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Under the weather (3/3)

Sherlock BBC

Rating 15 (slash, swearing)

A sequel to David which was about Mycroft's first marriage. Also heavily influenced by Fengirl's Quiet Storm and Blooms84's Some Things He Doesn't Need to Know. Betaed by Blooms84

Summary: Mycroft may have frozen out Lestrade, but a change in the weather might help...

Part 1, Part 2

 

It was the first week of November, coming up to their anniversary – sod it, not thinking about that, how bloody stubborn could any man be? And then the whole of London went completely haywire. A freak cold snap – except freak weather was normal these days – and several inches of snow, and everything stopped working. But Lestrade smiled for the first time in ages, when he woke up on Tuesday morning to a rapidly whitening world. Then he went and dug his winter gear out of the back of the wardrobe, because he was wise to this by now.

He might look like Scott of the Bloody Antarctic by the time he had all his layers on, especially with the hiking poles and the balaclava, but while everyone else was moaning about the trains and the buses, or simply giving up and going back to bed, he just set off and walked to work. Hardly anyone in when he got there, of course, and all the criminals were taking time off as well, or busy throwing snowballs with stones in. So he got maximum brownie points for turning up, and a chance to sort things out peacefully. He ended up kipping at the Yard – easier than walking home – and by Wednesday afternoon he had all the 2010 files properly cleared away. A couple more days like this, and he might even be up to date, and Personnel would have to find someone else to harass. Then he got a phone call from John.

***

"I can barely hear you," Lestrade said. "Where are you, the moon?"

"Just outside Bournemouth station."

"Practically the same thing. No wonder the signal's lousy. But what are you doing in Bournemouth, anyhow?"

"Trying to get out of it," John said wearily. "Came down to see my godmother, she's in a home here. I was supposed to come back last night, but the trains are completely screwed up with the snow."

"It'll be worse when you get back to London," Lestrade replied. "But if you get as far as Scotland Yard, I can give you a cuppa."

"Thanks. Look, can you do me a favour?"

"Yeah, what is it?"

"I've been texting and phoning Sherlock and he's not replying. Do you think you could check he's OK?"

"I'll send someone round," said Lestrade. There must be someone in uniform branch who was actually on duty today.

"Could you...could you go yourself, Greg?" It wasn't just the poor line making John sound odd, he suddenly realised. "Only Mrs Hudson's not answering either. She said she was going to be away some of this week. I just want to make sure Sherlock's not doing anything stupid."

"OK, I'll get onto it," he said, because it had finally clicked. John was worried that if Sherlock was on his own for too long, snowed-in perhaps, bored, he might start doing drugs again. Unlikely, Lestrade thought, but John was a bit paranoid about Sherlock and drugs, always had been.

So he wrapped himself up, and headed off, through the eerily quiet streets. Still snowing a bit, all the pavements turning to solid ice, of course, even though they were supposed to be gritted, so it took  him far longer than normal, but he made it to 221B eventually. He got the spare key to the flat from Speedy's and headed up. Opened the door - and there was Sherlock collapsed in a heap on the living room carpet.

He'd remembered his training. A moment to make sure there was no-one else in the flat. Another to check that there were no fumes – no, windows open, leave the door open as well. Then a rapid assessment of Sherlock. Pulse weak but there, breathing, no sign of blood, even paler than normal, what had the idiot taken now? He shook him, and Sherlock opened his eyes fractionally.

"What have you had?" he demanded, and then, as Sherlock stared at him glassily, yelled: "Tell me!"

"Nothing," Sherlock half grunted. He was shaking, no, shivering, and his breath came out in little pants. Little pants of vapour. God, Lestrade should have realised it before, it was just he had all those layers on, and he'd been walking. It was freezing in the flat – boiler must have packed up again – and Sherlock was just in a T-shirt and thin trousers, no jumper, no socks. With the fucking windows open. Lestrade punched in John's number on his phone.

"I'm at 221B. Can you get hypothermia indoors?" he demanded, when he finally managed to get through.

"What the-" A few strangled noises followed, and Lestrade could almost hear John trying to delete the swear words from his reply. "It can happen with elderly patients. I'm not sure how a normal, healthy, adult could...OK, this is Sherlock we're talking about. Symptoms are...shivering, slow breathing, confusion, skin cold and pale-"

"Sounds about right."

