tacotheshark

 There is something in the air come the winter, something that no one can ever quite place. It smells of fire and pine, and of warmth and light. It is a component lying underneath the veil of oxygen that people breathe in abundance and yet they can never get enough. It feels best when a blanket of snow is laid over asphalt and grass, when streetlights illuminate it a gold that is not foggy but shimmering. Somewhere, in history, a baby cries, and a stone is turned over. A seal is broken. And from then on celebrations change and adapt but the message is always the same. Somewhere, centuries earlier, a candle burns long past its lifesp

 Anna Milligan is a lovely woman, intelligent as well, with shining orange hair like fire, striking emerald eyes, and dreams of a beautiful future and life that she has never hesitates to share with anyone willing to listen. She's brought so much hope to so many lives, with her smile and her words. She is everything one could want in a wife or a mother, and then she is so much more. As Anna Milligan lies in a hospital bed, with clumps of hair that's turned dull missing and the rest cut short, and with an oxygen tube strapped across her pale face and in her nose to help her breathe, her eyes are as bright as ever, filled with the hope and ha

 The name of Mycroft's soul mate, which he is born with written on his hand just as everyone else is, is Greg. It isn't the most common of names in the world, but it's nowhere near obscure, so Mycroft doesn't make much of an effort to find the boy, as he knows he is destined to meet with his Greg someday. Eighteen years old, Mycroft sits in the kitchen to do schoolwork as well as to get away from his irritating younger brother. The television is on, just above muted and for nothing but background noise. Though, the voice of the newscaster easily catches Mycroft's attention when she announces, "Gregory Lestrade, seventeen, was hit by a train

 The room provided by the funeral home is beige, mostly, with a creamy white carpet and light brown in places as well, adding a bit of light to the somberness of the event. In the front of the room sits a chestnut coffin, and inside of that coffin lies the still body of Mycroft Holmes. Not once during the wake does Sherlock leave John's side, about which John has no complaints. As they stand together in the front row, one of Sherlock's hands grasps one of John's tightly, and the other has its fingers curled around the handle of the umbrella that John doesn't believe is ever going to leave Sherlock's grip. They'd had a conversation, earlie

 Sherlock says, the next day, that he's going out, and John doesn't press further. "Just to fetch something," Sherlock adds, and John bids him goodbye with faith that he's figured out what's best. Not half an hour later, when Sherlock returns, John opens his mouth to ask where he's gone, since he hasn't got anything with him that he hadn't before. He notices then the black umbrella Sherlock holds that had blended in with his black coat, and he breathes out is "Oh, Sherlock." Sherlock nods in acknowledgement before he retires to his bedroom. It's midnight, at least, and John's gotten up to pour himself a glass of water. Only then does he

 Sherlock is gone, and John frightened beyond repair. He sends text after text to Sherlock's mobile, each more pressing than the previous. He calls more than once, much more than once, but each time he isn't met with a single ring before he hears an automated voicemail message. He asks Mrs. Hudson if Sherlock's said a thing to her, to which she replies, "No, not a thing, he never does. Why, is something wrong?" John doesn't tell her, decides he shouldn't, not until Sherlock is ready if that time ever comes. After hours of John's worry and panic, Sherlock strolls into the flat as casually as any day, shooting John barely an acknowledging gla

 Sherlock is curled up on the couch, wearing pajamas and wrapped in a sheet, and John is practically crawling out of his skin with discomfort as he watched. He figured he'd let Sherlock be Sherlock and deal with it on his own, but he so obviously isn't dealing with, not at all, because he's barely moved from the couch in days. John's become so strung out over Sherlock that he doesn't have a spare second to think about himself. He doesn't have a spare second to think about anything at all, for that matter, because every single thought is about Sherlock, which really was or almost was the case even before Mycroft's death, though now it's just

 The cab ride is completely silent, apart from Sherlock's loud slamming of the door as he'd gotten it and his spouting Mycroft's address at the driver. John had barely known Mycroft, but despair sits heavy in his heart and its almost as if he's at a lot of oxygen. He's had friends die before, far too many, and the feeling is horridly familiar. He can't even imagine how Sherlock must feel, never having lost a friend and just now having lost his brother. Or rather, how Sherlock should feel or would feel if he was anyone other than himself, as he quite possibly may not be feeling very much at all. John doesn't expect Sherlock to speak, so he s

 Sherlock lounges in his armchair, loose and lazy as he lies back, his legs splayed apart in front of him. His violin, sitting in his lap, is plucked almost absently by his slender fingers while he stares into the fireplace. He's bored, and quite obviously so, John thinks. He's glad, at least, that Sherlock hasn't got the gun this time. Across the room from where he sits, Sherlock's phone rings. He pays no mind to it at first- John wonders whether he hasn't noticed or he simply doesn't care, but soon, without taking his eyes of the hearth or stopping the steady plucking of his violin strings, Sherlock asks, though it's clearly more of a dem