Post by Arctura on Jan 26, 2014 19:47:43 GMT
This is a rewrite of the smoking scene in season 3, episode 3 of Sherlock, "His Last Vow". I loved the interaction between Mycroft and Sherlock, so I decided to keep all of the dialogue, but add more at the end. I hope to write a kid!Sherlock and teen!Mycroft fic in the near future.
It was an anomalous affair. Standing outside in the brisk chill, enjoying an annually permitted cigarette with one’s brother. But it suited the occasion. It was Christmas.
Sherlock remembered the first year this tradition started. It was nearly three years ago, after Irene Adler had first faked her death. They were at a Christmas party and went outside for some air (albeit air polluted with cigarette smoke). The social interactions were suffocating.
The detective said, “Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?”
“All lives end. All hearts are broken,” Mycroft replied bluntly, “Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”
His older brother broke his reverie, putting a stop to any sort of wistful thoughts. “Why Magnussen? He’s hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you hate him?”
Sherlock response was bitter. “He attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets. Why don’t you?”
“He never causes too much damage to anyone important. He’s far too intelligent for that. He’s a businessman, that’s all. Occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil. Not a dragon for you to slay.”
“A dragon-slayer? Is that what you think of me?”
“No, that’s what you think of yourself.”
Behind the men, the door opened, revealing a cross Mummy Holmes. “Are you two smoking?”
They responded simultaneously, quickly obscuring the cigarettes behind their backs.
“No.”
“It was Mycroft.”
Frowning, she closed the door resignedly.
There was a small but natural silence before Mycroft said casually, “By the way, I have a job offer I should like you to decline.”
“I decline your kind offer.”
The aristocrat was relieved. “I shall pass on your regrets.”
Curious, Sherlock asked, “What was it?”
“MI6,” Mycroft said with unveiled disdain (How could he trust those who spied on people for money? They were like him, and he certainly didn’t trust himself.), “They want to place you back into Eastern Europe on an undercover assignment. It should prove fatal to you...I think in about six months.”
“But why don’t you want me to take it?”
“It’s tempting, but unbalanced, you have more utility at home.”
Sherlock chuckled. “Utility? Why do I have utility?”
“You have your dragon.” Mycroft coughed and held the cigarette up to his face. “This isn’t agreeing with me.”
“You need low tar.” Sherlock quipped, adding quietly, “Still smoke like a beginner.”
His older brother let this remark slide. It was true after all; he only took up that nasty habit to find some common ground with his petulant younger brother. It was an effective tool for extracting information. And once more, silence stretched on, pervading the frigid air. Then, Mycroft spoke up softly, unsure, “Also...your loss would break my heart.”
Sherlock choked on the fumes. “What the hell am I supposed to say to that?”
Mycroft simply said, “Merry Christmas.” There was no need for an overly complicated and incongruous admission of sentiment, even on the holidays.
“You hate Christmas.”
“Yes, perhaps it was something in the punch.”
“Clearly. Go have some more.”
Suddenly, a thought arose in Mycroft’s scrupulous mind. “Sherlock, do you remember Christmas all those years ago, here at our parent’s home?”
“No.” The answer was quick, instinctive.
“No?”
“No.”
“I see…”
Sherlock felt the need to elaborate. “I didn’t find the memories useful, so I deleted them. Why? Don’t tell me you’re at that point in life where you’re constantly reminiscing. What was it called again? A mid-life crisis?”
“Very funny, Sherlock. But heavens, no. I was just keeping up the conversation. Something I should learn considering we’ll be spending a lot more time together, considering your...predicament.”
Bothered, Sherlock told him sharply, “Mycroft, as I said before, John and Mary’s union does not involve me whatsoever.”
“If you say so, brother of mine,” Mycroft said, grinning smugly and then changed the topic completely, “Surely though, you must recall the crowning moments. Mummy would share her various mathematical findings, which sounded, even to us with our solid foundations, like complete rubbish. Father would prance about, pretending to be Santa, though he knew we were much too clever, and of course, there was always some sort of crime that night.
