#what a coincidence that they’ve only removed comments on these pieces and none of their others

[teamvnla]

Cutscene ; Atlas bound

Russet tapped his fingers against his thighs from his seat in the back of the car between Kashmere and Van. The adults had headed out first while Jae had taken the others to their loft to grab their things.

"I didn't think they'd take me this seriously...." He muttered his ears shifting anxiously.

"Give yourself some credit, apparently it was a connecting piece for the information they've got." Van reached over tussling Russet's hair.

"Where are we heading?" Kash shifted forward in his seat towards the front where Lye say in the passenger seat and Jae drove.

"Atlas." Jae stated bluntly.

"Before that."

"We're going to the warehouse where Opal stashed the ship we used to get here."

"We could get in trouble for this stuff so that's why we're heading out so late and far." Lye explained turning in her seat.

"Kinda shady if you ask me." Van commented looking out the window.

"Like you're one to talk..." The response Jae made under his breath reminded the other three Faunus of the tension between the two boys. They had thought it had simmered down after the week and few days that had passed, but clearly it was still there. The remainder of the drive remained quiet.

Upon arriving at the warehouse they all hopped out and began unloading their bags from the car, Lye and the boys already traveled light considering their main means of travel was by foot. Jae had what he deemed his essentials, he came to learn that what he didn’t bring with him could be provided by the agency Tarragon worked under. He assumed he’d follow the path of a freelance Huntsman after graduation, but working under and agency didn’t seem like too bad of a path.

“We aren’t bringing HZ with us?” Kashmere asked glancing around noticing the lack of lizard Faunus, he assumed that Opal and the other would have brought him along.

“He under the custody of some friends of mine, it’ll be easier to keep an eye on him that way while we continue the investigation.” Tarragon explained as she loaded the cases that held Opal equipment into the airship.

“And he’s a pain the ass.” Leo added on with a puff of smoke as he worked on finishing a cigarette before having to fly.

The group loaded into the airship, it seemed something along the lines of a passenger transport. Judging by the insignia plaster everywhere this was an Atlas ship, from Russet’s knowledge none the adults were under the Atlas military so how’d they manage to get their hands on this.

———

The trip got bumpy the moment they hit the storm that they had received a weather warning upon when they had taken off. Jae pressed his body back into his seat trying not to focus on the jerk of the airship, his motion sickness wasn’t typically this bad perhaps it was the lack of sleep. A rough hit from the side knocked the airship off course, causing it to drop briefly. Leo cursed under his breath flipping a few switches as he fought the console to return to their path.

“What was that?” Lye’s ears stood up, even she could recognize that wasn’t a hit from the storm.

“A Teryx.” Opal stated simply as she stood up to look out the windshield trying to spot the monster, she flipped her coat as she turned on her heals.

“There’s a hatch up top, Van, Kashmere, Lye, go help Opal take care of this.” Tarragon ordered as her gaze looked over some of the monitors in the cockpit, she didn’t know how to fly as well as Leo but she still could provide some assistance.

The four made their way to the top of the airship, Kashmere went to work at collecting the water from the snow guiding it around the top of the ship where they stood.

“Van, you have that tracking Semblance don’t you?” Opal questioned, looking towards the rabbit.

“I’m already on it.” He responded as he squinted his Semblance searching for information among the haze of the storm, for a brief momment he saw a silhouette before it disappeared. “I think it’s usin’ the storm as cover!” He called to open pointing out where he had seen the silhouette.

“That means this is probably an ol-“ She was cut off at the jolt of the airship under their feet. “Hold it steady!” She yelled into the hatch.

“I’d like to see you try!” Leo responded with a faint growl.

With the wind whipping the hair around her face, Lye squinted trying to find the Grimm among the snow and clouds that seemed to blend into one another. “There!” She shouted seeing a glint of ice and red eyes, Van turned his attention locking onto the beast. He lined up a shot firing as the beast dove causing his bullets to catch on the ice on it’s back. The beast flapped it’s wings as it dove before shooting back up.

