lunch date.”

Sherlock nodded. They left quietly, not speaking as they went down the stairs. John didn’t dare look at Sherlock again.

The boring suit bloke was still there, standing almost at attention next to the car. Sherlock got in and sat stiffly. He only spoke when the car started moving.

“Do you think we’ll get a happy announcement sometime later in the week?”

John gave up and howled with laughter.

*******************************************

It felt strange walking up to Baker Street in disguise, but the last thing they wanted was Mrs. Hudson shrieking on the street—there was still a certain amount of surveillance around Baker Street. John had already spotted two lower-level recruits of Moriarty’s, and almost ‘tsked’ aloud at how sloppy they were.

Glancing quickly at Sherlock—he seemed to have recovered himself, though a strange half-smile, half-frown was pulling at his lips—John rang the doorbell.

A few moments later Mrs. Hudson opened the door. John winced as he saw the increased lines, the weary half-smile, the pain in their landlady’s eyes.

“Can I help you gentlemen?”

This was supposed to be John’s line, but he suddenly found that he could not speak.

“We’d like to take a look at your basement flat,” Sherlock said. His voice had gone croaky.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. “I suppose so. Come in, please.”

They followed her in. Sherlock shut the door with a bit more force than necessary. Mrs. Hudson spun around, clearly about to be indignant, but Sherlock pulled off his fake beard and wig, rising to his proper height. “Apologies, Mrs. Hudson,” he said briskly. “Though I suppose it’s better than gunshots.”

Mrs. Hudson stared at Sherlock, backing up a few steps. “Sherlock?”

John quickly removed his own disguise. “It’s really him, Mrs. Hudson. I know it’s hard to believe—we’re so sorry, we owe you a huge apology, but we’re back now…” he cleared his throat. “Can we come home?”

Mrs. Hudson sobbed and wrapped them both in a tight hug. “Of course you can…I can’t believe it…you’re h-home…”

John hugged her back as tightly as he could manage, closing his eyes tightly. He’d missed Greg, and even Mycroft to some extent, but this woman, their landlady-housekeeper-counsellor…the closest thing he had to a mother…now he really felt like they’d come home.

Mrs. Hudson finally let go and stepped back, dabbing at her eyes. “Are you back to stay?” she asked hopefully.

“We will be,” John said hesitantly. “We need to do something first, and we’ll need your help for that.”

“Of course you do,” Mrs. Hudson smiled. “I’ll get the kettle on, and some food into you, you’ve both lost too much weight. No arguments, Sherlock,” she warned. Sherlock didn’t even bother protesting.

***************************************

Close to nine hours later (Mrs. Hudson insisted on hearing their stories and telling them all the gossip of Baker St. for the last year) John and Sherlock were in position across the street. The old empty house was due to be condemned soon, but the floors were still mostly sound and the top windows looked directly onto their flat.

In other words, it was the perfect place to watch for a sniper.

Mycroft had arranged the rest that afternoon (Sherlock kept texting him asking for ‘details’ about the lunch date; Mycroft had ignored all thirty). There were cops somewhere on the street, a government sniper stationed in case something went wrong, and two dolls in Baker Street.

John thought that part was a bit silly, but Sherlock had insisted that the sniper would need targets. The dolls were remarkably lifelike, and with the curtains partly drawn there was no way to tell they weren’t the real Sherlock and John. Even squinting through binoculars, John couldn’t see Mrs. Hudson, who was positioned in the room behind one of the chairs, moving the dolls every so often to make sure they seemed alive.

John glanced sideways at Sherlock. The other man seemed relaxed, but his jaw betrayed his tension. This had to work, otherwise they would have to keep hiding. Thinking of going back underground, when they had just gotten home…John shook his head. No, everything was going to be fine.

The next few hours passed in absolute silence. John passed the time by trying to spot the Yarders—Mycroft had said six, and he spotted four before eleven—and remembering other stakeouts like this, both during their travels and long before the Fall, when they were just looking for ordinary thieves and murderers. Was it wrong, he wondered, to wish for those times again?

The only thing that made him sure that time was passing was the striking of the city clocks, and even they seemed slow that night. Was it really only fifteen minutes past twelve? John’s legs were cramped, but they had to stay by the window, they had to see where the sniper shot from…

And then there was a creaking behind them.

