mrsmummifikation:

Done. Started as a doodle in a history notebook…  For my favorite crackfic 221b Paw Stories. I’m thinking of maybe doing things like this more often.

I hadn’t seen this! Many thanks. I’m touched :) (but… history class? xD)

{UPDATE} - NUTRISCO & EXSTINGUO - Chapter XXXVIII: Castigat ridendo mores

“I fell like we’re three in the house,” Mary says at last.

Silence. Cathy is staring at her, observing her. But Mary does not feel threatened under her scrutiny. Cathy is her closest friend, yet her gaze can read Mary less easily than some other gazes…

“Which is fine,” Mary goes on eventually. “I actually like it. A bit as if I had moved into a family house or something… There are memories everywhere. And Mrs. Hudson, too, who is not our housekeeper. Who wasn’t their housekeeper, either.”

“Rebecca syndrome, then?”

Mary blinks. Then she remembers the movie and the book and bursts out laughing. “No, God no! Nothing like that. I’m sleeping in Sherlock’s bedroom after all, and–”

“Your bedroom,” Cathy cuts in firmly. Mary stops speaking. “It’s your bedroom now.”

Mary looks down at her tea. “Is it?” she says casually.

“Does John ever refer to it as Sherlock’s bedroom? Does he make you feel like you’re not welcome here?”

“No! No, not at all. John is… great, really. He’s just amazing.”

Cathy groans in frustration and drinks her coffee in one go as if to calm her nerves.

“You’re impossible, Mary.”

“He doesn’t hit me. He doesn’t even force sex on me even though we’re married.”

“Mary! He would have no right to do that! It’d be rape nonetheless!”

Mary nods. “Yes. But it happens. He really is such a wonderful guy.”

“‘Cause he doesn’t rape you? What the hell, Mary…”

“Even in sex he was lovely,” she goes on, ignoring her friend. “Always very considerate. Loving, too. I could tell he was touching only me, trying to please only me, and thinking only of me.”

“What was the problem, then?” Cathy grumbles, clearly tired of trying to understand her ex. “If he’s a wonderful husband and loving and respectful and great at sex…”

“When he was touched, I could tell he saw only Sherlock.”

Her voice is serene and almost tender, but upon hearing it Cathy feels her irritation crumble to pieces. She takes Mary’s hand in hers.

“Mary…”

“It felt a bit like a threesome, you see?” Mary says with a chuckle. “No matter how I touched him, it was as if any kind of deeply rooted feeling or extreme sensation could only be linked to him. As if only Sherlock could touch John, in every sense of the word.”

“Mary.”

“It does feel like home, and I love it here. I love him. But sometimes I feel like I’m playing gooseberry.”

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{UPDATE} NUTRISCO ET EXSTINGUO - Chapter XXXVII

- Lestrade-centric -

“Just answer my question. It’s a simple one, really. Were you truly at your sister’s for Christmas?”

Their eyes locked. Slowly, he saw the tide rising within her pupils, waves of disgust and anger and… scorn. Her face broke into a rictus.

“What makes you think I wasn’t?”

“Please, Caro. Won’t you just tell me?”

“No.”

Greg’s heart missed a beat. Was she refusing to answer still, or was she…?

“No, I wasn’t at my sister’s,” she went on ruthlessly. Her tone was rather sharp, but strangely indifferent. “Did you deduce that alone?” Now it was laced with sarcasm.

Greg swallowed.

“Why?”

“Why?” She burst out laughing. “God, Greg, can you hear yourself? Can you? What are we talking about here exactly? You’re not venturing very far, or you? Not asking what I was doing? With whom? Are you just repeating his very words?”

“Caro, stop this.”

