sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXV

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Prompting Part XXXV

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Mary couldn’t think of a suitable response so she turned her notice back to the gift Mycroft had bought her daughter. Her hand traced the dedication before she closed the book and opened another to the same page. For Will. Who proved that who we are isn’t about what we do but what we’re capable of when it’s least expected. “Why expose yourself?”

Mary looked up to see the elder Holmes’ face was impassive, implacable. “As the business with Magnessen no doubt confirmed, Sherlock is my pressure point.”

Mary dipped her head in acknowledgement and waited for Mycroft to continue.

“Sherlock’s always been so … sentimental,” Mycroft continued in a toneless voice. “Were he not, things would be so much simpler, however be that it may, as he has already proven he will protect John and yourself. Even to his own detriment.”

Mycroft’s eyes dropped to the floor, lost in memories Mary supposed, so she waited.

Mycroft finally looked up, focussed on Mary. “Had you actually chosen to kill Magnussen that night, I would have protected you,”

Mary blinked as she processed the non sequitur. “I … what?”

“I want you to come to me if you ever find yourself in a similar position in the future,” Mycroft continued.

“To protect me?”

“To protect you and your family,” Mycroft confirmed much to Mary’s astonishment. “Because it’s the only way I can protect Sherlock.”

Because ultimately that was what Mycroft cared about, and Mary couldn’t blame him for that. “Does he know?”

“That I have come to see you today? No.”

Mary shook her head, ignoring Mycroft’s obvious redirection. “I mean, does he know that you are Amelia Kipling?”

“No,” Mycroft replied, far too quickly in Mary’s opinion. “At least he’s never mentioned it.” The second part of that statement - teased me about it – hung unspoken in the air. “I doubt he’s even aware of the books. Or if he ever was, he’s deleted it.”

Mary smiled, a genuine smile, at Mycroft. “I promise I won’t tell him.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re quite the surprise, you know,” Mary remarked.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

Mary hummed. “Yes. What inspired you to write these,” she asked, gesturing at the stack of books.

The elder Holmes looked as though he was fighting the urge to fidget as he finally answered. “You’ve seen my, our, childhood home. It’s …”

“Beautiful.”

“Yes. And remote,” Mycroft added. “A fertile ground for young boys’ imaginations to grow wild and run free.”

“You’re what? Seven years older than Sherlock?” Mary asked.

“Yes.”

“Bed-time stories?”

“Yes.” Mary didn’t know what else to say on the subject and Mycroft looked as though he’d said more than he’d expected to.
Mary took a deep breath, her stomach twisted but she forced the words out regardless. “If something were to happen … you’ll protect my daughter.”

“What about John?”

Mary’s lips twisted into a parody of a smile. “We both know that he’d be torn between protecting our daughter and bringing hell on whomever was responsible,” Mary replied. “I doubt anything you or I could do would be able to safeguard either John, or Sherlock.”

The lack of surprise from Mycroft paradoxically comforted her. “You’ve already considered the scenario.”

“I deemed it sensible to consider all the probabilities,” Mycroft confirmed. “And yes I will, although I sincerely hope that it need not come to that.”

“I hope my trust isn’t misplaced.”

“Nor mine, Mrs Watson,” Mycroft responded. “I should be going.”

A quick glance at the bassinet assured Mary that her daughter was still sleeping, although it was likely she once more wake up that night. “Thank you for the gift,” she said to Mycroft as she stood up.

“Perhaps something to read to little girls who wake up at night? I always found it worked on little brothers.”

Mary couldn’t hold back a small smile. Mycroft Holmes, British Government, the most dangerous man she’d ever met and a caring, indulgent big brother. The last aspect to the man was something that had never appeared in his background file, never would if Mycroft had his way, which he would, Mary knew.

But it didn’t stop it from being the truth.

A/N: Part 1 of the 'ficlet' mentioned above. Part 2 is in my head and is the other side of the coin to this part, with Sherlock and John.

very lovely, I liked how well they understood eachother and how things are coming along, I loved that the special first editions are all similar to victorian novels, very nice!

I look forward for the second part

Thank you!

I am so excited about this. =D

Thank you - I hope the second part meets expectations too!

Absolutely precious! <3 Loved it so much!

Thank you. So glad you enjoyed it - unfortunately have hit a bit of writer's block it seems but hopefully I shall be back with part two for Sherlock's side of the story soon ...

Second part of this ficlet. Includes an allusion to an ACD story.

