The day Sherlock gets kicked out of his flat in Montague Street - because of another experiment gone awry - turns out to be a lucky one. Seen in hindsight, he sometimes thinks that destiny was involved.
Meet Mrs Hudson at 221 Baker Street in one hour. M
Normally, a text from his patronising brother, would be just another pest, but today Sherlock can admit that it is (almost) welcome. The deciding factor is of course the lady’s name. He still has fond memories from the trip to Florida when he ensured the demise of Martha Hudson’s horrible husband.
One hour later, Sherlock finds himself outside a black door, his violin case in one hand, and a leather bag in the other. Mycroft will make sure his other belongings are taken care of, like he has done too many times to count at this point.
“Sherlock, dear!” Mrs Hudson exclaims when she appears in the doorway after he has rung the bell.
“Hello, Mrs Hudson. I heard you wanted to – “
“Come in, for goodness’ sake. You’re letting the heat out. I have a hip, mind you,” she scoffs.
“It seems to me that you have a pair,” is on the tip of Sherlock’s tongue, but he manages to keep his thoughts to himself for once.
After tea and frankly delicious biscuits, the elderly lady brings him upstairs to 221B, which apparently is for rent. The sum she wants for it is ludicrously low at best – a clear hint that Mycroft has more than the tip of his umbrella into this – but who is Sherlock to complain? He’s homeless, and the location is excellent.
“I want you to find a flatmate, though,” Mrs Hudson informs him when he’s decided that this will be his home for the foreseeable future; the place both fits and suits him – it feels like home.
“What on earth for?” Sherlock asks. “I’m used to living alone, and I don’t want some idiot – “
“Those are my terms, young man!”
The unexpected steel in his landlady-to-be’s voice, puzzles him, but his scrutiny tells him that she won’t budge. He sighs dramatically, rolls his eyes so hard they hurt, and flops down on the sofa.
“Fine! I had no idea you were former MI6, but I guess I should have figured that out when Mycroft got involved.”
All he gets as an answer, is a quirked eyebrow and the hint of a smirk.
***
The moment Sherlock lets his eyes roam over John Watson after Mike has introduced him, he knows that this man is the answers to his predicament.
Finding someone willing to share living space with a mad scientist as Mrs Hudson calls him, is challenging. Sherlock places an advertisement in the papers - very old-fashioned for him - but needs must. He lists the qualities he thinks will be useful for him, and him alone. It never occurs to him that he’s addressing people of the 21st century and not 1950s housewives.
“None of them are willing to be in charge of the grocery shopping, the laundry, and cleaning,” Sherlock tells Mike. “At least, I think not. No one has answered the advertisements.”
“Really? I’m shocked!” Mike retorts sarcastically.
Sherlock scowls at him and returns to his microscope.
Hours later, shortly after Molly has left to get him coffee, Mike walks into the lab again, bringing John into Sherlock’s life.
Before he asks where John has served, a thought hits him: “His wings are broken, and yet he stands there as if he’s determined to fight back anyone who dares to challenge him.”
And challenge him, Sherlock does. John in turn, does not disappoint, but challenges Sherlock back.
“I could kiss him!” Sherlock contemplates.
***
The way John licks his lips at Angelo’s on their first “date”, tells Sherlock that one day soon, he will seize the opportunity and claim John’s gorgeous mouth with his own.
Their first chance elapses when Angelo interrupts their fit of laughter by bringing John’s cane back. John hesitates just a bit too long when he returns, and Sherlock’s valour dissolves.
There’s no stopping them the night John shoots Jeff Hope, though. All through dinner at Sherlock’s favourite Chinese restaurant, the tension between them has been building. Whenever John licks his lips, which happens frequently, sparks of desire ignite in Sherlock’s spine. He squirms in his seat because of his growing erection, and he’s certain his face is flushing profusely.
“Hot in here, isn’t it?” John remarks. “If you’re finished, we – “
“I am!” Sherlock interrupts, stands, and wraps his Belstaff around him to hide the bulge in his tight trousers.