“Kash! Me and Lye will keep it’s attention on us, wait until its drawn in close enough to and skewer it!” Van ordered looking to Lye with a nod, the Teryx flew high before lunging down at the airship. Both twins fired shots at the grim while Kash worked on collecting the ice from the back of the beast. It flew off trying other tactics only to continued to be pelted by bullets, seeming to have made it’s decision after attempts to flap it’s wing to try and throw them off balance. The Grimm lunged forward claws out grappling onto the ship. “Now!” Van shouted taking a step back shooting a hand out to pull Lye back with him, Kashmere arms flexed eyes a sparkling blue as the water he had collect from the snow and from the Teryx itself spun turning into jagged spikes. He brought his hands down the spikes piercing all over the beast’s body, it let out a screech thrashing in it’s final momments. The final thrash jerked the airship, the slick surface throwing the twins off the side.

All she felt was falling, her pistols didn’t have enough power to get her back up to the ship. Her eyes widen a stark yellow as she felt herself panic, she could see Van shouting for her but the wind pounding in her ears drowned him out. Instinctually she reach a hand out, the moment his fingers brushed her he grasped tightly to her hand. He felt his body jerk as a whip of blades wrapped around his waist, he glanced up seeing Opal hanging off the edge holding onto Kashmere who had used ice to lock his feet to the craft. Van flipped Crosshare around firing to aide Opal in hoisting them up, he realized the reason why Tarragon had sent her up with them.

Kashmere was the last to enter closing the hatch with a sigh, he wasn’t cold but his close were wet. The twins moved to their seats, Lye felt a relief wash over her. Van felt the familiar rush disapating, the jobs that had been taking up hadn’t been that exciting in a while.

Opal moved to the front pushing wet hair out of her face. “They did well.” She stated. “How much longer before this clears up?” She asked gaze shifting to Leo.

“Best guess? Maybe an hour..” He stated brows furrowed has he focused on navigating through the storm especially watching for any more Grimm.

———

It felt like the momment they had cleared the storm and caught sight of a cliff of Solitas, the radio kicked on a voice coming over rattling off the code for the ship requesting for it to dock nearby. Lye and Van sat up looking to one another, despite the static of the radio the voice sounded familiar.

“They’re going to search the ship? What are we going to do if they find us?” Lye asked ears shifting slightly.

“Just leave it to me, all you four gotta do is stay out of sight.” Leo responded visibly at ease as he began to head to dock, upon landing Lye and the boys found various spots to hide certain light dimmed to imply that some of COAL had been sleeping during the ride. Tarragon was first out of the airship walking down the ramp, followed by Opal and Jae. Three soldiers stood waiting, two in typical uniforms and one in a specialist uniform with a familiar black scarf.

“Leo!”

“Leo Cornell?!”

The pair of soldiers excitedly called out upon seeing the blonde, Titus rolled his eyes.

“Mika! Melo!” He called out with a wide grin. “My two favorite faces!”

“What are you doing all the way out here?”

“We’re heading back from a mission, you know how long this stuff takes with the borders.”

“On border duty, Titus?” Opal questioned with a quirked smile.

“Quite the coincidence I know.” He knew it was not a coincidence, he turned to the other two to tell them where to search.

“Oh, come on Titus. It’s Leo, this is our easiest inspection so far.” The pair began chatting with Leo excited to see and catch up with the Huntsman, Titus folded his arms looking over the other three before a flash of white caught his attention out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m going to do a run through on the inside of the ship.” He didn’t wait for a reply as he began walking to the ramp.

“If you spot any dirty mags they’re Jae’s!” Leo called after him.

“Wh-what?!” Jae looked to Leo in surprise.

Van and the others had tucked themselve’s into various spaces in the ship, with the added stealth of Russet’s semblance to conceal any noise they could make. Russet and Kashmere didn’t recognize the man, but something did seem oddly familiar. They watched as he inched around the ship, continuing towards the back unviewable from outside. Kashmere uncapped the pouch of water on his hip preparing his Semblance as the man grew closer to where Lye was hiding, he paused seeing Van hold up a hand signaling for him to hold.

Titus hand went to his gun holster under his coat the moment he sensed a presence, he pulled the gun as the front of his jacket was pulled. He was about to aim his gun but came to a halt upon coming face to face with someone he didn’t expect.

“Lye?” He whispered brows furrowing, he felt a built guilty having aimed a gun at his baby sister.

“Razz, I’ll explain everything later, but you need to let us through.” She pleaded in a whisper back fingers grasping the front of his jacket, he held her gaze for a moment. He reholstered his gun with a sigh, removing her hands from the root of his coat. He turned back towards the enterance and for a moment Van thought that their cover was blown.

“It’s all clear.” He called out walking out of the air ship.

“See? You’re so serious, its fine to relax.”