When John opened the front door to his garden-level flat he was unsurprised to see Sherlock on the other side. They’d just wrapped up a case the day before, a tolerably – according to Sherlock – interesting case involving a Member of Parliament, a floating duck island and a trained ballet dancer currently performing in a production of Swan Lake. Privately, John suspected his best friend would have been more inclined to label it ‘quite interesting’ if it hadn’t been for the simple fact that the case referral came from Mycroft.

“Sherlock,” he greeted, stepping back to let the taller man in. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“A case, John,” Sherlock replied, irritation clear in his tone. “I need an interesting case!”

“Have you tried Lestrade?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock spat back before lowering his voice when they entered the living room. “Sergeant Donovan picked up his phone and, well, best not repeat what she said in front of innocent ears.”

John rolled his eyes. “She’s only just off six months, Sherlock. I doubt my daughter will be picking up any of your bad habits just yet.”

Sherlock threw him a fleeting smile as he wandered over to peer into the small cot at his daughter, who was merrily amusing herself as babies tended to do. “I wasn’t talking about this little lady,” he retorted. “Although, on that note, research does indicate that at six months old a baby’s communications skills are developing at a rapid rate.

“Admittedly most of it is mostly babbling, squealing and the sort but I’m let to believe that she might be soon capable of repeating single syllable words,” Sherlock continued. “Apparently the done thing is to pretend everything she will say is of the utmost interest, even if it is unintelligible, to encourage them to continue chattering away. One then hopes that in short order, the nonsense will become coherence, although not in all cases I grant you.”

John barely held back a snort of amusement at Sherlock’s tone of voice. “You don’t sound convinced, Sherlock.”

“Well the only empirical evidence I’m aware of, and as you know, John, I prefer to undertake my own experiments and observations, is of Mycroft, albeit many years after the event itself, and we all know how well that turned out. He’s practically England,” Sherlock replied, with a roll of eyes sky bound. “Mummy did indulge him so and there’s video evidence of it.”

This time John couldn’t hold back his amused snort and he grinned. “Come on then, spill! How old was Mycroft when he started to talk? Proper words, I mean.”

“Apparently he was able to string enough words together to order our parents about at the grand old age of thirteen months.”

John’s jaw dropped. “Really?”

“He was always an over-achieving show-off.”

John couldn’t force down the giggle at the sight of a pouting Sherlock. “Sorry!” he apologised.

“Mycroft took great delight in the fact that I was sixteen months before I could do the same,” Sherlock complained and having grown bored to baby-watching it seemed, had flounced over to the sofa and was making a minor production of settling himself upon it. “Said he used to spend a couple of hours each day trying to get me to repeat words with him and how I was pathologically incapable of achieving such a simple task. Although I imagine he was trying to get me to repeat words like cake, sweets and other foods. Why any infant would want to do that, I do not know!”

“Sherlock,” John chastised. “I know Mycroft is a little … overbearing but surely you’re being a trite unfair? Perhaps he was just proud?”

Sherlock merely huffed in reply.

“Plus being a show-off obviously runs in the family,” John teased as he took a seat near his daughter, who was thankfully still happily gurgling away in her cot.

“Well there’s only so much you could do when you grow up where we did,” Sherlock acceded. “We had to amuse ourselves somehow. We used to pretend to act out stories, plays and pretend swordfights and battles until it got boring of course.”

YAY! More! =D

Glad you're enjoying it! Just part C and D to finish editing and post up!

Woo!

John managed to hide his surprise. As well as he knew Sherlock, being one of a very select group of people the consulting detective had opened himself up to, even he knew little about his childhood, how he – and Mycroft – had grown up. Even after meeting Sherlock’s parents the previous Christmas; granted finding the small collection of framed photographs of the two Holmes brothers as little boys at the back of the Holmes’ living room had been an absolutely brilliant discovery. Thankfully neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had yet deduced he’d taken pictures of the photos on his phone and shared them with Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly Hooper. So far.

“Knowing you as an adult when you’re bored, I’m surprised your parents didn’t simply just toss you outside, lock the door and wait until you tired yourself out running around that huge field of yours,” John said.

A smile ghosted on Sherlock’s lips. “They did. Mycroft predicted that one day our parents would resort to such a measure and he snuck out of the house and took me to this little stash of food, water and some books he had put away in one of the dormant burrows in the nearby fields. It was close enough that he wouldn’t have to walk too far but far away enough that our parents couldn’t see us,” the detective recollected. “Mycroft spent the day tell me stories.”

“I’d never have taken Mycroft to be such a regular boy scout,” John commented with a grin.

“Overbearing, nosy busy-body you mean.”