John chuckles and follows him out into the cold winter night. Sherlock welcomes the wind cooling his cheeks, and after a minute of walking, his trousers are more comfortable to move in.
How they manage to make it up the seventeen steps before they devour each other’s mouths, will remain a mystery. It’s all a bit of a blur to Sherlock. The moment John pulls Sherlock closer; his penis is rock hard once more.
“John,” he moans. “John.”
He’s slightly embarrassed that his extensive vocabulary eludes him. John however, has no trouble vocalising his opinions.
“Christ, Sherlock. Do you have any idea how hard I am for you right now? You are the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen in my life. Fuck, yeah, that feels so good. Your mouth, Sherlock, it should come with a warning sign.”
Finally, Sherlock’s mind comes back online again.
“Take me to bed, John. Please.”
“God, yes! And Sherlock?”
Sherlock looks down at John with wide eyes, trying his damnest to focus.
“Yes, John?”
“When you’re not busy kissing me; keep talking. Your fucking voice! God.”
“Oh, John,” Sherlock purrs, and concludes that his flatmate’s mended wings are about to unfold, enveloping them both in a cocoon of desire, bonding, and devotion.
I apologise in advance that the situation that develops in this fic is unresolved!
Fandom: Thunderbirds
Characters: Virgil, John, Gordon
Rating: General
Warnings: No major warnings! Thunderbird Two in peril. Explosions.
Word Count: 763
“Thunderbird Two, I’m detecting an aircraft approaching your position,” John reported from Thunderbird Five.
This was surprising for a number of reasons. The first being that the narrow canyon in which Virgil was fighting to keep his ‘bird at a steady hover above Gordon and the rescue cradle was subject to violent, unpredictable wind gusts. Flying in the canyon was hazardous at the best of times, and today the wind was strong.
A second reason was that the GDF had already stated their ETA was some way off yet.
“Friendly?” was all Virgil managed in response as he concentrated on minute adjustments to VTOL thrust.
“Unclear. I am unable to ascertain any identifying markings or signals, and there’s no response to any attempts at communication.” The note of concern in John’s voice, undetectable to most people, but impossible to miss for his brothers, spoke volumes. “It’s approaching fast. Should be with you in less than a minute.”
“That’s all I need,” Virgil mumbled to himself before giving his official response. “FAB.”
He was relieved that decision to lower the rescue cradle to the ground and detach the winch cables had already been made. It wasn’t the ideal way to load and secure people into the seats, but it would mean Gordon could get their five hapless hikers secured without the cradle rocking violently from every small twitch Two made above. It shouldn’t be long now until Gordon gave the okay to re-lower the cables ready for extraction.
But the call Gordon gave over the comms was far from what Virgil was expecting.
“Virgil, I have eyes on your bogey aircraft, coming in fast and armed! Get clear! Repeat, get clear of the canyon!!”
His instrumentation confirmed what his younger brother had yelled. Aircraft coming in from above and behind, slightly to starboard. At the same time Two was buffeted by a gusty headwind. Two wasn’t built for evasive manoeuvres even when space was not so limited, so all Virgil could do was blast the VTOL and climb as quickly as possible, and do what he could to avoid the rocky walls on either side.
“Weapons fire!”
Something exploded somewhere to starboard, buffeting Two sideways and forcing the port wing into the cliff face, grinding and tearing against the remaining five meters of rock until she reached clear air.
Warning lights lit up red on Virgil’s dash console.
Nothing structural on the starboard side, but the port wing had taken damage. It was making evading the other aircraft difficult, and said bogey seemed to be tailing him, watching and waiting, but keeping Two within weapons range.
“Thunderbird Two, status report!” John demanded.
“Little busy right now Five!” Virgil growled through gritted teeth as he tried to compensate for the twisted cahelium while safely firing the main engines and gain some distance on the other plane.
John showed his relief at that simple answer by giving Virgil helpful stats instead. “The GDF should be with you in two minutes. Thunderbird One is on the way to the rescue location to pick up Gordon and the rescue cradle.”