I think that was what made it Christmas for you- the chance to apply those skills of yours, and no, Sherlock, deducing the marital lives of our father’s business partners is hardly a worthy cause.”
Sherlock was quiet throughout this anecdote, gears turning in his head. Finally, he said, “It’s not my fault his acquaintances were so painfully obvious. But yes, I suppose Christmas wasn’t all too loathsome.”
“In the winter-” Mycroft started.
“You’re reminiscing.”
He continued, unaffected, “Naturally, the lake was frozen. You would go down there regardless. Creature of habit, I suppose. I knew because when you would come back, you’d have poison ivy on your shins which you tried to conceal by pulling up your socks. Then you'd say you were out 'cataloguing rare specimens for your experiments'."
Mycroft laughed genuinely. “Do you remember what you called the lake, Sherlock?” He was teasing him now.
“I called it an ocean.” Sherlock thought he might as well appease his brother’s whimsies. It was one evening out of the year. “You convinced me of it when I was four. I went along with it even as I grew older for the same reason I did with Santa Claus: I was indulging you...and myself. It was among the few luxuries I allowed, at least, until my drug use.”
“I know. Sometimes I’d follow you down the lane, and see you by the water, dressed up as-”
“Don’t say it.”
“Dressed up as Redbeard, waving a homemade sword at, what did you call them? Rapscallions?” Sherlock scowled. “The lake, the ocean, was your quaint seven seas, in which you were the savior. The hero.”
“There are no heroes. They don’t exist. If they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”
“Is that why you became a detective?” Mycroft inquired, with an incline of his head.
“Don’t you have countries to bomb?” Sherlock asked brusquely.
Mycroft sensed that was all he was going to ‘extract’ this Christmas. “Fair enough. I’m going in.”
Sherlock merely hummed in acknowledgement, and then took a long drag, watching the rings of smoke spiral upwards, hover a bit, and slowly fade. He waited outside for a few moments for his cue. He heard John’s familiar yell from inside the house. The drug must have set in. He would definitely be rewarding Billy for his work. Sherlock stamped the cigarette on the ground and walked towards the door.
“The game is on."
"A Holmes Christmas"
It was an anomalous affair. Standing outside in the brisk chill, enjoying an annually permitted cigarette with one’s brother. But it suited the occasion. It was Christmas.
Sherlock remembered the first year this tradition started. It was nearly three years ago, after Irene Adler had first faked her death. They were at a Christmas party and went outside for some air (albeit air polluted with cigarette smoke). The social interactions were suffocating.
The detective said, “Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?”
“All lives end. All hearts are broken,” Mycroft replied bluntly, “Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”
His older brother broke his reverie, putting a stop to any sort of wistful thoughts. “Why Magnussen? He’s hardly your usual kind of puzzle. Why do you hate him?”
Sherlock response was bitter. “He attacks people who are different and preys on their secrets. Why don’t you?”
“He never causes too much damage to anyone important. He’s far too intelligent for that. He’s a businessman, that’s all. Occasionally useful to us. A necessary evil. Not a dragon for you to slay.”
“A dragon-slayer? Is that what you think of me?”
“No, that’s what you think of yourself.”
Behind the men, the door opened, revealing a cross Mummy Holmes. “Are you two smoking?”
They responded simultaneously, quickly obscuring the cigarettes behind their backs.
“No.”
“It was Mycroft.”
Frowning, she closed the door resignedly.
There was a small but natural silence before Mycroft said casually, “By the way, I have a job offer I should like you to decline.”
“I decline your kind offer.”
The aristocrat was relieved. “I shall pass on your regrets.”
Curious, Sherlock asked, “What was it?”
“MI6,” Mycroft said with unveiled disdain (How could he trust those who spied on people for money? They were like him, and he certainly didn’t trust himself.), “They want to place you back into Eastern Europe on an undercover assignment. It should prove fatal to you...I think in about six months.”
“But why don’t you want me to take it?”
“It’s tempting, but unbalanced, you have more utility at home.”
Sherlock chuckled. “Utility? Why do I have utility?”