“No, you stop this! You’re not capable of doing your job alone, but can’t you even handle your private life by yourself? God, you’re pathetic.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

She snorted, taking a sip of tea and pushing back a lock of hair behind her ear. “Are you sure that I did? Are you really?” The contempt and the acrimony in her voice, skilfully tempered by her biting, darkly amused tone, almost made Greg wince. “You can’t even think for yourself,” she spat. “You just listen to others, believe what others say, or don’t. You’re like a kid learning sciences, not actually understanding how it works, just learning it all and taking what he’s told for the Gospel’s truth! So you tell me. What do you think, Greg? If I tell you I did not cheat on you, that I just needed a night out and certainly did not want to meet your genius friend to get my whole life read on my face and shoes and handbag and spilled in front of strangers, will you believe me?”

She was walking towards him now, and put a hand on his shoulder. “Will you believe me, dear? Or will you believe him?”

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Illustration by mushroom2020

{UPDATE} - DANCE IS CHEMISTRY - Chapter 30

John gulped as he realized what had elicited the groan. How could he have not felt it sooner? Sherlock was hard. Very hard. John smiled. Slowly, very gently, he let his hand fall to the nape of his lover’s neck and down his back. Sherlock tensed and a shiver ran down his spine.

“Don’t,” he whispered hoarsely.

“But isn’t it painful?”

“Just don’t. Please.”

Not knowing what to do with his hand anymore, John simply let it fall back on the mattress beside Sherlock’s back. Suddenly he felt very awkward. It did not help that Sherlock’s erection was still pressed right above his knee. His throat felt dry. He swallowed.

“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock asked in a small voice, feeling John’s heart pounding against him.

“Anderson in a bathing suit.”

“What?”

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illustration by DaintyMendax

{UPDATE} 221B PAW STORIES - Chapter 14

“Did you want to kiss me yesterday night?” Sherlock inquired casually.

The manul gaped. When he became aware of it, he shut his mouth abruptly, clenching his teeth. I am not having this conversation as a cat. I am just not. Absolutely not.

“John, I’m just asking you to nod or shake your head.”

Still. No way.

“I suppose this is a yes, then. If not, you would have been theatrically hissing and snarling and mewling or whatever you do to throw a tantrum when you want to deny something.”

John could not believe his ears. I don’t do that! I never do that! Why are you being such a twat?

“Fine. Don’t nod, then. I’ll just make a note to kiss you good night from now on, so we don’t wake up with a bad surprise. Not that I find it so bad personally, but…”

He grinned mischievously and John had the sudden urge to kiss the damned fleshy smirking lips. They were so irritatingly close he only had to lean in a little to get closer, just a bit closer… Then he remembered he was a manul and jumped back in horror, letting out a heart-rending whine.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“What are you doing, John?”

“Meow…”

“Very eloquent, John.”

“Meow!” John answered furiously.

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“Meooow…”

“There, there,” Sherlock assuaged him teasingly, stroking the soft fur of John’s neck. The manul growled and bit him. “You’re terribly temperamental tonight,” Sherlock commented without stopping to pet him.

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{UPDATE} 221B PAW STORIES - Chapter 13: Never seek to tell thy love

“Will you stop sulking and just tell me what is wrong with you? We’ve got work, John! Work!”

You’ve got work.

“We.”

Ha! Did you just hear that?

“Of course I can’t hear you, John, you’re not speaking,” Sherlock explained as if he were talking to a very small child. “Now, won’t you just type so we can move on to the case?”

Instantly Sherlock saw that this was not the thing to say. John, who had started to move towards the keyboard, froze. Sherlock tensed a little.

“What are you upset about?” he asked more quietly.

Slowly, the manul started to move again, and typed:

NOTHING. TELL ME ABOUT THE CASE.

Sherlock nodded.

“Well, the situation itself is fairly simple.” His voice was already full of excitement. “For clarity, let’s call A the one who wrote the letter – for Anonymous; M the one who committed the murder – because it is a murder, so there is a murderer; and V the victim, Brad Campbell. On the day before the murder, the police receives a letter indicating that V has contacted A and asked A to kill V in a certain manner, described in the letter. On the day of the murder, the police indeed finds V dead, having been killed as described in the letter. Consequently the police concludes that A = M (the person who wrote the letter is the killer). But it turns out from the handwriting that A = V (the victim is the one who wrote the letter). So, suicide? No: the victim could not have shot himself in the way he was shot. Therefore A = M was wrong. A = V, and M is a different person.”