"The bloody idiot," John yelled, and then some confused murmurings and a lot of static followed.

"You still there?" Lestrade demanded. "Can you hear me?"

"Just. Is Sherlock conscious?"

"Sort of."

"Probably only moderate hypothermia then."

"Do I need to get him to hospital?"

"They'll be snowed under," John replied. "Sorry, pun not intended. But they'll be frantic and you know what Sherlock's like in hospitals. If he's conscious and still shivering, you can probably sort it out yourself. If he stops shivering suddenly, that's the time to panic, means his body's shutting down."

"What do I need to do?"

"Gentle warming: no hot baths, no alcohol. Warm drinks, chocolate or sweets if there's any, dry clothes, blankets, body heat. If he-" The phone went dead, and several goes at reconnection were fruitless. Probably the wrong kind of snow for mobiles, Lestrade thought.

"OK, Sherlock," he announced. "John says you'll live, so let's get you some tea."

"Don't want any," Sherlock replied. "Go away. I'm fine, I'm just thinking."

"You're bloody freezing to death. Right, then come upstairs and get into bed. I'll give you a hand."

It was a nightmare getting Sherlock up the stairs, his legs didn't seem to be working properly, and he was as uncooperative as usual. As if he secretly wanted to find an implausibly stupid way of dying. Well, not going to happen today. Lestrade half-dragged him onto his bed and started to pile blankets and duvets on top of him. It was freezing  in here as well, though, not sure it was going to be enough.

"Stay here," he said, as if Sherlock was going to go anywhere, raced back downstairs and found Sherlock's coat, scarf and a packet of Maltesers. He somehow managed to get the coat onto Sherlock, who was curled up in a shivering ball, and still a lot less responsive than Lestrade would like. Then he shoved a few Maltesers into Sherlock's protesting mouth, and wrapped the scarf round Sherlock's face to discourage him from spitting them out. Sherlock was still bloody shaking, despite all the blankets. Maybe he did need to get him to hospital. Any other options first, though?

Oh yes, of course. Body heat. Bloody stupid, but might help a bit. And if he was going to stay here, make sure Sherlock was OK, he needed to keep warm himself. He was starting to cool down rapidly now he wasn't moving around. He crawled under the pile of blankets and wrapped himself round Sherlock. It was deeply weird. In fact it sounded  like a bloody kid's riddle, Lestrade thought. What's freezing and shaking and bony? Except the answer wasn't that funny: an undernourished detective with hypothermia. A late but plucky contender for Idiot of the Year.

He wondered  if Sherlock was starting to warm up, or if it was just that his own body was getting so cold he didn't notice. How the fuck had Sherlock managed to get 221B so cold, anyhow? Had he somehow reversed the boiler, so it was now sucking heat out of the room? Also wasn't sure if he was supposed to talk to Sherlock, make sure he didn't lose consciousness. Or was that just if they had to keep moving, so as to get back to base camp before the polar bears got them?

"You still alive?" he asked experimentally, and started prodding Sherlock when he didn't get a reply.

"Ow. Yes."

"Sodding disappointment," said Lestrade.

"Shut up. I'm trying to sleep."

"How do I know you're not unconscious then?"

"Prod me every half an hour, ask me what my name is."

"I'll give you a hint: you're Sherlock 'Fucking Idiot' Holmes. Tell you what, you eat some more Maltesers, I'll let you sleep."

"Don't like them."

"I don't like being here. That's not the point. Eat them. I'm not having you dying on my watch. John gets back, you can expire in his bloody arms."

Sherlock grumpily finished off the Maltesers. He wasn't shivering quite so much, which Lestrade hoped was a good sign. Then he curled himself up into an even tighter ball, as if attempting to ignore the fact that Lestrade was still snuggled up beside him, trying hard to crawl under at least some of the duvets.

