dwgm: Sherlocked (Sherlocked)
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600 words for the 'Hours' prompt...

~ En Famille ~

In the ensuing hours, Sherlock found that his fears were entirely justified.

One part of his brain, the cool, deductive part, saw the inevitability of it. Even accepted it.

Unfortunately, the other part, often adrenaline-laced, with panic tickling around the edges, refused to be quite subdued. This was a Bad Thing. It might lead to a variety of undesirable outcomes, anything from Words Best Left Unsaid to A New List for Mycroft.

Well, not the latter. He’d been clean for over a year now, and whenever he was at all tempted he forced himself to drag the Post-Four-Minute-Exile Molly Confrontation from that dusty cupboard in his mind palace and stare at it. God. Slapping had been so much less painful.


He sighed. Of course Mummy had found where he’d been brooding. No, hiding. No. Thinking.

She beamed, a knowing look in her eye. “I shouldn’t say it, of course, but if you let that young lady get away you are a greater fool than I take you for. She’s delightful!”

“Mmmm. Is dinner ready?”

“We’re having drinks first. Molly is making us something special: Sex on the Beach , I believe.”

“Good God. Peach Schnapps?

But both fell silent, their ears pricking at the distant sound of a knock followed immediately by a door opening and a familiar voice.

Sherlock bounced to his feet, scowling. “Mycroft!

By the time he and Mummy were descending the stairs, Father was happily greeting his eldest son and his eldest son’s P.A., Anthea. “Take off your coats, we’re just about to have drinks before dinner.”

“You weren’t supposed to come until tomorrow,” Sherlock said accusingly, reaching the foyer.

Mycroft raised a brow, his smile fading. “And you weren’t supposed to steal my Jaguar XE. Yet here we are.”

“Sherlock!” Mummy exclaimed. “Did you steal a government owned vehicle?”

“Noooo. Borrowed it.”

“Without permission,” Mycroft clarified succinctly, still giving Sherlock the gimlet eye and silently daring him to try anything untoward in Mummy’s presence.

The tension was broken as Molly came into the room, bearing a tray with four tall iced drinks, complete with little umbrellas. “Mycroft!” she said in surprise.

“Miss Hooper!” Mycroft exclaimed, and glanced at Sherlock with a quizzical gleam.

Sherlock snapped, “It’s Dr. Hooper.”

Molly rolled her eyes a bit. “It’s Molly , or at least it should be after all these years. I’ll make two more drinks. Here, take these.”

Mummy, Father, and Anthea each took a glass with murmured thanks, but Mycroft, barely suppressing a shudder, said, “No, no. Give it to Sherlock. I’m not really thirsty at present.”

But Sherlock relieved Molly of the tray and handed the last drink to her, saying, “ You take it. I’m not really a Peach Schnapps man.”

“Your loss,” she said philosophically, and took a sip.

Father said, “It’s delicious, Molly. And I must say: Three beautiful ladies at my birthday celebration! A surfeit of riches. We’ll have a toast at dinner, when the boys have acquired something refreshing. Mother? Shall we finalize preparations for the feast?”

“May I help?” asked Anthea.

“Yes!” said Mummy, vastly pleased. “You girls come along with us. I’m sure the boys can remember how to set the table.”

Sherlock and Mycroft were left standing in the foyer as the others disappeared into the kitchen.

Mycroft was the first to speak. “So. Has she remarked on Molly’s good birthing hips yet?”

Sherlock gave a bark of laughter. “She hasn’t, but it’s early.”

“So it is. A whole evening en famille . Risky, brother mine. Very risky. But not boring, I think?”

“No. Not boring,” Sherlock agreed, and smiled.



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