John sighed, deciding that he was in no position to chastise Sherlock for his somewhat misguided opinions about his big brother, whom he obviously did care about on some level even if he didn’t demonstrate it, given his own fractious relationship with Harry. “Why did you come here again?”

“I’m bored.”

“You know, I think you might actually be worse than my daughter,” John observed.

“That’s because she can’t talk yet,” Sherlock replied. “Are you managing to sleep through the night yet?”

John perked up a little. “A little more but that to be expected, she’ll calm down until she starts teething at which point we’ll be right back at step one,” he explained. “We’ve just recently started reading to her when she does wake up, she seems to like it. Not that she would understand a word.”

“Books like that baby book with the caterpillar?”

“Huh?” John was momentarily stumped but then the answer hit him. “Oh you mean the Very Hungry Caterpillar! I remember that from my own childhood … but no. It’s a book series but someone called Amanda Kipling?”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “No, John,” he chastised. “Not Amanda, Amelia Kipling.”

“Right, Amelia. You know the books?”

Sherlock entire body language had changed, leaning forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees and John wondered whether he ought to worry given the look on Sherlock’s face was similar enough to when the consulting detective was facing a serial killer. Gleeful. Intrigued.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied as he twisted his head around the small room and John found himself surprised again that he could read Sherlock’s excitement. That his friend, so reticent most of the time, was instantly readable at the mention of a simple children’s author. “Where are the … ah, you keep them in here!”

Just as suddenly, whilst John was wrapping his head around this new fact about his friend, Sherlock was up on his feet and taking the few steps around the sofa to the small collection of books he and Mary kept in the small built-in cupboards. There was the clatter of wood as Sherlock pulled out the children’s book set and John was entirely certain he heard a surprised and happy sigh come from the taller man.

“John, these are special editions of her books!”

John shrugged. “Apparently so, Mary said something about the set being a mix of first and second editions.”

Sherlock threw him a look. Not the look, the one that said he should know something because it was just so obvious but the look the detective usually threw at him when John didn’t quite meet his expected standards. John bit back a frustrated growl – he hated that look just as much as the other one – as Sherlock set the books down on the coffee table and started to examine the books, inside and out.

Cuuuuuuuute.

“Mary’s right,” Sherlock confirmed, holding one of the books up to show John a page – the dedication page. “It’s a second edition, and this one here,” he pointed to another book, “has this particular mark that is on all of Amelia Kipling’s special first editions. The second editions have a separate mark, and they’re both replicated on the spine of the books too. See?”

Sherlock pointed to a squiggly mark that meant nothing to John, but he could see matching marks in the stack of books on the table. “Okay,” John acknowledged. “It’s a bit pretentious, isn’t it?”

“Of course, there aren’t any third editions of her books, in the special editions print run,” Sherlock explained, ignoring John’s comment. “That makes these editions quite rare to find and own since of course, the first and second print runs were limited too. I think, perhaps, only a couple of hundred copies? They’re collector items!”

“Sherlock?” John asked, slowly. “How do you know all of this?”

“I have all of her books,” Sherlock explained. “A full set of first editions. I solved a case for a book collector a few years ago – run of the mill case in the end, rather boring, but as payment I asked if she could get me a full set of Amelia Kipling first editions. Took her quite a while to track down a full set of first editions but it was worth it. She also makes sure I’m on The List for any future books.”

John couldn’t help but snigger, ignoring Sherlock’s affronted look. “But Sherlock, this Kipling person. She writes children’s books. Aren’t you a little … old for that?”

“Great stories last the test of time, John,” Sherlock answered. “When you’re young, these books, these stories are the means by which you create the world in your mind, your imagination. As great and as big as you want it to be or as small and intimate as you need it to be. And when you’re older … and you go back to that same story. It’s still there.

“The same words in the same order. And you might still inhabit that imagined world just as when you were a child, or, as great stories are wont to be, it will have changed as you yourself have changed and be something new, be something wonderful again.”

“Wow,” John said, feeling a little embarrassed at teasing Sherlock just a moment earlier but in awe at the picture his friend was painting so elegantly. “I didn’t realise you were quite so enthusiastic about fiction books.”

“Not just any fiction books, John. Amelia Kipling’s fiction books,” Sherlock corrected, as his fingers slid over the hardback covers, tracing the embossed gold title script. “Her books are a cut above most of those authors and books purporting to be fiction.”

“So what’s so special about Kipling?” John asked. His interest rose even higher when he saw that Sherlock averted his gaze, was now wholly focussed on the book in his hand, his fingers tracing one of the first pages in the book.