Didn't bother him being ignored, Lestrade thought. Wasn't as if he had anything constructive to say to Sherlock anyhow. Just the eternal, unanswerable question: Why is it so hard for you to stay out of trouble? Still, as long as he stayed here, and made sure Sherlock didn't wander off and freeze himself to death again, and prodded him every now and then, it'd be OK. John would turn up eventually – if the train didn't start moving soon, the mad bastard would probably yomp his way back from Bournemouth – and then he could head home. Because, God, he was tired. Too many sleepless nights recently, surprising how hard it was being back on his own in the flat. Not enough sharing body heat for him, either. Maybe he should just lie down in a snow drift himself...

Sod it, he was not going to get like that. He was not going to lie here thinking about Mycroft, and getting morbid. Life goes on. The phrase suddenly rang a very old bell. What was that song? Oh, yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone. He started singing it to himself, barely breathing the words, trying to work out what the damn thing was. Little ditty about Jack and Diane. God, was his imagination permanently stuck in the Eighties now? Well, never mind. He wouldn't disturb Sherlock if he sang quietly, and it'd help distract him, because it might be hours before John got back. Probably confirm that he had lousy taste in music, but far too late to worry about that.

He started off with ABBA, of course, and then started working his way through the weird mix of other songs that had somehow stuck indelibly in his mind.

London calling to the faraway towns...

I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me...

Summer loving, had me a blast...

I never thought it would happen with me and a girl from Clapham...

The silicon chip inside her head gets switched to overload...   

Night and day, why is it so? That this longing for you follows wherever I go. In the roaring traffic's boom, in the silence of my lonely room, I think of you, night and day. (Sod it, he was not singing that, he was singing something cheerful).

Looking from my window on the freshly fallen snow... (Cheerful. Warm)

We're all going on a summer holiday... (God, he really had no taste, had he?)

I am what I am... (Some good bits to the Eighties, after all)

***

Every now and then he prodded Sherlock, and asked him his name. But at some point he had a worrying suspicion that Sherlock prodded him, and asked him his name. Hoped he'd given the right answer.

***

He woke up -  no, he had not been asleep, he had merely been concentrating – and wondered what the fuck he was doing. Oh, of course, preventing Sherlock dying. But Sherlock was still curled up, and probably not dying, just snoring very gently, and looking almost normal colour for Sherlock. So what had woken him up?

Footsteps on the stairs, someone coming into the flat. No idea what time it was, but John must finally have got back.

"We're upstairs," he yelled, and then sank back. God, why was he still so tired? It must be the cold getting to him, because the moment he stuck his nose out of the bedclothes, it was perishing. But now John was here, he could abandon the world's only consulting iceberg, get himself a nice hot cup of coffee, and go outside and warm up.

John was coming up the stairs, he could hear him now.  He tried to force his tired eyes not to close, as the door opened.

"Thank God, you're here, you can take over-," he said and then stopped, as it finally registered  -  not John's compact figure in the doorway, but someone much taller and darker. Mycroft. He opened his mouth again, and managed to croak out:

"Not what it looks like."

"It looks," said Mycroft crisply, "as if you are attempting to prevent my brother from a premature death. If it's anything else, be sure to inform me later. I take it Sherlock is still alive?"

"Sod off, Mycroft," came a grumpy voice.

"Not only alive, but coherent," said Mycroft. He looked like a Russian spy, in a long, heavy coat and a furry hat.  "I think you can safely leave him for a little while now, Greg. If you want to come down, I'll make us some coffee. Do you want yours in a mug, Sherlock, or would it be easier just to pour it into you via a funnel? There are two of us now, so the latter is feasible."

***

There were a couple of men in parkas bringing large red boxes into the flat as Lestrade stumbled downstairs.

"Are hallucinations another sign of hypothermia?" he enquired.

"Industrial heaters," said Mycroft. "Unfortunately, MI5's boiler expert is stranded somewhere in Surbiton. It took a bit of pulling strings to get this equipment, but it's quite effective, and we won't have to stay here long anyway. A staged retreat is called for under the circumstances, but I need to make sure you're warm enough first. Can't have you succumb to hypothermia as well."

"I'm OK. More padding, better clothing. Not quite so damn stupid."

"You weren't answering your phone."

