Mycroft Holmes

"I am the smart one." {Independent RP blog for Mycroft Holmes, BBC Sherlock.}

[mycrofttheiceman]

the last time

[mycrofttheiceman]

crimescenesandviolins:

Sherlock’s eyes were fixated on the world outside, despite how it was inducing a severe dizziness that really wasn’t doing his nausea any good. But he’d be damned if he’d grant Mycroft the satisfaction of being looked at.

“You dragged me out of there for this?” Sherlock muttered in annoyance. “Some stupid letters? The rest of my life?” His eyes fell shut and he leaned back in the seat. Could this car be a little gentle on the corners?

Mycroft rolled his eyes. Why did Sherlock not see that he should be grateful for what Mycroft was doing? He was saving him, saving him from another opportunity to possibly overdose. “I’m looking after you,” Mycroft retorted. “And frankly, that’s all I ever do and if you receive it as ‘stupid’ then that’s your problem, Sherlock.”

They were almost home again, but he didn’t feel as relieved as he thought he would. Convincing Sherlock was going to be very hard.

[mycrofttheiceman]

the last time

[mycrofttheiceman]

crimescenesandviolins:

Sherlock rolled his eyes at hearing those words. When was Mycroft finally going to let him decide what to do with the rest of his life? “I know what they are!” he snapped, before turning his attention out of the window. It was actually disconcerting to watch the sidewalk fly by. He was definitely still high.

“It’s not my chance, Mycroft. It’s my choice.”

“You’ve been making a lot of bad ones for the last...” Mycroft chuckled mockingly. “Actually, I can’t remember you ever having made a good decision. I don’t see why I should let you ruin your chances now. You’re still relatively young, if you start your degree now you might be at least slightly recognised for your work. If you wait...”

Mycroft crossed his arms and stared at Sherlock. “Doing it your way has never worked. We’re going back to my way now and you’re going to listen to me this time.” His voice had become angrier and angrier the more he spoke and he had to inhale deeply to stop himself from shouting.

[mycrofttheiceman]

the last time

[mycrofttheiceman]

crimescenesandviolins:

Sherlock flinched at the loudness with which Mycroft had the audacity to shut the door. Couldn’t he at least try to make things a little easier for Sherlock? Apparently not, because this was all his own fault anyway. He shouldn’t be here in the first place, let alone need picking up.

“You always zay you mean it,” Sherlock said, his words clinging together in a slurred mess. “But you can’t actually stop me.”

Mycroft knew Sherlock was going to say that, but he didn’t care whether his little brother believed him or not. He would believe him, because this time he was absolutely adamant. There was no way he was going to let Sherlock out of the house again, not until he was absolutely clean and Mycroft knew for certain he wasn’t going to get himself in a mess.

“I saw you didn’t open any of the letters I put on your dresser. They’re acceptance letters, you know? You’ve been accepted into some of the best universities in the world and you are going. This is your chance, brother mine.”

[mycrofttheiceman]

the last time

[mycrofttheiceman]

crimescenesandviolins:

Sherlock did, in fact, know that. He was very aware of it, actually. Mycroft had made that same point over and over again. Of course Mycroft didn’t care, because it wasn’t an advantage. Sherlock didn’t need to be told that once more, definitely not when he already felt annoyed enough to punch his brother in the face.

For some reason Sherlock had expected it to be midnight, which was why he got such a shock when he exited the building and was met with an obnoxiously sunny afternoon. He squinted his eyes and held his hand up to protect them, while he tried to locate Mycroft’s car.

“Whaz there to discuth… Someone died?” He almost sounded hopeful.

Mycroft ignored Sherlock’s inquiring until they got to the car and he shoved Sherlock into the back. He slammed the door behind him and got in at the other side. “Back home now,” he spoke to the driver, who had been waiting patiently.

He leaned over to Sherlock’s side and locked the door from the inside, which only the driver could unlock. It wouldn’t be the first time that Sherlock would attempt to get out while the car was driving. “No deaths, no,” Mycroft retorted. “Except of course the death of this silly habit of yours.” He shot Sherlock that cynical smile again. “This is the last time, Sherlock. I mean it this time.”

[mycrofttheiceman]

the last time

[mycrofttheiceman]

crimescenesandviolins:

Sherlock only found his balance with difficulty and he hadn’t even tried walking yet. He knew that if he didn’t find a way to walk out of here, Mycroft would find a way of dragging him out of here.

“Az alwayth,” he spoke unclearly. It wouldn’t be the first time Mycroft used those words on him, but over time they’d lost their appeal. Mycroft rarely meant something of actual interest. Usually he meant a discussion that would quickly turn to an argument.

Holding on to the railing tightly he found his way down the stairs, although he had to take a moment with every step, as the staircase was spinning out of control for the most part. “I really waz busy.”

Mycroft stepped behind Sherlock, still holding onto the back of his shirt when he was on the stairs, in case he would actually fall. Sherlock was slow on the stairs and it was added to how annoyed he already felt.