“I, well … you see, John,” Sherlock started to say, verbally procrastinating. “The books, her stories. They remind me of…”

John waited patiently, something he had in great spades when it came to Sherlock, and plastered an encouraging look on his face when Sherlock glanced at him before averting his gaze. Clearly something personal going by the uncharacteristic hesitation.

“The airstrip. In January, John. Do you remember my telling you about the East Wind,” Sherlock said in an apparent shift in conversation.

“The East Wind,” John repeated slowly, narrowing his eyes as he mentally searched his memory. “That takes us all in the end. A terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path.”

Sherlock nodded. “Seeking out the unworthy and plucks them from the East.”

“You said Mycroft told you that story when you were both younger,” John recalled.

“We were both kids, if you can imagine us that young. The first time Mycroft ever told me the tale about the East Wind was when I was learning everything there was about the history of England, of Great Britain,” Sherlock explained. “I’ve deleted most of it now but I do remember reading all about The Great War, the First World War, and Mycroft used the story of the East Wind to explain how a better, stronger land was left once the storm had passed.”

John felt, and was sure he looked, nonplussed. “Right…”

Oh oh oh your Sherlock'a love of what books can do and your canon incorporation with Last Bow is gorgeous!

Thank you!

I've previously read, and when writing this ficlet, I went back to the quotes about stories and storytelling (on Goodreads) which are really rather inspirational. In fact, I'm fairly sure the 'love of what books can do' bit is inspired by a quote I'd read a while back and fell in love with ... although for the life of me I can't find it now! I'll have to have a look so I can credit it appropriately although that might be the proverbial needle in the haystack.

“That night, I had an awful nightmare,” Sherlock continued, very much lost in his own memory. “Mummy was terribly upset with Mycroft for telling me all about what happened on the frontlines. Thought I was too young.”

“How old were you?”

“Six,” Sherlock answered. “Mycroft never repeated the story the same way again. He changed it so while it was still about The Great War, The East Wind now searched for the unworthy – me – to take them from the Earth. I used to tell Mycroft that since he was the one who was always in trouble with Mummy surely he would be the one the East Wind would take, but I didn’t know enough about the art of storytelling to tell the story my way until after Mycroft had left for university and was too old for stories.

“My brother had lots of other stories. I was a terrible sleeper even when I was a kid so Mycroft would tell me stories when I couldn’t sleep. About pirates and knights, Romans and Saxons, dragons and spies and more.”

John blinked. He was stunned at the revelation, lost for words.

“I wager Mycroft would never admit to it,” Sherlock continued, his words twined with both bitterness and yearning. “Sentiment, he’d say in that disapproving tone of his. But these stories, the books Amelia Kipling writes, they’re like a window to my childhood. The tales she weaves, the characterisations of her protagonists and villains, her foreshadowing and clever wordplays. They’re just … like a memory.”

“You’re smitten,” John finally managed to say and he couldn’t repress a grin, ignoring the scowl Sherlock threw at him. “Have you ever met the author?”

“Amelia Kipling is a recluse, doesn’t do book signings, readings or any sort of publicity. What is known about her are mostly rumours,” Sherlock answered. “Her reticence for public appearances is one of the reasons she insists on the run of special editions. But to answer your question, John, no, I’ve never met her.”

“Ah, but you don’t need to meet her?” John declared. “You could deduce her!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s not that simple, John, you know that,” he chastised. “And there is very little to be going on with Amelia Kipling. She seems rather inscrutable. Obviously the visual style and presentation of her books, both specials and mass markets, mean she’s someone who considers the external veneer, the outward form, to be important but not at the expense of the content, the story. She appreciates elegance, quality and good materials, again evident from the format and elegance of the books.

“The only other clear indication we have of Amelia Kipling is through her dedications, John,” Sherlock continued. “They’re all to the same person, this Will. A son or a brother? Younger brother. There’s a tone of affection but also clearly some level of guilt. Take the dedication in this book: For Will. To be absent is not to be without care, nor attention or regard. Lends itself to a brother more than a son. Obviously at some point the relationship between Amelia Kipling and this brother became strained and Kipling has chosen to channel those feelings through her writings but it’s also clear she cares for, loves him.”

“I feel like I need to find you a ‘Kipling’s number one fan’ badge or something, Sherlock,” John teased.

“Really, John,” Sherlock replied in a derisive tone of voice. “Can’t one just enjoy a book without the need to adulate over the author?”

John chose to ignore Sherlock before he started a rant, instead getting up and waving a hand towards the kitchen. “Cup of tea?”