"I'm sorry, must have left it downstairs when I was taking Sherlock to bed." God, that sounded bad, didn't it? "I meant-"

"I suggest," said Mycroft briskly, "that you go and sit down near one of those heaters, and start to thaw a bit, and I'll get you a drink. "

Mycroft returned with a steaming mug a couple of minutes later, and then pulled a small packet out of one of his pockets, and handed it to Lestrade.

"Kendal mint cake," he said, "Tastes appalling, but you probably need something to sustain you. I take it your priority was Sherlock's needs rather than your own."

"I got some Maltesers into him," said Lestrade, as he opened the bar and started to chomp on it. "Didn't manage to get him to eat or drink anything else."

"That reminds me," said Mycroft, "He probably ought to have some coffee as well. Would you...would you mind taking something up to him? It's just if it's me, he'll probably refuse to drink it on principle."

"OK," said Lestrade, standing up rapidly. Maybe if he kept moving, the blood might actually start reaching his toes as well. And anything was better than having to sit around and try and deal with Mycroft.

WRONG! he thought, as he went upstairs. Because there was another Holmes up there, waiting to be aggravating in a completely different way. But to his surprise, Sherlock took the mug and started gulping its contents down.

"Have you eaten all the mint cake, or is there any left?" Sherlock asked, about halfway through his drink.

"I'll see if Mycroft's got some more. Are you OK?" Lestrade couldn't help asking, "I mean, eating something's almost sensible behaviour. Which suggests you're currently in a confused mental state, because you're never sensible."

"Don't try and be clever, Lestrade, it doesn't suit you. I did not intend to inflict hypothermia  on myself – well, not to that extent. I made a slight miscalculation, which I now need to rectify as rapidly as possible."

"Before John gets home, finds you're not dead, and then kills you?"

"If Dr Watson starts trying to push me around, I prefer not to be in a state where I collapse too easily. Can you stop sniggering and find me some mint cake?"

***

"There's some more in the kitchen," said Mycroft, when Lestrade came downstairs. "Can you tell him to get dressed, as well, please? Warmly dressed. It's almost time to start the tactical retreat from Baker Street."

How had he ended up as a bloody go-between for the Holmes, he thought as he went upstairs again. Maybe suggestibility increased in the cold as well.

"I'm not going anywhere," Sherlock protested, in between eating--no, refuelling himself.  The stuff was practically solid sugar, wasn't it, thought Lestrade. Did he really want to know what Sherlock would be like on a major sugar high?

"Then you come down and argue with him yourself, because you're not doing arguments by proxy!" he snapped. "And get yourself properly dressed, because if you keel over again, I'm leaving Mycroft to be your human hot-water bottle." He stormed downstairs, as fast as his numb feet allowed, and stood facing one of the heaters, wriggling his toes. Did at least give him an excuse not to look at Mycroft, who was sitting staring at the fireplace. The silence between them lengthened, and then Mycroft said, abruptly:

"Greg...I think we need to talk. First of all, I must make it clear-" He ground to a halt as Sherlock bounced downstairs fully dressed, looking smart and in control, and even warm, which was not bloody fair.

"Oh, don't mind me," Sherlock said, smiling. "Pretend I'm not here."

"I hope," said Mycroft, "that you won't be for long. There's a Land Rover outside, and the driver will take you down to Waterloo. In the all too likely event that John's train has still not reached the station,  he has instructions to find its location, extract John from it, and take you both to the nearest hotel. But before you so rudely interrupted me, I was going to thank Greg for having saved your life. On the presumption that you weren't going to do so yourself."

It was almost worth the whole bloody day, just to see Sherlock's look of embarrassment, and hear his stuttering response:

"Good. Very. Yes. The mint cake, and erm, the whole thing. The warming. Good of you to come."

"Go and find John, you prat," Lestrade said, smiling, "and tell him he owes me a drink on your credit card. Oh, and to take you down to sodding Bournemouth with him the next time."

"Right," said Sherlock and vanished downstairs. Just hope he gets to Waterloo before the sugar rush gives out, Lestrade thought.  Or maybe it wasn't the Kendal mint cake, it was the thought of seeing his partner again. Lucky sod. Oh well, one Holmes down, one to go. Make some polite conversation, and then try and head home without falling in a snow drift. Not ideal, but doable. He turned back to Mycroft, who was now standing stiffly by one of the heaters , rubbing his leather-gloved hands together. "OK," he said, "What's next?"

