Sherlock has always loved animals. Dogs and bees in particular. Mycroft did not share his little brother’s fascination with the creatures. He liked to be superior and moving people around like pawns on a chessboard. Besides, he was allergic to dogs, bee stings, cats, and sentimentality. The latter diagnosis was set by Sherlock.
Even when Mycroft left his childhood home for university, way earlier than his peers, Sherlock couldn’t persuade their parents to buy a dog.
“Myc comes home during the holidays, darling,” their mother said. “I won’t have him all puffy and sneezing when he visits.”
So, Sherlock played with the neighbour’s dog, Redbeard instead. He followed the boy everywhere. They were best friends.
***
He eventually moved out to attend uni at Cambridge, and for decades he only encountered dogs that were walked by their owners in the streets or the parks. After Redbeard’s death, Sherlock felt an emptiness in his heart, and whenever he got a glimpse of red fur, he winced.
When he moved to London and Baker Street, he realised that the dream of getting a dog was further away than ever. It would be cruel to leave an animal in the flat for hours on end when he ran around catching criminals, never knowing when he would get home. Sometimes, it took days before he returned to 221B.
***
John was by many called Sherlock’s pet, his loyal dog. They both bristled at that ludicrous assumption.
“People are idiots. None of them know you for real, not to mention what you mean to me, John” Sherlock reassured his beloved blogger when he got in a strop.
“I know, love. It’s just so presumptuous, and undignified. As if all I’m good for is – “
Sherlock stopped John’s tirade by cradling his face in his hands, kissed him deeply, and by doing so explicitly saying:
You are my everything. My conductor of light. My best friend. My lover. My soulmate. My John.
***
“You are like a weed; impossible to get rid of,” Sherlock murmured good-naturedly.
The Irish setter, Reginald, John called him Reggie, looked up at him with dark brown eyes, and wiggled his tail happily.
Sherlock had never told John that Reginald was Mycroft’s middle name. If his brother had still been alive, he would’ve scoffed at the well-established abbreviation of his name.
“Stay, Reginald. I don’t want a bee to sting your nose. Besides, you will make me trip when you walk between my feet. We both know how John will react to that, don’t we,” Sherlock said sternly.
He walked towards the beehives and made sure that the dog stayed as commanded.
A bark was the dog’s response.
“Good boy,” Sherlock praised when he returned, and scratched him behind his ears.
***
“Should I be jealous?” John asked when they sat on the sofa after dinner.
“Beg pardon,” Sherlock said and looked bemused at his husband.
“Me. Jealous. Of him,” John clarified and pointed at the bundle of mahogany coat at Sherlock’s feet. “You don’t need slippers or woollen socks as long as you’re sitting here. He’s more resistant than the weed I filled the wheelbarrow with today.”
“John,” Sherlock hummed in that way of his. “I married you and not the dog.”
“Fair point, I guess,” John grumbled, still not entirely appeased.
“I rather like it when you’re jealous, you know,” Sherlock said, lowering his voice an octave. “It makes the sex far more…dedicated than normal.”
“Are you saying I’m not dedicated on a regular basis?” John teased.
“I wouldn’t dare. In fact, you are fanatically devoted to me in every possible way; just how I prefer it.”
John’s laughter was still addictive, just as it had been all those years ago.
Sherlock stood, reached out his hands to John, and pulled him in for a tight embrace.
“Reginald,” he warned, when the dog started to whine.
The dog looked over at John for support.
“Go find your bed, Reggie,” John said firmly, but not unkindly. “You can’t follow him everywhere. Sleep tight. I’ll give him back to you tomorrow.”
Reginald gave a deep sigh, tried again to get some scraps of sympathy. When none was forthcoming, he padded over to his comfortable bed by the fireplace and curled up with his stuffed bee between his paws.
“He’s such a baby,” John whispered fondly.
Sherlock hummed in agreement and led the way to the bedroom, his heart full of anticipation. John’s jealousy was still discernible…
I had not wholly abandoned hope when they met. Rather, my expectations for Sherlock had leveled, after years of relentless slopes of variable incline. The previous twelve months had offered a tenuous reprieve—stable, working, clean. A fragile plateau, perhaps, but one I was determined to uphold with every resource at my disposal.
Enter Dr. John Watson, an unassuming presence where I had foreseen only solitude. That very day, I had him shadowed, captured and questioned in a draughty warehouse. His response was neither frantic panic nor reckless bravado, but a quiet, immovable resolve—an outlier steadfastly holding his ground. Within hours of their meeting, he had taken root at my brother’s side, a stubborn shoot in barren soil.
Years on, through storms that would shatter lesser bonds, he endures. Like a weed, Watson defies eradication, thriving in the cracks of Sherlock’s chaos. I once deemed him an intrusion, an overgrowth to be pruned—yet now I see how he braces the earth beneath my brother’s feet, easing a burden I long carried. I intend to safeguard the ground remains untamed, a domain where this unforeseen companionship can take hold.
Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial using the prompt #FFF297 - like a weed. It is a continuation, sort of, last week’s submission. Thank you for this prompt. I get to squeeze my brain of possible ideas. Anyway, this is a sequel no one is waiting for. 😈. This is an alternative universe. No spoilers herein.
—
Fandom: Yatagarasu: The Raven Does Not Choose Its Master
The young woman beamed at her father, of a job well done.
“Of course, Father, though I am not sure if having him as my boyfriend will make you happy.” The friendly smile was replaced by something sinister. “But through this way, you can keep him in check, to keep him connected with our family, to you especially. You can never let him go, can you?”