John didn’t even think; he grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pulled him away from the window and behind the old chair in the far corner. It was a tight squeeze for the two, but it was the only cover in the room.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

This house was the perfect place to watch for a sniper. It was also the ideal place for a sniper to shoot from.

A tall, thin man came in, face hidden in the shadows. He carried a violin case over one shoulder, but John had a feeling the man wasn’t going to play them a sonata.

The man opened the case and began taking out…were those pieces of a Nerf gun?

John watched in absolute shock as one of the most dangerous snipers in the world assembled a child’s toy. Was it meant to be a joke?

And then the final piece was added, a simple metal tube that replaced the regular nozzle, and it stopped being funny.

Because of course, there were no ballistics tests for Nerf guns. Especially not modified Nerf guns. That was what was so odd about Adair’s wounds.

The moon came out for a brief moment, illuminating Moran’s face as he shouldered the gun. “This is for you, Jim,” he whispered, aimed out the window, and fired two shots. Glass shattered twice—once in the room, once across the street and John heard someone scream.

Moran stood, a savage look of—not joy, not even happiness, just a horrible relief. Then Sherlock leapt out from behind the chair, John an instant behind him.

The next few seconds were a blur; Moran was caught by surprise but quite adaptable; he nearly had Sherlock by the throat before John could get the cuffs on him. Even when he was cuffed John had to slam him against the wall to get him to stop struggling. “Enough, Moran,” he snapped. “Game’s up.”

Moran stared at them, wild eyed. “You fiends,” he whispered. “You clever, clever fiends.”

John smiled tightly, hands firmly restraining Moran. “Nice to actually see you.”

Moran’s face worked, then hardened. “I can’t say the same.”

His eyes were dimming, the passion going as the situation sunk in. John looked closely at the man who, only a year ago, had a gun trained on him as he stood in front of St. Bart’s.

“You were his, weren’t you?” John asked, suddenly understanding. Whatever Mycroft thought, it hadn’t just been sex between Moran and Moriarty. At least not on Moran’s part.

Moran nodded jerkily. “From the beginning. Even if he didn’t think so,” he added bitterly. “He’s gone now, so I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

John recognized the tone; that desperate, lonely tone. “I’m sorry for your loss, Colonel,” he said sincerely.

Moran stared back at him in confusion, then lowered his eyes. “Thank you, Captain.”

Greg Lestrade and—oh, lovely—Donovan and Anderson came into the room, guns drawn. “Everything alright?” Greg asked. The other two were staring wide-eyed, and John felt a savage satisfaction.

“We’re fine,” Sherlock said, “although this wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I asked for an ideal vantage point.”

“To be fair, we did get an excellent view,” John pointed out.

Sherlock hauled Moran to his feet, and Greg took charge of him, the sniper putting up no resistance. “Sebastian Moran, you’re charged with the attempted murders of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”

“No, no, no, not for that,” Sherlock moaned. “There’s no need for that. Arrest him for Adair’s murder, he’s the one that did it.” Greg stared at Moran. “Did you now? Right, excellent. I’ll get your statements from you two tomorrow, shall I? think there’s a few people at the Yard who’d like to see you.”

“You also don’t want them thinking you’re mad and seeing ghosts,” John answered.

“We’ll be there, Greg,” Sherlock confirmed.

“For the hundredth time, it’s—” Greg stopped. Then he shook his head. “Only took you half a bloody decade.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Graham,” Sherlock huffed. John snorted.

“Do I really have to listen to this nonsense?” Moran asked.

“Donovan, Anderson, take the Colonel down, please,” Greg said by way of answer. They did so, Anderson sneaking looks at Sherlock and John the whole way out of the room.

“Want to join us for a nightcap, Greg?” John asked.

Greg hesitated.

Sherlock grimaced. “Mycroft is in the area. He will want to hear a report. He may as well join us now.”

Greg blushed. “Right, then.” He started to leave, then turned and looked at them both. “It’s over now, isn’t it?”

John looked around the old, lonely room with the odd gun and the broken window, the remnants of their last battle with their worst enemies.

“It is,” he said in awe. “It finally is.”

“Marvellous,” Sherlock said. “Now let’s go home.”