"I can't...," said Mycroft, and then ground to a halt. He looked across at Lestrade, and there was something suddenly weary, defeated, in him. "I'm afraid I'm not that much more eloquent than Sherlock. I can't thank you enough, Greg, for what you did. You undoubtedly saved Sherlock's life."

"I owed it to John. And Sherlock's an idiot, but you don't deserve that happening to you even if you are an idiot."

"What do you deserve?" asked Mycroft, quietly.

"Dunno. Depends how much you think it matters that you always get things right," he said, looking into Mycroft's wary grey eyes. "Because most people, ordinary people, do some bloody stupid things sometimes."

"Yes," Mycroft replied doggedly, "but it takes a genius to really foul things up. Sherlock almost manages to kill himself accidentally.  And I...I deliberately turned my back on a man who'd made me happy. I'm afraid self-destructiveness does rather seem to be a shared part of our DNA."

"It doesn't-"

"Please let me finish," said Mycroft, his eyes earnestly searching Lestrade's face. "When John thought Sherlock might be in trouble, he didn't contact me. I suppose he thought – wrongly, but justifiably – that I might not care what happened to my brother any more. You, however, he trusted to help him.  Again, justifiably.  John only contacted me when he became worried that you weren't responding, thought you might be in trouble as well. If John trusts you, I ought to do the same. And besides...I saw your expression when I came upstairs."

"And?"

"I have seen many people pleased to get shot of Sherlock, but seldom anyone quite so relieved. I've spent far too long trying to convince myself I was right in what I did, when I knew, deep down, that I was wrong. I can only apologise for my behaviour. Please forgive me, Greg." He sounded like he was half-expecting to be taken off to the Tower and executed.

Lestrade's instinct was to say: It's fine, you silly tosser, but that wouldn't be enough for Mycroft. He had to try and match Mycroft's intensity, like it was some kind of bloody peace treaty. He supposed it was, in a way.

"I made a mistake getting involved with Sherlock, sleeping with him. Fucking stupid to do it, even more fucking stupid not to tell you. Because it's not him I wanted, it's you. You're the one that I want." Oh, sod it, he thought, he had to stop quoting song lyrics.

"Thank you," said Mycroft, and then went on abruptly: "There is another Land Rover downstairs. It can take you, us, wherever you would like to go."

"My flat," he said automatically, and then remembered Mycroft's views about his street. "Peckham in the snow," he went on, "what could be more romantic? Though if you really can't face it-"

"I'd be delighted to, Greg," said Mycroft, and then added, in a vaguely normal tone. "Well, as long as it's not too much like the Arctic."

"We'll be fine," Lestrade replied, smiling. He took his right glove off, and reached out, running his hand gently down Mycroft's cheek, still stiff with cold and stress . "Trust me, I've got warmth to spare."


Comments

( 25 comments — Leave a comment )
fengirl88
May. 12th, 2011 08:11 am (UTC)
loved the happy ending and all the songs (I need to chase up some of those lyrics though...). also the world's only consulting iceberg, aka Idiot of the Year, the Holmes brothers' capacity for self-destruction, and Lestrade finally catching up with his paperwork.
*boggles at the thought of what Sherlock high on Kendal mint cake would be like*
marysutherland
May. 14th, 2011 09:50 am (UTC)
Tracklist
The songs were mostly a fairly random selection of stuff whose lyrics I could vaguely remember: I only realised when I started looking them up, that most aren't actually from the 1980s, but 1978/1979 (when I was 13/14 and obviously filling my hard drive particularly insistently). But I liked the idea of things that stick in your head at that kind of age, even if they aren't your particular favourites. (Though I should have stuck in some Blondie). Some of the older stuff I imagine as Lestrade hearing from his parents.