“Especially when it’s such a trustworthy guy like Leo.” He added nudging the older man.

Leo laughed with a grin. “Alright we‘ve got a schedule to keep, so we should head out.” He stated as he swung the keys around her finger, the group passed Titus as they walked back to the ship. Opal reached out grabbed his shoulder, she leaned in.

“We’ll be spending a few nights in Atlas, you’ll be able to find us at Tarragon’s agency’s building.” She informed lips quirked. “See you later, Titus.” She bid farewell before walking up the ramp, the airship took off with ease and soon enough the group was approaching the main city of Atlas.

#cutscene #🌿Weeping Willows🌿 #[Muse;Van Marigold] #[Muse;Lye Marigold] #[Muse;Jae Aryl] #[Russet Bron] #[Kashmere] #[Opal Amas] #[Cherry Tarragon] #[Leo Cornell] #[Titus ‘Razz’ Marigold]

[thesinglesjukebox]

THE NATIONAL - YOU HAD YOUR SOUL WITH YOU

[5.20]

Ooh, you had your soul with you...

Joshua Copperman: I Am Easy To Find is the most challenging The National have been to date, for both intentional reasons and some less intentional ones. All the hallmarks of a great National song are here: production loaded with ear candy (like that guitar line or the third time they've abruptly entered a string interlude), Bryan Devendorf's torrential downpour of snares. But Gail Ann Dorsey merely fills in for Matt Berninger on the bridge rather than complementing him, and the lyrics, written by Matt's wife Carin Besser with Thomas Bartlett, sound increasingly like self-parody -- "I had only one last feather left/I wore it on the island of my head" is like someone threw Boxer into a neuralnet. High Violet has aged well because its songs were whittled down into their best possible forms, the band's internal tension giving way to external effortlessness. I Am Easy To Find has elements of that effortlessness, but this first single is one of a few moments where high-budget gimmicks just barely elevate mid-tier National songs. Yet, they do. [8]

Alfred Soto: The National record music for men who order Pink Rabbits on weekends and smoke too many cigarettes when their wives "let" them go to concerts. No National single lacks for odd hooks: here, the distorted guitar figure ping-ponging between speakers, an ace string section interlude, and the usual Bryan Devendorf kinetics behind the drum kit. Momentum and an attractively meaningless title -- ho hum, another National single. [6]

Tim de Reuse: So, what is this -- rather, what was this supposed to be? Dry, cluttered electronics under heavily-compressed drums under a soppy string arrangement under a nursery-rhyme melody: none of these pieces fit together. The more you listen, the more incomprehensible details float groggily to the surface. Why does it feel like they forgot to unmute the bass track before exporting? Why are the hi-hats exiled to the edges of human perception? Why feature a guest vocalist if you're not going to let her do anything? Perhaps the most confusing part is that The National could've easily continued selling out stadiums for decades to come by just writing High Violet over and over again, which shouldn't be hard given that from 2005 to 2013 they basically released one really good album four times with increasing amounts of reverb. That's not the outcome I dream about for a band I have this much emotional investment in, but I'd rather daydream about that than listen to this awkward pileup. [2]

Thomas Inskeep: This doesn't sound like anything I've heard recently; it sounds original, the sound of a band in the studio doing lots of things they've never tried before because they've realized they can. And on this song at least, the National can -- this is dynamite, especially drum-wise. And that's before the unexpected vocal appearance of Gail Ann Dorsey, whose rich, full voice initially sounds as if dropped in from another song. And her harmonizing with Matt Berninger is gorgeous. [7]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: Matt Berninger's rich baritone was always one of The National's big draws, or at least one of the only things that made them stand out. The other: Bryan Devendorf's ability to make his drums sound simultaneously austere and elastic. Removing one of these elements isn't a complete dealbreaker, but the skittering electronics here are shallow ornamentations that show how the band is running out of ideas. [3]

Vikram Joseph: Bryan Devendorf's percussion has always been the National's secret weapon, giving their songs a skittish, propulsive anxiety that tessellates perfectly with Matt Berninger's strange metaphors and sad non-sequiturs. But despite its kineticism, it feels effortless, an integral part of the song. On "You Had Your Soul With You", the percussion becomes a jarring, distracting sideshow, as if it and the jittery synths are pursing each other around the back of a stage while a key expository scene unfolds in the foreground. It's no coincidence that the strongest part by far is the lush, string-soaked middle eight, where guest vocalist Gail Ann Dorsey delivers the best line in the song: "You have no idea how hard I died when you left." Her vocals fold beautifully into Berninger's, and the many female guest slots on the forthcoming album bode well (who can forget the shatteringly beautiful duet between Berninger and Annie Clark on their cover of "Sleep All Summer"?). The band's clumsy, scattershot use of electronics, however, does not. [5]

