Sherlock's mouth opensâ
But so does a door down the hallway.
There's a creaking of floorboards, and Y/N and Sherlock hurry eagerly to peek down the hallâ
And stifle a giggle.
Every door in Musgrave Cottage is painted a different colour.
There's a sunny yellow door to the sitting room, and the one leading to the back garden is orange like the fruitâbut one is varnished and shiny, and the other is scuffed and faded to a chalky pastel.
The baby blue door to the kitchen has been decorated with little food itemsâloaves of bread dabbed on with brown paint, fishes on platters in blue, cheeses and cakesâno doubt by one of the many artists in in the family.
They must have been at Wendy and Charle's bedroom door too, because it has been carefully brushed with daisies by a cousin long since moved out, and the upstairs bathroom is mapped with stars and planets by an aunty long since dead.
Standing awkwardly amongst them, lit overhead by the dusty chandelier, Mycroft looks like some obscure art piece you'd find on the cover of Vogue.
He must have planned to sneak sheepishly to his car after all because, when he spots Y/N and Sherlock grinning at him, his make-up-smattered face is screws up into a displeased scowl.
He's holding his stained dress trousers and shirt somberly, the stiff fabric folded into a perfect, tidy square. His belt is rolled up atop them in military fashionâalthough Y/N isn't aware he'd ever been in service.
Stretched by Sherlock's broad shoulders, his borrowed t-shirt is several inches too wideâand too shortâfor Mycroft's stick-insect physique. The faded cotton hangs boxily over his lean frameâyet also exposes a slither of his flat, pale bellyâlike an unflattering crop top.
Similarlyâalthough barely reaching his bony anklesâhis sweatpants are sliding steadily down his hips with every passing second, and he yanks them back up with an expression like sour milk.
"Y/N," he drawls, looking like one of those cats with the squashed-up faces, "why didn't you just let my oaf of a brother kill me?"
"There's still time," Sherlock points out.
Y/N can't help a little unladylike snort. The smirk on her lips grows wider the longer she looks at him, pressing her eyes into sparkling crescent moons. "As much as I would have liked to watch Sherlock kick your arse, this is much funnier."
The lines in Mycroft's face deepen and he gestures towards his outfit. "Speaking of Sherlock's arse: these do not fit me."
"Because you don't have one. An arse, that is. Or a waist. Or shoulders," Sherlock muses. "You're sort of the same width all the way up, aren't you? Like a tube of meat with a receding hairline. "
Mycroft's frown deepens further. If it keeps going, his features might converge into a singularity right there on his face.
While Sherlock's middle is more like a sturdy tree, his brother's is more similar to spaghetti. Stroppily, he tugs the waistband of his borrowed trousers upwards again, the cuffs flashing a decent portion of his lean, ropy calves. Disgusted:
"These are somehow too short and too loose at the same time!"
"It's not my fault you have the body shape of limp fettuccine," Sherlock points out. "And the muscle mass of an anorexic greyhound. And that you eat like a muntjac deer with OCD.
"Are you done?"
"The BMI of a sick Victorian child."
Mycroft frowns at the left trouser leg and groans, his grey eyes rolling for the millionth time todayâit's a wonder he's not dizzy. "See I told you there was a pasta stain!"
"How do you know it's pasta?" Y/N points out helpfully. "It could be the blood of a murderer your brother helped to put behind bars."
Flatly: "It's pasta." He squints at it. "Boleganise, I believe."
Sherlock shrugs as if all of this is none of his concern. "Give them back if you don't like them; there's always Dad's mud-stained old-man jeans. He's three inches shorter than you, but I'm sure you could wriggle into them." His lip curves. "Or you could drive home in your underwear."
"His grey underwear."
"What?"
Sheepishly, Y/N gestures towards his hips, and Mycroft's neck flushes beetroot. Tugging the baggy waistband up, hurriedly:
"Blast these homeless-person trousersâ"
"Why grey, Myc? You know there are other colours."
"I like grey!" Pulling the drawstring as tight as it will go, he loops it in a secure double knot, the material all bunching up below his belly button.
Sherlock's lip ghosts with a smirk. "Do you want some sun cream?"
"Now what are you on about now, you cretin?"
"You're so pale. When was the last time your stomach saw daylight? When Mum and Dad dragged you to that outdoor pool in 1988?" he gestures at the chandelier. "I worry it'll get sunburn from the light bulbs, or something."
"UVB causes sunburn, you idiot, not just any light sourceâI mean really, it's high school level radiation physicsâ"
"Physics? I probably deleted it "
"You what?"
He gives a nonchalant shrug. "Deleted it. I don't need to know all that rubbish."
"Rubbishâ?!"
