Mycroft Holmes loves Y/N Y/L/N. That is a fact, as simple as the earth orbits the sun.
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@ig_norah_antDecember had draped London in a sheet of frost, the streetlights casting golden pools on the slick pavement. At 221B Baker Street, warm light spilled from the windows onto the snow-dusted steps.
Inside, the sitting room smelled of roasted turkey, cinnamon, and the faint, acrid tang of Sherlock's latest chemical experiment, pushed to the corner of the mantle.
John Watson
adjusting his jumper, glancing at the clock She said she’d be a bit late. Traffic, probably.
Sherlock Holmes
sprawled in his armchair, eyes half-closed Or she got held up at the door by a neighbor with a tedious story about a cat. People are predictable.
John Watson
sighs Or the tube was delayed. Not everything’s a deduction, Sherlock.
A sharp knock cut through the warm hum of conversation. John crossed the room in three quick strides, pulling the door open to a gust of cold air and a swirl of snowflakes.
Ellerie
stepping inside, cheeks flushed from the cold Sorry I’m late. The black cabs were impossible.
She shook the snow from her dark coat, and as she handed it to John, the firelight caught her frame. Her hair, once just past her shoulders, now fell in a sleek, waist-length curtain. The little black dress hugged her figure, and the heels—simple, elegant—made her stance effortless.
John Watson
a brief, warm smile You look—clears throat Lovely. As always.
Sherlock Holmes
sitting up slightly, his gaze sharp You got the haircut. Smart. It frames your jawline better.
Ellerie
laughs, pulling a wrapped bottle from her bag For you, John. Something aged longer than Sherlock’s patience.
John Watson
taking it, reading the label Ellerie, this is—whistles This is far too generous.
Ellerie
turning to Sherlock, producing a smaller, plain box And for you. Don’t open it near the roast.
Sherlock Holmes
tearing the paper with uncharacteristic eagerness, revealing a glass vial of deep blue powder Phenylacetylsulfide. a rare, genuine smile Finally. A practical gift.
From the sofa, a cough. Ivy Monroe Rheese sat cross-legged, a canary-yellow dress straining against her frame, a folded scarf in her lap. Mycroft stood by the fireplace, expression unreadable, his eyes fixed on the woman at the door.
Ivy Monroe
holding up the scarf, her voice a little too bright John. Sherlock. I brought you both a little something. Hand-knitted. Very festive.
John Watson
taking it, his smile tight Er. Thank you, Ivy. It’s… warm.
Sherlock Holmes
glancing at the scarf, then back at his vial How thoughtful. I shall treasure it as much as I treasure a blocked drain.
A pointed silence. Sherlock’s gaze drifted to Ellerie, then to Mycroft, whose jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Sherlock Holmes
I am, however, glad that Ellerie understands the art of gift-giving. Not everyone manages to find wool that looks like it was salvaged from a skip.