Josh Love: I feel like a hypocrite pushing back against this brighter, more dynamic iteration of The National after I'd gotten so ground down by their miserablist shades of gray that I didn't even bother giving their last album a fair shake (and I counted myself a big fan even up to and including Trouble Will Find Me). Still, "You Had Your Soul With You" just sounds like Vampire Weekend's or St. Vincent's nervy, busy aesthetics lazily grafted onto Matt Berninger's solemn vocal burr. [5]

Katherine St Asaph: A genuinely striking intro -- those 15 seconds of jerky guitar panning are both arresting and a great test of whether one of your earbuds has crapped out -- built on the watery foundation of a song by Coldplay, or for that matter The National. The former sinks into the mush; the latter twitches with the fripperies too much to swoon. [5]

Iris Xie: "You Had Your Soul With You" just reminds me of the discomfort of trying to listen through some of my brother's early '00s alt rock as a 10-year-old, and trying to understand what was so good and "adult" about it, and was I missing something? (The answer is no.) This sounds like someone trying to make a drum and bass track, but with... actual instruments? The sensation of listening to this song is like watching a Windows Media Player equalizer move and shudder around, and you pay more attention to the little spiky discrepancies than the song. I do like the post-chorus instrumental where the discordant drum work suddenly opens up, like the sun after the rain has ended, but then the muddiness resumes. Combine this with a smooth but slightly suffocated delivery, and I feel messier and scattered than before I started listening to the song. I guess that suits the lyrics, but the song sounds unclear, even to itself. [5]

Iain Mew: For all the superficial electronic additions, it sounds vital in a classic, immediately familiar way that The National haven't in a while. Matt Berninger is once again a man suspended in crisis, picking his way between collapsing velvet walls in total calm while the drums tell of secret adrenaline surges. Well, the first half does anyway. The second half is new in a different way, with its open expanses, Gail Ann Dorsey guest vocals and accelerating string arrangement that had me searching "You Had Your Soul With You" + "Owen Pallett." They each work, but the resulting feeling is a bit awkward: two contrasting styles of "return to form," squashed into one track. [6]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

#The National #indie rock #music #music review #writing

[corvacorvidae]

The Consulting Killer

CHAPTER TWO

September 10th, 2014 - Late Evening

John

John Watson was sitting in the hall outside the surgical suite. Beside him was a haggard looking Greg Lestrade, bent over a long-cold cup of coffee. Mycroft Holmes- usually the picture of impeccability- paced next to their bench, shoes clicking on the tile and hand running through his hair at a rate of approximately once every thirty-two seconds.

Though it was heavily dampened by thick, sterile white walls and heavy swinging doors, all three men could hear the sharp beep-beep-beep of a pulse oximetry, just as all three men could vividly remember the several minutes during which the beeping had stopped- becoming instead a constant, a flat line, as Sherlock’s heart stopped for the first time.

That time had been the longest, followed by four more occurrences lasting, cumulatively, no more than forty-five seconds each before the best surgeons and perioperative nurses in the UK succeeded in their near-constant struggle to keep Sherlock’s heart beating.

During those moments, but none more so than the first, John had felt such a keen sense of desperation and helplessness, of loss and utter despair. He was sure that his two companions felt similarly although- selfishly- he thought that perhaps they felt it to a lesser degree than he must.

John’s eyes had closed, and he had almost drifted off to sleep, lulled by the mechanical beeping when a nurse, still wearing her surgical scrubs, hairnet, and mask, appeared. “Mr. Holmes?” She asked.

John couldn’t help but notice the blood that splattered her blue shirt and the skin of her upper arms where her gloves wouldn’t have reached.

“Yes.” Mycroft responded, vainly attempting to smooth the wrinkles that now decorated his suit. At her indication, he followed the nurse a few paces away from the other men. She spoke to him in a low tone, but both John and Greg could hear the odd phrase and word, like “collapsed lung”, “unstable”, “internal hemorrhaging”, and “poor outlook”, leaving them stuck wishing she would’ve spoken both louder and softer- so they could hear all of it or not at all.