With his makeup and yanked-up trousers, Mycroft somehow looks like a child playing dress upâ
And a tired, six-foot-five-old lady at the same time.
He catches Y/N's eyes flick to the band of his underwear again, and sighs. "Can everyone just move on from the trousers?"
"Well, not if they're going to keep falling down and flashing your pants."
Then Mycroft does something unexpected. He makes a groaning, desperate sort of sound, and clasps his hands together as if he's praying, all his features dropping downwards like he's melting.
Coming from possibly the least spiritual man she's ever met, Y/N finds this unsettling.
It's made worse by the fact that thunder booms in the distance at the exact same time---as though he's summoned it.
"...Please..." he begs. "I just want to get out of this." He looks like he means it. He looks likeâif he's left in make-up any longerâhe'll pull his whole face off like a scab, and wander around without one. "It's beginning to itch."
Sighing, Y/N gestures towards the loo.
...
Wearing a disappointed expression, Sherlock props himself up against the door frame as Y/N heads to the cabinet over the sink, and starts carefully examining bottles and vials. Something from Boots full of blue liquid catches her eye and she presents it to Mycroft proudly.
He lunges for itâ
But she whisks it out of reach, a smirk playing on her lips.
"Y/N! Kindly give me the bottle!"
"Wait! I just wanna look at you for a second more."
His mascara-caked lashes scrunch up in rage. "For fucks sake, have mercy!"
"Say you're sorry."
"What?"
"Say you're sorry for ruining our day. Sherlock and I were having a nice time before you came along."
"What did I do?"
"You unsettled us."
"I unsettled you?"
"Yes. We were settled, then you came along and now we're unsettled."
His eyes roll so far back, for a second, there is only white. He sucks in a breath, holds it, then sighs. "I'm sorry you're both so sensitive."
"Nope."
"I'm sorry Sherlock made poor life decisions, then gets insecure when he's reminded of the fact."
"Not even close."
"I'm sorry you chose to befriend this immature, petty, oversized raccoon you found rooting through a bin."
"I will absolutely tip this whole bottle down the sink."
"No, wait," Sherlock interjects. "To be fair, I was in a bin last week."
"Please tell me it was for a case."
"I wish I could."
"God, just end this!" Mycroft wails despairingly. "I apologise, okay?! I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Now, please give me the blasted bottle!"
Relenting disappointedly, Y/N holds it out and he snatches it like an addict, his bony fingers struggling with the childlocked cap.
Once inside, he begins desperately sloshing the contents onto a cotton pad andâquite sickeninglyâscrapes it across his face. A pale pink eyelid is exposed as he drags it across one sagging cheek, his brow matted as he rubs it vigorously across his cranial forehead.
"You should eat more red meat," Sherlock points out.
"What?" He snaps.
"Your eyelids are barely pink," Y/N chips in helpfully. "Maybe if you got more iron you wouldn't be so tired all the time."
"I'm not tired all the time, I just find these visits very tryingâ"
"Don't come then."
Ignoring her flatmate: "Do you want to come over next week and Sherlock will make a lasagne?"
"No, I won't."
"That's got red meat in it."
"It does, but I'm not making you one."
"He will," Y/N insists. "He's really good at pasta. He lives off the stuff."
"Please don't take this the wrong way," Mycroft pleads in his best Government Voice. "But could you two kindly fuck off? I feel like I'm babysitting two special needs nine-year-olds."
Y/N's eyebrows pull together, hurt. "That's not very nice, I'm just worried about you."
"Why?" Sherlock sneers, clearly baffled. "I mean, look at him. Would anyone really notice if he died?"
Choosing to not have heard that, Mycroft continues to scrub his face, smooshing it up like a horrible Picasso painting. After three swipes, the cotton pad is already transformed into a rainbow-coloured wad of damp fluff and, mumbling a string of irritated swears under his breath, he starts on another.
When the makeup is all peeled away, Mycroft seems relieved to see his own familiar face in the mirrorâeven though his raw skin is mottled pink where he's grated a few cells away like cheese.
"Finally," Sherlock exclaims, pushing himself off the door frame. "You take longer to get ready than Mother."
Suddenlyâlike a star has crashed into the front gardenâthe whole room lights up. It fills the windowpanes; turning them into two white rectangles, throwing shadows of shampoo bottles and rubber ducks across the walls like scorch marks---
Then darkness.
Instantly, like a whip, a sound follows, slapping the house across the face: a horrific, ear-shattering crack.
Clamping her hands to her ears, Y/N feels herself leap in shock, and bumps into something warm and solid. Cowering beside it, she can feel the vibration of the sound pass through her bones, through her feet on the floorboards, through the thingâ
No, the person pressed against her shoulder blades.
The sound suffocates, strangles, intensifiesâ
Then, like a wave, it ebbs away.