“You have your dragon.” Mycroft coughed and held the cigarette up to his face. “This isn’t agreeing with me.”
“You need low tar.” Sherlock quipped, adding quietly, “Still smoke like a beginner.”
His older brother let this remark slide. It was true after all; he only took up that nasty habit to find some common ground with his petulant younger brother. It was an effective tool for extracting information. And once more, silence stretched on, pervading the frigid air. Then, Mycroft spoke up softly, unsure, “Also...your loss would break my heart.”
Sherlock choked on the fumes. “What the hell am I supposed to say to that?”
Mycroft simply said, “Merry Christmas.” There was no need for an overly complicated and incongruous admission of sentiment, even on the holidays.
“You hate Christmas.”
“Yes, perhaps it was something in the punch.”
“Clearly. Go have some more.”
Suddenly, a thought arose in Mycroft’s scrupulous mind. “Sherlock, do you remember Christmas all those years ago, here at our parent’s home?”
“No.” The answer was quick, instinctive.
“No?”
“No.”
“I see…”
Sherlock felt the need to elaborate. “I didn’t find the memories useful, so I deleted them. Why? Don’t tell me you’re at that point in life where you’re constantly reminiscing. What was it called again? A mid-life crisis?”
“Very funny, Sherlock. But heavens, no. I was just keeping up the conversation. Something I should learn considering we’ll be spending a lot more time together, considering your...predicament.”
Bothered, Sherlock told him sharply, “Mycroft, as I said before, John and Mary’s union does not involve me whatsoever.”
“If you say so, brother of mine,” Mycroft said, grinning smugly and then changed the topic completely, “Surely though, you must recall the crowning moments. Mummy would share her various mathematical findings, which sounded, even to us with our solid foundations, like complete rubbish. Father would prance about, pretending to be Santa, though he knew we were much too clever, and of course, there was always some sort of crime that night.
I think that was what made it Christmas for you- the chance to apply those skills of yours, and no, Sherlock, deducing the marital lives of our father’s business partners is hardly a worthy cause.”
Sherlock was quiet throughout this anecdote, gears turning in his head. Finally, he said, “It’s not my fault his acquaintances were so painfully obvious. But yes, I suppose Christmas wasn’t all too loathsome.”
“In the winter-” Mycroft started.
“You’re reminiscing.”
He continued, unaffected, “Naturally, the lake was frozen. You would go down there regardless. Creature of habit, I suppose. I knew because when you would come back, you’d have poison ivy on your shins which you tried to conceal by pulling up your socks. Then you'd say you were out 'cataloguing rare specimens for your experiments'."
Mycroft laughed genuinely. “Do you remember what you called the lake, Sherlock?” He was teasing him now.
“I called it an ocean.” Sherlock thought he might as well appease his brother’s whimsies. It was one evening out of the year. “You convinced me of it when I was four. I went along with it even as I grew older for the same reason I did with Santa Claus: I was indulging you...and myself. It was among the few luxuries I allowed, at least, until my drug use.”
“I know. Sometimes I’d follow you down the lane, and see you by the water, dressed up as-”
“Don’t say it.”
“Dressed up as Redbeard, waving a homemade sword at, what did you call them? Rapscallions?” Sherlock scowled. “The lake, the ocean, was your quaint seven seas, in which you were the savior. The hero.”
“There are no heroes. They don’t exist. If they did, I wouldn’t be one of them.”
“Is that why you became a detective?” Mycroft inquired, with an incline of his head.
“Don’t you have countries to bomb?” Sherlock asked brusquely.
Mycroft sensed that was all he was going to ‘extract’ this Christmas. “Fair enough. I’m going in.”
Sherlock merely hummed in acknowledgement, and then took a long drag, watching the rings of smoke spiral upwards, hover a bit, and slowly fade. He waited outside for a few moments for his cue. He heard John’s familiar yell from inside the house. The drug must have set in. He would definitely be rewarding Billy for his work. Sherlock stamped the cigarette on the ground and walked towards the door.
“The game is on."