“Has it ever dawned on you, brother mine, that I don’t actually care?” he responded, finally getting to the bottom of the staircase. When all of this had first started to happen, he had wanted to know everything about it. He’d needed to know why Sherlock did it and what he did while he was high. Right at the start, if Sherlock would’ve said he was busy, Mycroft would have wanted to know the answer, but he simply didn’t care enough. Sherlock’s story wouldn’t be worth his time.

They’d walked through to the front door and he leaned forwards to yank it open. “Out you go,” he said, mocking Sherlock with a belittling tone to his voice.

[mycrofttheiceman]

the last time

[mycrofttheiceman]

crimescenesandviolins:

It was always a matter of time, yes. But unfortunately Mycroft’s timing was always peccable. If that was even the opposite of impeccable, which it probably wasn’t.

Sherlock tried to pull away, but in his current state it was hard to tell whether he was even moving or whether the room around him was. That was nauseating, but he tried to suppress it. He’d been lying peacefully on a mattress only moments ago and now Mycroft was having some kind of fit at him. 

As always their shenanigans drew an audience, but neither Mycroft nor Sherlock seemed to care. Well, until Mycroft took a fist full of his hair and literally forced him to keep his balance or suffer the consequences. That seemed to raise some objections.

“Fine, fine!” he exclaimed, his hands moving up to get free. “I’ll walk.” Or at least, he’d make an attempt.

Mycroft’s smile was utterly sinister. “Interesting, isn’t it?” he asked at the little crowd that had began to come and take a look at what had been going on. “Move along.” He spoke to them with utter disrespect. They didn’t deserve his politeness.

He had let go of Sherlock’s hair, but grabbed him by the back of his shirt to guide him along. “Let’s see how you make it down the stairs, shall we?” He almost wanted Sherlock to fall down them, just so he might knock some sense into that head of his.

“We’ve got some matters to discuss.” That wasn’t a complete lie, but perhaps it would pique Sherlock’s interest enough to get him to hurry up. He couldn’t bare to spend a second longer in this dump.

[mycrofttheiceman]

the last time

[mycrofttheiceman]

crimescenesandviolins:

It was always a matter of time.

Sherlock found his way here, dragged himself to the regular spot, shot up and laid there for hours. Sometimes he was thinking and other times–surprisingly–he was not. The latter wasn’t what he did it for, although occasionally it was a bonus. What he did it for was… well, to fight boredom. To have something to do. To fill that empty space in his mind that needed something.

He wasn’t asleep, so he couldn’t be dreaming, but he was deep into the labyrinth of his mind palace. He should really redecorate some of these places. And there were definitely some rooms that needed a do-over. He hadn’t been as good at organising data when he’d been nine and it showed.

He hesitated in front of a familiar door. His old bedroom door. He hadn’t seen it in ages. Sherlock.

He never quite had the courage for it. The drugs were good for one thing, at least, as he raised his hand to the wood.

Get up.

The image flickered, but it refocused and he took hold of the handle to push open the door. This is the first room he ever made and it held some of his oldest memories. Get. Up.

This time the door vanished entirely for a second, but he forced his way back there. He knew there was something behind it that he had to remember, but never had the guts to do.

He stepped into the bedroom, which was so familiar, yet seemed a lot smaller than it’d been when he’d made it. His bed stood exactly where it always had done–covers perfectly made–and the glass on the night stand was half full of water.

You stupid boy.

He was, quite literally, dragged out of his thoughts. He blinked vigorously against the sudden brightness in the room, which probably wasn’t bright at all. He’d just not opened his eyes in hours.

“Oh ‘z you,” he muttered, before letting out a groan. His head was pounding. More importantly, he’d been in the middle of something. “I’m busy.”

Mycroft didn’t care whether Sherlock was in the middle of something or not. He had to get the hell up so he could take him home and if he wasn’t going to at least try, then Mycroft would simply have to drag him down and into his car by his bloody ankles.

“I don’t care what you’re doing,” Mycroft spat, once again yanking Sherlock up from the mattress.

“Get up!” he shouted again, forcefully pulling Sherlock upwards, despite the limpness in his body. This would be uncomfortable, possibly even painful, but he didn’t care. He began to pull Sherlock away from the mattress and through the room towards the door, dragging Sherlock’s feet over the wood of the floor. He couldn’t pick Sherlock up, not without Sherlock actually helping him to do so. “You look damn pathetic,” he stated, before grabbing a fistful of Sherlock’s hair. Maybe that would make him stand up by himself. “Get yourself together.”

[mycrofttheiceman]

the last time

{ @crimescenesandviolins }

It wasn’t the first time he’d had to retrieve Sherlock from a drugs den, but it was certainly going to be the last.

He’d had enough of this. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life running after his little brother, pulling him out of whatever trouble he’d gotten himself into, only to get nothing in return for it. Mycroft had tried, really, from the moment Sherlock was born to make him into the smartest and best little brother he could, but Sherlock had never listened. Sherlock had always been too busy pretending to be a bloody pirate to listen to him.

Mycroft was beyond disappointed in what Sherlock had become. He had the potential to be so great and yet he wasted all of his time on drugs. He wasted away, because apparently the world was too big and bad for Sherlock. But that was nonsense. That was never how Mycroft had taught him to think. If only Sherlock would just listen.