Drawing back away from the house, it retreats, the guttural rumbling giving way to a high-pitched ringing of eardrums.
Dazed, Y/N blinks, then rubs her knuckles into her eyes. Her heart bumps her teeth as, for a moment, she worries she's turned blind.
Then voices come to her through the suffocating, liquid darkness:
"The power has gone out."
"Wow, no wonder you're a detective."
She can tell which voice is Sherlock's because it's unnaturally deep (and slightly irritated), and she can tell which is Mycroft's because it's oily and dripping with sarcasm.
"Shut up. "Do you think it hit the house?"
"Maybe. Luckily Grandad installed a lightning rod."
"Where's Y/N gone?"
"Here," she pipes up, her voice a little mouse-like squeak.
She can't remember the last time she was in total darkness.
In London, the street lamps light up her room slightly orange like strange, tiny moons and, even when she sleeps, her alarm clock's red numbers glow faintly through her eyelids.
In the countryside, though, fifteen minutes walk from the village...
A blanket seems to have been drawn over the sky. She can't even see the village through the rain-spattered window. She can't even see the window.
Thunder blooms again, but further away this time.
Sherlock's voice booms too as he asks:
"Y/N? Can you come get my phone from my back pocket?"
"What?" She sputters. "Why can't you do it?"
"I've got makeup all over my handsâand I don't want Mycroft touching my arse."
"But you don't mind me touching it?"
She tries to remember the layout of the room around her; the standing tub to her left with its pretty gold feet, the Victorian toilet protruding from the wall to her right, the pink shell-shaped sink, straight out of the 1950sâ
Sherlock has been by the door and, judging by his voice, he hasn't moved far. Inching her toes cautiously over the tiles, she shuffles her way through the inky blackness.
Finally, her fingers touch something warm and soft.
Curtly, someone clears their throat.
"Well, I've never been touched there before."
"Oh my God, Myc!" Y/N gasps, retracting her hands as if he's burnt her. "Jesus, I'm so sorryâ!"
"Don't mention it."
On their own, her palms come together as if thanking God the lights are out so no one can see the unhealthy shade of red she's turned. "No, seriously, I'm really sorryâ"
"Really. Don't mention it. Ever."
Steam probably seeping from her collar, Y/N turns around and tentatively wobbles the other way. Weakly:
"Sherlock, I think I just molested your brother."
"That's okay, he might as well feel the touch of a woman once before he dies."
"I can hear you, you know," a terse voice cuts through the darkness, and Y/N blushes some more.
Following the gravelly sound of Sherlock's chuckles, she feels her feet meet a bath mat. This time, when her hands find something warm, it's much more solid. It vibrates as a deep voice mutters:
"Hello."
"Do I have the right brother this time?"
"You most certainly do."
Sighing in relief that it's not something squishy belonging to Mycroft, she clings to Sherlock's middle like a lifeline.
Yes, it is him. She can smell the shower gel that sits in their bathroom, and the cologne and violin resin on his clothesâ
And him; that wonderful, masculine sort of smell that is just...Sherlock. That smell that clings to the furniture back at their beloved flatâ
The smell of home.
Pressing her palms flat to his body, she stumbles across soft cotton and the firm plane of a chest, and blushes.
Yes, this is definitely Sherlock.
"I am enjoying this," his deep voice rumbles through a smirk, "but I think you're looking for the other side."
Y/N blinks in the darkness as she stumbles across the unexpectedly soft centre of his belly. Giving him a teasing squeeze, she quips back:
"No, I'm quite happy here."
From a few steps away, someone clears their throat. "Can you two stop flirting for two minutes, please?"
"Jealous?" Sherlock taunts, which gets a snort.
"We are not flirting!" Flushing again, Y/N reluctantly drags herself away from his waist.
Finding the leather of his belt, she follows it around to the deep curve of his back, then, taking a breath, she lowers her hand to locate his pocket.
"Don't say a word," she warns, sensing his mouth open.
His chuckle sets the room vibrating like the thunder. "You're not going to squeeze that too?"
If she didn't know any better, she'd say he sounded disappointed.
Somewhere, Mycroft makes a retching sound as if he's being physically sick.
Perhaps he is.
Hopefully he's still by the sink.
Sliding Sherlock's phone from his pocket, she presses the home button and squints, the light scorching her retinas like the sun. Blinking, an image materialises, and her own face smiles back at her.
She grins. "Aw Sherlock, it's us up The Shard."
"Give that here." Having hurriedly washed his hands, he snatches it, but Mycroft's straight, even teeth are already visible in the low light.
"What was that, brother?"
"Nothing."
"It wasn't nothing; it was a lovely photo of you and Y/N having a little day out! How quaint. Whatever happened to the lock screen that came with the phone? The one you hadn't changed since you got it?"