The manul stared. Fairly simple? Was Sherlock trying to be funny? John repressed a sigh.

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{UPDATE} Nutrisco et exstinguo - Chapter XXXVI

“Are you upset that he’s no longer upset?” Seb suddenly asked one night when they were in bed. That was the only bed in the hotel room. Sherlock had considered telling Seb to sleep on the floor, like he’d done once for John Watson when they had been on a case that involved soap and poison and required that they spend the night in the bedroom of the victim.

But then he had pictured the complete scenario in his mind. Sebastian would pout and sulk and still come in the bed. Sherlock would point a gun at him and tell him to get off. Sebastian would refuse, maybe not openly, but one way or the other, he wouldn’t comply. And Sherlock couldn’t possibly shoot him. Yet.

Since the power play was bound to end up with a loss on Sherlock’s part, he simply got used to Moran’s little theatrics and pretended not to care about him sleeping in the same bed. With time, in fact, he had truly grown accustomed to it, and it really no longer mattered.

“Do you always have to speak out of the blue and out of context in the middle of the night?”

“But you weren’t sleeping!”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“Talking to you is tiring,” Sherlock deadpanned, turning to face the other side.

“What?! That’s so mean, Sherlock!”

Silence. If he didn’t answer, perhaps the other would just get tired of it, too. It would be nice if the sparring stopped at least a few hours a day. Even if, Sherlock knew, it was a fight of every instant in the end. A fight to the death.

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{update!} NUTRISCO ET EXSTINGUO - Chapter XXXV: Aequo animo

or go to Chapter 1

Mary frowned.

“Aren’t you happy to meet me?”

“Well, it certainly is a pleasure,” he retorted, smiling thinly, eliciting a sigh from her.

“I don’t see you making a lot of efforts to see him.”

“Considering that the last time I did, your husband pointed a loaded gun at me, I fail to see how I could be perceived as the hostile one here.”

She burst out laughing, almost surprising Mycroft. Almost. Her laugh too was strange – rather low pitch, full, direct. Quite charming. “I bet you’re not used to it! People pointing a gun at you. John is full of surprises, isn’t he?”

“He is. Did you get used to it?”

They exchanged a look. Mrs. Hudson came back with the scones and a third cup.

“John described you well,” Mary said as she grabbed a scone.

“Did he?” Mycroft replied playfully. He was enjoying this a little too much.

“Insufferable,” she said with an impish smile. Mycroft smirked back.

“I can tell you never met my brother.”

“Actually, I did.”

Mrs. Hudson almost dropped her cup of tea. Mycroft froze. Met him? Did she say she had met Sherlock?

“In dreams,” Mary went on. Mycroft had to refrain from rolling his eyes.

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illustration by A-Little-Night-Music

{UPDATE} Nutrisco & exstinguo - Chapter XXXIV: Genius loci

Poisoned. They were poisoned.

You jump, startled by the clip of scissors. Your head snaps up. You see Mary cutting flower heads from a bouquet in a vase, and putting them to float on water. But something isn’t right. The flowers aren’t yellow. Red. A dream, then.

Suddenly you feel a pair of hands wrapping around your neck. It could have been to strangle you, and perhaps it is. You feel your heartbeats accelerating and close your eyes. Maybe you’re scared. Or maybe you’re already irreversibly aroused by the scent of those hands and the curls you now feel against the skin of you left ear and cheek.

The sound of a vase crashing down to the floor, shattered.

There is glass and water and shards tinged in red – flowers or blood, you can’t be sure. And always the feel of his skin against yours. “Goodbye, John.” Something is falling. A red apple from a tree.

And just like that you are awake, without even a gasp. Something fell, but you’re not sure what. Repressing a sigh, you slip out of bed silently and escape to the living-room.

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