He got out of his car, slamming the door behind him. The car looked terribly out of place in this neighbourhood, as did he. He’d often had remarks thrown at him--among other things--from the lowlife junkies that rotted away in here. By now, he’d become a bit of a familiar face, always dragging his little brother back home.

He walked up the stairs and into one of the rooms. No matter how often he saw it, the blow never softened. “Sherlock,” he spoke, but his voice was void of compassion and instead was cold. Seeing his brother like this hurt, but today it made him angry. Today he was going to put an end to this.

He stepped towards Sherlock and uncurled his fingers. In the palm of his hand was a crumpled piece of paper with a list on it, telling him what Sherlock had taken. He scanned it, then shoved it into his pocket and leaned down. “Get up.” He knew Sherlock had taken too much to be able to move properly now, but he wasn’t going to sit here and wait for the effect to wear off. He didn’t have the time for that. “Get. Up.”

He dragged Sherlock’s heavy body up from the mattress. “You stupid boy.”

[sherlockspeare]

[codenameantarctica]

Mycroft - being essentially naked due to lack of jacket

[castielsprofoundbees]

When you’re bored but there’s nothing to eat

[marvelzupp]

Credit to artist: @whimsycatcher on Tumblr -

GO TO @ GAYLOCKED ON INSTAGRAM AND READ THE CAPTIONS ON THIS PICTURES! -

~OR~ go @ Marvelzupp on Wattpad and read them. They are A1 one shots💕

[mycrofttheiceman]

probablyaskingforit:

Sherlock really had hoped to trick Mycroft into seeing it move, as that would mean the figure wasn’t actually there and something else was causing them to see it. That would definitely be the preferred explanation right now, despite it meaning they were likely drugged.

“No, I can’t,” he replied bitterly. Mycroft had understood what it meant too. “It happened in this house. Do you think that matters?” What could they possibly base that answer on? Still, it was a line of thoughts worthy to get followed through, even though they couldn’t conclude anything.

He looked at Sherlock when he said that and he crossed his arms. “That... that probably does matter,” he then said. “You’re not the only one with sentiment in this family.” He looked at their father and suddenly stepped towards the back door. With shaking hands, he opened it.

“What do you want?!”

[mycrofttheiceman]

probablyaskingforit:

The first thing Sherlock thought to do was quite simple, and yet he was terrified to learn the result of it. “Where’s he going?” he suddenly asked, taking a step towards the windows, but no more. In reality their father hadn’t moved a single step in any direction. With his eyes he followed a trail that the figure of their father wasn’t making. “I-I think he might be coming this way,” Sherlock concluded.

Mycroft frowned a little when Sherlock spoke like that. He looked at the window, where he could see their father standing perfectly still. “I can’t see him moving,” he whispered to Sherlock. “You can’t either, can you?” That was a test. So he was really there. But how?!

[mycrofttheiceman]

probablyaskingforit:

“You go out there and tell him that, will you?” Sherlock asked. No matter that it was the truth, their father obviously had other ideas on the matter and now they were left with a very hard problem that neither one of them had the skills to solve. What on earth could they use against this apparition, when it defied the very logic they used to get by. “There has to be something,” Sherlock stated. “But we’ll need to experiment.”

He looked at Sherlock when he said that, before nodding. He agreed that experimenting was probably the only way to find out what was going on.

“Any ideas?” he then asked, being more preoccupied with not freaking out than needing to be the clever one right now. Because he was quite sure that they both felt desperately stupid for not knowing what was going on and not knowing that these things even existed and that they were possible.

[mycrofttheiceman]

probablyaskingforit:

Sherlock figured he should give Mycroft the exact words he’d been told earlier that day. They haunted him, so even without the use of his mind palace they weren’t hard to recall. “He said: ‘Finally you’ll get what you deserve. You’ll regret what you did.’” Sherlock continued to look outside at that familiar face that seemed to be looking straight back at them. “Then he went on to whisper something about the ultimate punishment.”

He wouldn’t take his eyes off their father. “Which was what?” he asked, swallowing hard. He could see that their father was pleased while looking at them, as there was a grin on his face, as if he was enjoying the sight of their fear.

“What happened was an accident,” he then stated, towards Sherlock. “You meant to make him stop, but you never meant to kill him,” he added. “You hurting him in the first place was not a thought through action. It was impulsive... And then we did what we had to do.”

[mycrofttheiceman]

probablyaskingforit:

Sherlock turned on his heels in an instant, while focusing on the figure in the gardens, its face white in the darkness. He took a step closer to Mycroft, which was a purely instinctual thing to do and not something he was going to comment on.

“I see him,” Sherlock replied, trying to sound factual. “But he can’t be there. Can he?”

He pressed his back against the wall and looked at Sherlock shortly, his heart racing. He shook his head. “No... not at all, but he is.” He breathed in deeply. “Should I call for back up?” he asked. But Sherlock had said that nobody could see it, so how was that going to be useful?

“What exactly did he say to you?”