John Mellencamp – Jack & Diane

Clash – London Calling

Beatles – Norwegian Wood

Grease – Summer Nights

Squeeze – Up the Junction

Boomtown Rats – I don't Like Mondays

Night & Day (Ella Fitzgerald)

Seekers – I Wish You Could be Here

Cliff Richard – Summer Holiday

Gloria Gaynor – I Am What I Am

Grease – You're the One That I Want
fengirl88
May. 14th, 2011 04:13 pm (UTC)
Re: Tracklist
listening to Up The Junction now, having listened to some of the others already - thank you for the links!
shouldboverthis
May. 18th, 2011 06:40 am (UTC)
Re: Tracklist
This is really lovely--you know I'm a sucker for how these two men could get together. Sherlock/John obviously, too damaged not to cling to each other, but it was nice to see the backstory.

And 80's lyrics are a weekness of mine (but hate Grease.^^)

But Clash, Squeeze and Boomtown Rats wil always suck me in.
marysutherland
May. 18th, 2011 09:04 pm (UTC)
Re: Tracklist
Glad you enjoyed it - I originally nicked the idea of Anthea being the one who brought Mycroft and Lestrade together from Blooms84's ficlet The Instigator (can't remember if I mentioned that in an earlier heading), so it was fun to run with that.

I enjoyed Grease (and wonder if the teenage Mycroft or Lestrade would secretly have been lusting over Danny), but I find it odd how many song lyrics I can remember from those few years (about 1978-1981) even if I didn't particularly like them at the time. I guess I just absorbed them from watching Top of the Pops etc.
2ndskin
May. 12th, 2011 12:07 pm (UTC)
pure joy and pure genius on your part, as usual! love all the song references, I can feel the chill in the flat--and the ensuing warmth once Mycroft sees how foolish he's been. such a wonderful, funny, clever story from start to finish. abandon that index, and concentrate on fiction forever! *hugs the computer screen*
kalypso_v
May. 12th, 2011 12:56 pm (UTC)
Hurrah for Kendal Mint Cake! I hope it was Romney's. We always used to have Romney's on walks, and reverently read the quotes from the 1953 expedition on the back of the wrapping. "We sat on the summit of Everest and nibbled Kendal Mint Cake... it was easily the most popular item in our rations... our only complaint was that we did not have enough of it." Or something like that. Brown or white?

If Sherlock was really taking advantage of the boiler failing to experiment with hypothermia, he needed to be shouted at a lot more. I'm confident John will do the job.

I did like his expression of gratitude, and Mycroft's Russian spy outfit.
marysutherland
May. 14th, 2011 08:44 pm (UTC)
I've never actually eaten Kendal Mint Cake, so I'm not sure of the finer points of what sort it would be (and you notice that Mycroft doesn't eat any of the stuff himself!). Mycroft's Russian look, meanwhile, was vaguely inspired by Mark Gatiss's furry hat.

I had originally intended Sherlock's hypothermia to be entirely accidental, but once I'd read up on indoor hypothermia, I couldn't work out how someone healthy could get their temperature low enough without noticing. So I fell back on the 'Sherlock doing something dangerously stupid' angle, which is always IC. And I feel it's a great comfort to both Lestrade and Mycroft that it's now mostly John who is responsible for preventing Sherlock finishing himself off in an implausibly stupid way.
kalypso_v
May. 14th, 2011 11:34 pm (UTC)
I think Mycroft's lying through his teeth. He obviously loves Kendal Mint Cake. But I think he eats white (blue wrapping), whereas I prefer brown (red). I searched the Co-Op for some today, but couldn't find a single bar in any colour, not even the vulgar chocolate-covered version.

A friend of mine was once involved in its manufacture, in Kendal happily enough, and confirmed that it mostly consisted of getting a big vat of sugar and adding a drop of mint.

The hat is admirable, but I hope Mycroft was in a long black coat like Kate Fleetwood's Lady Macbeth.
marysutherland
May. 18th, 2011 09:09 pm (UTC)
They have chocolate-coated Kendal Mint Cake? OK, that explains why Mycroft isn't eating anything at 221B. Because it would utterly ruin his stern I-am-the-British-Government act once he'd been spotted by Lestrade and Sherlock sucking all the chocolate off the outside of the mint cake first.
2ndskin
May. 12th, 2011 02:07 pm (UTC)
may I strongly urge you
to post to brother_mine and dilestrade? just to make people happy?
weefreethings
May. 18th, 2011 01:25 pm (UTC)
Yay for Sherlock being stupid and happy endings!

