REBLOGGING THE PRAYER CIRCLE BECAUSE IT’S ALMOST TIME GUYS
Oh, look we’re just sitting here being all professional and—-hang on. What. Is that a…is that a camera?
GODDAMMIT, MYCROFT.
castielandsherlockstolethetardis:
Johnlock’s lovechild. So hard.
OHMYGOD. HE IS USING A JUMPER AS A SCARF. HE IS TALL AND LANKY AND BLOND. HE IS THEIR CHILD. THIS HEAD CANON HAS NOW BEEN DEEMED ACCEPTABLE IN EVERY WAY.
ALSO HE COMPOSES MUSIC
BUT THEN ALSO TRIES TO TRACK DOWN PUPPIES (right? Am I remembering right? It’s been years, but THIS IS WHAT I BELIEVE)
So, is Cruella Jim and Seb’s love child then?
HOLY SHIT YES. CRUELLA IS JIM AND SEB’S LOVECHILD. END OF.
I MIGHT DIE FROM THE GLORIOUSNESS OF THIS POST
detectiveinspectorgreglestrade:
….yes, thank you for the reminder…
arse.
SHUT UP. DDDDDDDD:
NOOOOOOoooooOOOoooooooOOOOOOOO!!!!!!111!!!11!!1111!!!
GREGFEELS. SO MANY GREGFEELS HAGRI;OAHWRGIAHR;OI
Seriously this is my brain at the moment:
A continuation of the tales of what would happen if Bernard Black was actually Sherlock Holmes’ little brother
So…would this be blacklock? Booklock? Either way, I need more of it.
Sherlock stopped mid-deduction as his phone vibrated and sighed, taking it out. For a moment, he just stood there, staring down at his phone, trying to decipher the jumble of letters that presented themselves.
Needsj helsdjppppp -B
John peered over his shoulder, trying to find out what had made Sherlock stop talking. It nearly never happened, especially when Sherlock was deducing. However, a look of slight foreboding seemed to cloud his eyes.
“B? Who’s B?”
Sherlock shook himself and looked back at John. “Nobody,” he said, putting his phone back into his pocket, looking slightly lost. “Where was I?”
“You were telling me about the scratches on the handbag,” John said, eyeing Sherlock worriedly. “Look, are you alright? You look a bit—”
“Nothing,” Sherlock said. “It’s nothing. I just—” he jumped slightly as his phone buzzed again.
“Sherlock?”
“I’m fine,” Sherlock muttered, whipping his phone out again.
HRE WNTS MY THUFMBDDDSSS -B
Sherlock closed his eyes, apparently very stressed out. He thought he had seen the last of…him years ago. He ignored the text once more and slipped the phone back into his pocket, answering the questions he knew were on the tip of John’s tongue.
“Family. Don’t want to talk about it.”
John raised his eyebrows, but ventured to say nothing more on the subject. Sherlock was always touchy about his family. Mycroft seemed to be the only relative he was in contact with, and that too, very unwillingly.
Sherlock opened his mouth again to explain how the scratches on the woman’s handbag meant that the murderer was her brother when—
Knock, knock, knock.
They heard the door open and Mrs. Hudson cry out in surprise. Jumping up, Sherlock dashed down the stairs only to find a black haired man, obviously drunk, being towed to the door by a police officer.
“Is this yours?” the officer asked, jerking her head testily at the inebriated man, who was clutching a bottle to his chest.
“I—”
“Sherlock!” the man slurred, swinging the bottle outward, missing the doorframe by inches. “I…broughtyouthe…p’lice!”
John frowned, looking to Sherlock for an explanation. However, Sherlock seemed to be staring at the man with a mixture of shock and something else that John couldn’t put his finger on. He expected Sherlock to deny that he knew the man, but to his surprise, Sherlock nodded and stepped aside, allowing the man to stumble into the foyer.
“There…see? Toldja I knewhim…” he muttered to the police officer, who simply gave him a withering look before stalking off, muttering about lousy drunkards. “Shedidn’tbelieve—hic—me.”
“I’m sorry, but who are you?” John asked, staring at the man, who was now slouched against the wall.
“Who are you?” the man asked. “And shtop moving. Damn, there’sh twoofya…” he blinked, squinting at John. “Yoursdoesn’thaveabeard. Good. Nashtythings, beards…get…” he swung his arms out again, flailing them about, “ALLOVERTHEPLACE!”
Sherlock stared at him, tightlipped, before speaking in a very low voice. “What are you doing here, Bernard.”
“Lockedout,” Bernard mumbled, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Stupid…stupid Manny.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “What about your other friend….Jan?”
“Fran…and she’s…inastrop.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“C’n I…sleephere? Pleeeeeeeeeease?”
John expected Sherlock to refuse, but was surprised once again when Sherlock nodded. Bernard grinned widely before stumbling forward and into the flat.
“You’re sleeping on the couch!” Sherlock called after him before turning to John, who was wearing a look of complete shock.
“Sherlock, who’s—”
“My younger brother, Bernard.”
John held back a groan. Another Holmes? He already had his hands full with two, but three?
“I—you never said you had a—”
“It was never relevant,” Sherlock said shortly before turning on his heel and leaving John standing in the foyer, making his way to his room, only to find Bernard sprawled out on his bed with one shoe on, fast asleep, his mouth wide open. He crept up by the bedside, reaching out to shake the man awake, only to draw his hand back.
Disheveled hair. Dark circles under his eyes. A scratch on his cheek, which was quite red. Fran had slapped him. His coat was on strange, the bottom nearly ripped. Bar fight? No, there were traces of rust along the tear. Drunk, slapped by Fran, stalked off, caught his jacket on a rusty nail, ran into the police.
Sherlock drew a hand over his face. As much as he declared that he had no time for sentiment, he did…worry about Bernard. His alcoholism was getting out of control, and it brought back painful memories of Sherlock’s own addiction. His loss of control. The way he would do anything just to feed his drug addiction.
Of course, Bernard hadn’t always been like this. He had been brilliant, always dragging Sherlock and Mycroft to the library so that he could pore over books, balancing stacks that were much too large for him all the way back home, babbling on and on about so-and-so book and so-and-so author. Sherlock had actually looked forward to the library visits, as much as he had feigned otherwise. Bernard had been the closest thing he had for a friend as a child and to see him drowning in alcohol made his chest feel horribly tight.
Sherlock supposed being disowned by the family might have had something to do with Bernard’s alcoholism. He had turned up to Christmas dinner, completely drunk and ended up stripping his pants off and mooning their Great Aunt Georgia, who promptly passed out from shock. Out of anger, Mummy had declared that he should leave and never come back, and Bernard (always one to take things seriously) did so at once. He even changed his last name to Black and lost all contact with the family for about six years. All Sherlock knew was that he owned some sort of bookshop and that he spent most of his time getting drunk.
Sherlock turned his attention back to his brother, who was muttering in his sleep, his eyelids twitching. Carefully, he arranged the blankets around Bernard with an unusual gentleness before straightening up.
“Idiot.”
JUST WAIT FOR IT.
Time of death: Ongoing
Cause of death: Overexposure to Cumberawesome
brotherhood of the traveling shirt of sex.
These people are quickly making purple my favorite color.
BROTHERHOOD OF THE TRAVELING SHIRT OF SEX
I’ve always assumed that purple is a sexy color.
Thank you for the final proof.
A continuation of the tales of what would happen if Bernard Black was actually Sherlock Holmes’ little brother
So…would this be blacklock? Booklock? Either way, I need more of it.