In other words, get out of here and avoid taking further damage if you can!
After all, John would have access to most of the same warnings Two was flashing – port wing assembly damaged, hinge mechanism offline, potential damage to hydraulic line and electronics being the main concerns.
“FAB, Five. Main engines seem to be unaffected, steering’s a little off and I won’t be able to fold the port wing, but I should be able to make it home as long as I don’t take another . . .”
The pilot of the hostile aircraft had apparently grown impatient and fired on Two again, this time exploiting the weakness of the broken wing. Multiple explosions rippled along the port side, taking the port side engine offline and sending Two violently sideways and bathing the entire cockpit in the horrifying glow of red and amber warning lights.
Virgil was so busy trying to stop his ‘bird from rolling, while diverting what controls he could into working systems to compensate for those he’d lost, and attempting to keep her in the air with only one working main engine, that he almost didn’t register the fact he’d lost comms.
“Another what, Thunderbird Two?” A fast series of critical warnings from Two lit up across John’s displays, and then a bunch of them blinked out again. “Thunderbird Two, respond.”
No response.
“Virgil?”
Nothing. He tried boosting the signal.
“Thunderbird Two, do you read?”
The faintest static crackle was all that came through.
PAIRING/STARRING: Shuri of Wakanda, mentions of T’challa, T’Chaka, Ramonda, Nakia, and Toussaint.
WORD COUNT: 468.
SUMMARY: Loss doesn’t go away, but new life can soften the pain.
CONTENT: Loss/mourning/sorrow, hint at depressive episodes, reference to death, comfort, family.
A/N: Partake once more in FlashFictionFriday’s challenge but this time not with an original piece. Unbetaed. As per usual please like, comment, and especially reblog - that’s the only way to make sure other people see it too. Here’s my TAGLIST and my MASTERLIST for more.
To heal a broken wing
What did it matter anyways?
Shuri knows she’s not supposed to think like that but...she’s so alone! First her father was taken through a heinous act of violence and cowardice. Then an illness she couldn’t stop stole her brother, leaving just mother and her for a while until even the last of her family was stolen from her.
Yes, Shuri is all alone.
She’s lying in the grand bed. It’s the earlier hour before sunrise and she should be asleep but she can’t. There’s no rest for her. The closest thing to comfort is when she’s busy in the lab but no, there are duties and responsibilities that she has to live up to.
They lost so many during the conflict with Namor and his people...she almost lost herself. It had been so tempting, giving in to the whispered words of an uncle she never truly knew. But that was not how she was raised and she had made a different call in the end. Maybe her family would have been proud of her. She’ll never know.
Turning, her gaze falls on the photograph on the nightstand. All four of them. Happy. Together. Reaching out, she tips the frame over so she can’t see what once was.
The morning air is barely chilly as she tosses the cover aside. The water is, though: icy and shocking, it wakes her up fully, rousing her from the stupor she so often finds her mind in.
There’s a message waiting for her when she exits the shower, the bead in the bracelet glowing softly and a soft ping pulsating from the minuscule speakers.
Grabbing the bracelet, her thumb rubs the bead on it’s own volition – she isn’t paying attention fully but the moment the face of Nakia appears, the young queen’s focus is captured.
“Someone wants to say hi to you, Shuri,” the soft tones of the woman announces.
She sounds and looks tired, but there’s a bright smile on her face as she lifts a bundle into view, tilting it to reveal a little face.
“Meet your nephew,” Nakia smiles softly. “His name is T’Challa but we call him Toussaint for now.”
The little baby wrinkles his nose, eyes still closed and a little fist bumping into his chin.
“Toussaint,” Shuri whispers, testing the word.
She knows they can’t hear her but the little boy in Nakia’s arms breaks a smile as if reacting to her saying his name.
Something stirs inside of Shuri: this might not be her brother or parents...but it is family. Nakia and little Toussaint need and trust her and she’ll be damned if she lets them down. The pain of loss is still there inside her and she doesn’t think it’ll ever go away...but there’s something else too that soothes the sting just a bit.