"Before John gets home, finds you're not dead, and then kills you?" - Again with the brilliant.
marysutherland
May. 18th, 2011 09:24 pm (UTC)
Pleased you enjoyed it - it is a worrying thought that Mycroft is actually the saner of the two brothers.
morganstuart
May. 18th, 2011 02:05 pm (UTC)
This is beautifully done. Just lovely. I really like your take on the characters and their relationships.
daisy_suzuki
May. 18th, 2011 05:56 pm (UTC)
Brilliant, well done. Love the detail. Really evokes the setting and the times.
nathcoelho
May. 18th, 2011 07:55 pm (UTC)
wawwwwwwwww! finally Mycroft says he is sorry!
great!
\o
and yeah
holmeses are idiot sometimess! =D
hauhauah
great fic
marysutherland
May. 18th, 2011 09:12 pm (UTC)
The Holmeses aren't just idiots, they're stubborn idiots, which is the worst kind. But at least Mycroft is better at admitting he's wrong graciously than Sherlock. Glad you enjoyed the fic.
darthhellokitty
May. 19th, 2011 04:06 am (UTC)
I didn't read this til you had all the parts posted - wow, this is really good!

Striking how each of them does one really dumb thing, except possibly John. (Although the argument could be made that being with Sherlock is a dumb thing...)

I love the scene at the Indian restaurant, Greg so pleased to be the expert on the food and on being a policeman. I loved the line about David Attenborough and the ant...

SO GLAD they got back together.
marysutherland
May. 21st, 2011 08:02 am (UTC)
I think John's dumb thing is leaving Sherlock on his own for too long, which is almost bound to end in tears in some unforeseeable way.

I'm glad you enjoyed the restaurant scene - I always imagine Mycroft as having the diplomatic skills to show interest in someone (unlike Sherlock). Even if he's terribly bad at expressing exactly how far his interest goes.
rusty_armour
May. 30th, 2011 03:32 pm (UTC)
First of all, I'd like to apologize for not reading and commenting sooner. I kept saving this story for when I had more time -- in order to be able to really take it in and enjoy it. Then, next thing I knew, two weeks had passed. *g* Anywaaaaaay, I found this highly enjoyable. I love what it says about both Mycroft and Lestrade. Somehow, I'm not surprised that Mycroft finds it hard to forgive people, while Lestrade is pretty much the opposite, as can be seen by his wonderful ability to interact with some of the most infuriating people around, such as Sherlock. Oh, and the flashback scenes to the time when Mycroft and Lestrade first got together are probably among my favourite parts of this story. The same goes for Sherlock's humourous bout of hypothermia and Lestrade's attempts to save him from freezing to death. I really like the way Mycroft finally realizes that there's nothing between Lestrade and his brother based on the relief in Lestrade's eyes when he thinks John has returned and can take over for him. *g*

I forgot to save this on my hard drive last night, but I'll definitely be doing that tonight. :-)
katead
May. 30th, 2011 06:13 pm (UTC)
Aw I'm saving this. It's so lovely. I alomost feel sorry for Mycroft - even though he's been such a tit, that's some serious self esteem issues he's carrying around :( I feel much sorrier for LEstrade though having to suffer for it. Hurray for happy endings though!
et_cetera55
Jul. 31st, 2011 07:07 pm (UTC)
Awwwww! (I'm such a sucker for a happy ending(
I love this story and in fact all of your writing so much - you write so beautifully - but I think it has to be the little throw-away comments like Probably the wrong kind of snow for mobiles that I love the most :)
missilemuse
Dec. 9th, 2011 12:33 pm (UTC)
Great mystrade dynamic... Loved the ending
pionie
Sep. 12th, 2012 09:33 pm (UTC)
Here via OTW Fanlore's Mystrade page and I just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed this story. Great characterisation and a lot of funny too :)
marysutherland
Sep. 19th, 2012 06:51 am (UTC)
Glad you enjoyed this - I've written a lot of Mystrade and the dynamics of it are always fun. I just enjoy the contrast of the two characters and the inevitable problems it causes in their relationship.
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