Sherlock made a sharp movement of his own hand in reply but his attention was back on the book in his hand and at this angle, John could see he was re-reading the dedication page, his fingers tracking the text as his mouth silently moved in concert.

John ambled to the kitchen and set about the task of making a cup of tea and also prepping a small bottle for his daughter. A few minutes later, carrying the prepared drinks back to the living room, John was surprised to see and hear Sherlock reading out loud from one of the Amelia Kipling books – reading to his daughter – taken aback not just at the enraptured look on his beautiful daughter’s face but at the contented deep timbre of Sherlock’s voice, the hint of a smile on his lips.

John, quietly and carefully so not to distract Sherlock or his daughter, made his way back to the sofa, set aside the drinks and made himself comfortable as he observed his best friend bring a simple story to life. Brought John and his daughter into the special imagined world he was creating.

Finis

For (R)OP and any others who may come across this, I hope this little story lives up to the beautiful prompt - AA.

THIS WAS SO ADORABLE AND BEAUTIFUL

*applauds*

Thank you *blushes*

OH MY GOD THAT WAS BRILLIANT! Initially I just wanted to thank you anonymously but you deserve more than that.

I just happen to scroll by accident and God I found the most adorable fic I've ever read! If I could just write a detailed review of this fic right now I would but I couldn't because you lost me for words. Okay, I'm a pile of mess. Let me calm down for a sec...

*takes in deep breath*

First, thank you for filling this. The prompt was innovative and creative but you made it spectacular and one of a kind. Now that I started to write fan fics myself, I know how it feels to be in a writer's block. Still, you managed to pass through it and give us a wonderful story and for that I am grateful and in awe.

Second,you've nailed it! The characters, the emotions and I love it that you managed to keep it in canon timeline. I could this totally happen in the series and in fact, this is now added to my personal headcanon!

Third, oh the jumbled emotions I feel right now. It's heartbreaking in a way Mycroft can only express his love for his baby brother through writing books under a pseudonym and the fact that Sherlock adores this "Amelia Kipling" (okay,that was the understatement of the century)touches me right through the heart.

Yet it also....damnnit, tears are falling right now and I don't know why (not kidding by the way)...it also is heartwarming because Mycroft revealed his identity to Mary, of all people,that through the books he wrote with Will in mind, he can continue to love Sherlock in this way by passing on his stories to their daughter(since they're the most important people to Sherlock). Once you get the logic behind, it actually makes sense and strikes a chord somewhere deep in you.

Anon, You've changed my life. Like seriously, I wonder why the best stories that made me laugh, cry, warm and fuzzy inside are fan fictions? Your story made me realize that sometimes, as we grow up, we begin to forget the once who never leaved us and loved us right from the start. How I wish I could share this with my non sherlockian friends. Though seriously, I wish you could de-anon that you may receive proper credit of how an amazing author you are. But I understand of course, if you wish to remain the anon status. Should you however decide to repost this in lj/ao3, you know where to find me and rest assured I'll be your first fan.

Thank you, and have a nice day!

Love, Kathy.

Wow – I’m absolutely lost for words. Have been since I first saw your review. Firstly. Thank you for reading and for leaving such a detailed comment.

I totally agree. A huge amount of kudos needs to go to the re-prompter (who I don’t know if they’ve read this but if they have, I hope they enjoyed it) because the prompt is utter genius. The meme needs more like this than the same old, same old. I’d have never thought of writing this on my own but when I saw it I was just inspired and couldn’t get the Mycroft and Mary scene out of my head. I’m so curious because we didn’t see them interact at all but she’s smart, can possibly outsmart Sherlock – certainly more so than normal people, so Mycroft has to respect that. Spooks tend to.

Ultimately I like Mary as a character – she’s complex and sweet and ruthless and more and I wanted to do justice to that and respect that. Who best to show that with than the man who’d probably lost the most if Sherlock did die on that operating table (because it really isn’t John given Mary and the baby). And how best to show how much Mycroft is prepared to care than to play him off the person who almost cost him his heart. Sorry – part 2 is necessary and I liked it a lot but its part 1 of this story that really got me – if that hasn’t already come across!

I seriously don’t know what to say to your last paragraph but a heartfelt thank you. As a said, it’s all about the prompts – the good ones tend to inspire wonderful writing and this truly is a gem in the rarity that is a Mycroft and Sherlock brotherly prompt. Finally this story (with minor edits only hence why I didn’t post a link for this prompt) is on AO3 – you can find it and me under SStar.

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