“We have much to learn from the flowers… what a lovely thing a rose is”
thanks for all the amazing work you do, guys! happy holidays!!
flashback #4 - 24 September 2005
Notes: Warning for alcohol consumption and speculated drug abuse. Also on LJ.
The most attractive human being John Watson has ever seen is on the dance floor right now. That is not something John thought he would ever think in a gay bar.
Probably it’s the drinks that’ve done it, he thinks. He’s lost count of how many he’s had. He holds his liquor well, so not too many, or maybe too many. What’s the difference? Drinking by yourself in a gay bar is a lonely pastime anyway. Some might even call it pathetic. He wouldn’t. Not tonight. Special occasion. Doesn’t do this often. Not going to end up like his sister, whose freshly minted marriage is already fracturing under the strain of alcoholism.
A few times, he’s caught himself thinking that Clara, Harry’s wife, is the most attractive human being he’s ever seen, with her forget-me-knot eyes and yellow hair and blinding smile. Always wondered how Harry’d managed to snag her—Harry, who has never known how to take care of beautiful things. But that doesn’t matter right now, because Clara has been stripped of the honor of most attractive human being he’s ever seen. At least, she has after a few beers.
The current holder of the “most attractive human being John Watson has ever seen” title is dancing alone in a somewhat spastic way, his hand sometimes flipping up the hem of his loose white T-shirt to reveal a flat stomach and too-pronounced hipbones. His dark, curly hair is damp with sweat, his almond-shaped eyes closed, his full lips slightly parted. John, who’s a doctor when he’s not doing a passable imitation of an alcoholic, knows a drug addict when he sees one, knows by the man’s almost translucent skin and the jerkiness in his movements. Can’t tell if he’s on anything presently, though. Maybe, maybe not. John wants to lick him.
Flashback #3 - 25 September 2005
Notes: Warning for discussion of drug abuse, prostitution, and suicidal ideation.
Cold and rain. Autumn in London yields nothing but cold and rain, year after year after year. Almost enough to make one want to relocate, but there’s nowhere else in the world for Mycroft Holmes, so he merely makes sure to always carry an umbrella.
At the moment, Mycroft would actually like nothing more than to relocate himself—not from London entirely, but at least a few streets over to a more reputable area. The people here are not his people: they are stragglers and strays and whomever else walks the streets of London early in the morning. The sky is just beginning to lighten around the edges, and yet women in chintzy dresses and men in too-loose trousers still teeter around on the sidewalks looking vaguely intoxicated. And here Mycroft stands, in front of his car, with his suit, his umbrella, and his pocket watch. At least he had the good sense to ask his driver to stay inside the car, behind tinted windows. A visible chauffer would only attract undue attention.
“Not your part of town, old man!” some drunk passerby calls out, to his date’s amusement. (Mycroft will do the lady a courtesy and assume she’s his date, although he reads something different in her makeup.) “Keep on moving. Not your part of town.”
“Oh, believe me,” Mycroft says under his breath, “I know.”
The question references a previous text asking about their “most memorable kiss.”
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—mikey, lemme try the thing on you.
—what thing, sherlock?