“Hime, I don’t know what you are talking about.” Nazukihiko furrowed his brows. This only child of his hadn’t failed to give him a headache ever since she was born. A true spoiled brat that was pampered by her mother, the Lady Hamayū, and her godmother, Lady Masuho no Susuki, Hime was a pretty little thing whose world seemed to revolve around her. The first time Nazukihiko saw her after she was born, she took his breath away. She was his carbon copy, thus raising her wasn’t easy. Hard-headed and independent, she was eager to leave the nest only to return and be reminded of her own failures, which she solved with drugs, alcohol and bad company.
It made the situation worse after his separation from his wife a few years ago. He rarely saw his daughter. If he did, tensions escalated. Pain that was left unsaid started to brew and exposed the wounds from this misunderstanding.
“But I know you do, Father. It is all right. We can share him.” She squeezed his left shoulder and grinned. “Well, I have to go. Yukiya is waiting outside.” She waved her hand to say farewell and hurriedly left his office.
Hearing his daughter’s receding footsteps, he cursed the day she and Yukiya met each other for the first time. No, he cursed his return.
Hime met Yukiya on the day Nazukihiko threw a party to celebrate the three Michelin stars. À la maison was jam-packed, filled to the brim as they say, of well-wishers and Nazukihiko’s crew.
Returning from the school she barely visited, she noticed a youthful-llooking man who never left her father’s side. He drank his wine occasionally. He stood there looking from left to right anticipating potential troublemaker who would steal her father’s limelight. They were having a private conversation when there were no guests to congratulate her father. It stopped her from coming closer to them.
“Look here, Mr. Mystery Man…” Desperate to catch his attention, she licked her lips and twirled her long black hair until an older woman with ginger mane broke her reverie.
“A penny for your thoughts, my dearest niece?”
“Aunt Masuho, who’s that guy next to my father? Did my father employ a dashing bodyguard? When did he have one after Uncle Sumio left him years ago?”
The joy on her face faded as soon as she realised Hime’s object of desire.
“That’s lieutenant general Yukiya Kitayama. An old friend of your father’s. He sticks with him like a weed, for better or for worse, mainly for the worse.” She drank her wine too fast that triggered the coughing.
She began to massage Masuho’s back. A few people glanced at their way that made Hime giggle.
“Stop! We are making a scene.”
The way Masuho spoke about him agitated her so much. “What did he do to you, Aunty? He looks so cute.”
“Ugh, not you too.” She mock-slapped her forehead.
“What? Why? Who else? Hey, now, you must tell me everything you know about him.” Hime’s eyes went wide open highlighting the purple sheen of her irises.
“No need. He’s coming here,” Masuho swallowed the rest of her wine and was about to leave when she heard someone call her name.
“I was wondering if it was the Lady Masuho who kept on looking at me. It turned out it was really you. How are you? How’s Sumio-san?”
“Yukiya… Have I changed so much? Sumio is doing fine.”
“No you haven’t. You are still one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever encountered in my life.”
They greeted each other with their kisses not reaching the other’s cheeks.
“I haven’t seen you in a long while.” Is there sadness in his eyes?
“I was sent to Okinawa for my first assignment then I had a stint somewhere in Africa and Palestine. I just came back from Osaka,” Yukiya explained. “But I heard that Nazukihiko’s restaurant just earned his three stars, and I couldn’t resist taking a vacation and see him to congratulate him in person.”
“That’s my father…” Himemiya said. Was she so uninteresting that this Yukiya refused to look at her?
“I know. The resemblance is uncanny. From your height to the cut of your face. It is Nazukihiko 20 years ago.” He said matter-of-factly. He hardly paid her attention and resumed talking at once to Masuho.
He treats me like I don’t exist.
“I am Hime, if you want to know.”
Yukiya took her hand and shook it. Shortly after that he said his goodbyes and left the two women and went back to Nazukihiko’s side.
“Auntie Masuho, what’s up with that guy? And what is his relationship with my dad? He doesn’t leave his side.”
She saw him hold her father’s arm, lingered there and whispered something at his ear. It was so intimate that it crushed her heart. Yukiya smiled. Nazukihiko laughed and waved at his daughter gesturing her to come to him.
“Maybe it is too late to say this, but for your sake, don’t involve yourself with Yukiya.”
“Huh?”
“He’s the thorn between your parents. He’s the reason your mother isn’t happy at all. Now, go to Nazukihiko.”
When Hime’s father formally introduced them, Yukiya’s behaviour was more different. He was friendlier and more accommodating as if the man she met a while ago was another person. It disturbed Hime but it also intrigued her.
What are the adults hiding?
It was the beginning of her own fascination with Yukiya. She found out that he didn’t have romantic relations at the moment. He was presently staying at his grandparents’ mansion in Tokyo. Following the footsteps of his male relatives who held several important positions in the military, he was slowly making a name for himself.
An idea came into her head: she would court him to death. After all, what Hime wants, Hime gets. The sooner the better.
A/N: Fic for the latest prompt from @flashfictionfridayofficial
“He’s growing like a weed…”
The words come naturally, Juliette’s smile softly fond even as she focuses on the boy and his mother, not entirely sure why she looks at her with such confusion, before…
“Sorry, must be a down deep saying…”
Camille hesitates, then, smiling, accepts it as truth.
“Must be….”
There’s peace, of course, the boy’s childish glee and laughter bringing a smile to both their faces as they watch him with the few friends he’s made, Juliette’s fingers tangling together a little before she speaks again, almost awkwardly.
“Thank you…. For everything.”
“Of course. Bernard was always a shithead…. You just gave us a reason to act up.”
A pause then Camille smiles.
“The rebellion grew like a weed you know, second they sent you out there… nobody wanted to believe he’d won.”
“He didn’t… in the end.”
“You did.”
Camille’s voice softens.
“You did.”