"I got bored of it, if you must knowâand what's wrong with that?" He taps the screen, much harder than necessary, until the torch bursts into life. "You're just jealous because I'm not afraid to enjoy myself."
"Goodness, so defensive." Mycroft holds his hands up. "I wasn't saying anything."
"You wereâwith your eyes. Now shut up, we should go look if the lightning blew a fuse."
In a conga line, they follow Sherlock's bobbing torchlight down the hall. As he's the one holding the light, he steps out swiftly and confidently---
But Y/N's steps are tentative as she wades through ankle-deep darkness.
At the end of the hall, the window looks out onto a void, the glass showing nothing besides the torchlight, reflected as a wobbly smear. Beyond it, the countryside is pitch black. Where the lights from the village would usually twinkle in the distance, there is only nothingness, as though the whole world has been snuffed out like a candle.
The staircase looms like a hole into the ground, and Y/N finds herself speeding up.
Her feet scurry closer to Sherlock's heels, and he must notice because looks over his shoulder at her, a little smile setting his eyes twinkling.
She doesn't know what it means, but it makes her cheeks flush a light pink. "Slow down!" she pleads defensively. "We can't see back here, you know."
Reaching back, his hand closes over hers and he tugs her gently, bringing her to his side. "Better?" he asks, the word falling down onto her face like snow.
"Yes." She blinks up at him, hoping he hasn't noticed her blush running down into her jumper. "Thank you.
"You know," a voice drones from the rear. "I can't see either."
"Oh, sorry, Brother, dearest."
Y/N giggles as Sherlock reaches backwards and begins groping around.
"I literally forgot you exist."
He must have found Mycroft's hand because he gets a shocked:
"Hey! What are you---?"
Powerless against Sherlock's grip, Mycroft is dragged---wriggling---from the darkness like one of those slimy fish from the deep sea. He flounders as his little brother plonks him at his other side, his fingers still clamped around his pale palm.
"Get off me, you ox---" he thrashes, trying to drag himself free.
Unbothered, Sherlock creases his brows into mock confusion. "But I thought you said you couldn't see?"
"I wanted more light, not to hold your hand---"
However, Sherlock does have to release him when they reach the fuse box, and he snatches his (probably slightly crushed) hand back vehemently, muttering something about his brother being an oaf.
The fuse box turns out to be located under the stairs, wedged amongst Mr and Mrs Holmes' shoes and boots.
Leaving the door hanging open, Sherlock steps back as if presenting it to Mycroft.
He meets his challenging stare, puzzled. "What are you looking at me for?"
"You said you want to know everything about everything that ever existed. You check it."
"Don't you know how to do it?" Y/N teases, but Sherlock's lip just twitches.
The shadow of it flickers and curves across his cheekbones until he looks a bit like The Grinch.
"Of course I do; it's a basic skill."
"No, it's blue-collar labour," Mycroft postulates, his face sour. He's glowering at the fuses as though they are a dirty thing he doesn't want to touch.
They sort of are dirty; untouched and forgotten, they're coated in a thin fluffy layer of dust, and several spiderwebs stretch between the corners of the cupboard.
Unphased (and most definitely showing off) Sherlock shrugs with a "Suit yourself," and disappears inside the cupboard. He brings the light with him, plunging the hallway into darkness.
After a little while in semi-awkward silence, Y/N throws some words at Mycroftâalthough she doesn't really know where to aim them. She picks his last known locationâbeside a bust of his great-great-great-grandmotherâand says:
"You call Sherlock an idiot, but you had him come and fix your radiators last month."
"So?"
"So, a man who can learn Mandarin Chinese in two hours, but can't check a fuse? Who's really the idiot here?"
Flatly: "The man currently crouched in a cupboard in the dark, playing with two hundred and thirty volts."
Y/N sighs.
The rain is beating the wisteria leaves outside like a bushel of tiny drums.
The wind whistles as it passes through the branches.
Then:
"...Myc?"
"Mycroft. But continue." His voice echoes off the high ceiling.
"You always play board games on Tuesday but, last week, you were at Buckingham Palace."
"So?"
"So you didn't play board games."
Understanding what she's getting at, Mycroft says:
"Y/N, you may think us Holmeses stubborn and resistant to change---but we can rise to the occasionâshould the need arise."
"What?"
Dryly: "We're not as set in our ways as you seem to think."
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
In the show, Sherlock has a skull, bats, butterflies and beetles on his walls, so he obviously has an interest in animals. I think he'd like the intelligent, creepy, misunderstood ones the best---and maybe find them relatable?
Anyway, after the last chapter, I got a bit obsessed, and I drew him as a teenager with his pet snake, Monty ð