With Mycroft’s sharp nod, the nurse retreated back into the operating room, leaving a solitary drop of blood where she had stood. John stared at it blankly.

Mycroft said nothing, but he chose to sit down next to Greg instead of resume his pacing. Greg gave a curious glance in his direction but, seeing the way Mycroft sunk his head into his hands, quickly decided it best not to ask any questions.

Once again, they were left only to listen to the steady beep-beep-beep and the occasional whirl of surgical machinery.

John, the adrenaline and worry giving way to unfiltered exhaustion, slipped into sleep. This time when he woke it was not to the sound of an anxious nurse but to the smell of fresh coffee. Mycroft was holding a cup, fresh tendrils rising from its surface, though his still-rumpled suit and throw-away Styrofoam of the container indicated a trip to the cafeteria rather than a trip home.

“He’ll be out of surgery any minute.” Greg commented, his face impassive. “They think they’ve gotten all the bullet fragments, but it’s too dangerous to keep him under any longer.”

At John’s questioning glance, Mycroft clarified.

“His previous,” he cleared his throat, “addiction weakened his heart. The anesthesiologist is concerned that if they continue, he’ll become irretrievable. They have managed to repair the hemorrhage, remove what they believe are all the bullet fragments, and place a chest tube to relieve the internal pressure of the collapsed lung.

“They have made plans to continue reparative surgery later in the week, given he survives until then.”

John nodded blankly. For once, he wished he lacked a medical degree. His brain was a flurry of statistics- the likelihood that an overlooked shard of shrapnel would migrate into Sherlock’s heart before the next surgery, the chance that a clogged chest tube would lead to respiratory arrest, the near inevitability that the hemorrhage would recur and-

“Hey.” Greg interrupted, placing a wide palm on John’s shoulder. “He may not be out of the woods yet, but it’s Sherlock. He’s nothing if not a stubborn bastard.”

 September 11th, 2014 - Early Morning

Greg

By the time Sherlock was moved to his room- private, of course, and courtesy of Mycroft- the sun was just beginning to soften the night sky into an orange-tinted gray.

Mycroft had left, citing an emergency of international import, and John had taken watch at Sherlock’s bedside, leaving Greg to wander down to the cafeteria in search of breakfast.

He had to wonder if a hospital cafeteria wasn’t the loneliest place to be at 5:43 in the morning; if there was a place lonelier Greg hoped desperately he never found it.

The tables- white- and the tile floor- off white- were just as empty and sterile as the rest of the building, most lacking any evidence that they had been used since the night cleaning crew swept through hours earlier. One table, closest to the twin pots of coffee- one marked decaf, almost full, while the other dwindled towards empty- had a few napkins strewn about it, indicating it as the one night-shift doctors, ambulance drivers, and the lonely parents of hospitalized children used.

Greg, being none of the above, made his way to the clean table directly opposite. With a fresh cup of coffee in hand, he waited for the clock to announce 6 and, with it, the readiness of the cafeteria’s staff for breakfast.

“Mind if I join you?” A voice- feminine with a thick cockney accent- asked.

He simply gestured to the seat in front of him, not looking up from his cup.

He could hear the swish of polyester as whoever had spoken moved to take the proffered seat with a heavy thud and an equally heavy sigh.

“Long night?” The accented voice spoke again.

Greg looked up to find himself seated across from a rather petite woman. Pomegranate-colored hair was tied up in a tight bun, angular shoulders swamped by a thick forest-green paramedic’s coat. A faint scattering of freckles clouded her pointy nose and pale cheeks as she watched him carefully, appraisingly, with sharp gray-blue eyes.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah, you?”

She merely nodded, plunking a tea bag into a cup of hot water with a tired nonchalance.

They sat in silence for a moment, Greg trying to consume his coffee as quickly as he could in the hopes that the caffeine would jolt him awake, but burning his tongue and having to slow his pace.

“You’re a policeman, yeah?” The woman asked, taking a sip of her tea.

Greg nodded, a bit confused as to how she could tell. She motioned to his hip. He hadn’t noticed before, but his gun was still half-drawn from his holster, peeking out from underneath his coat. Quickly, he readjusted it, and settled his jacket so as to cover both his gun and his badge. “Detective inspector, actually.”

“Here for the gunshot victim, then?”

Greg nodded again.

“I was part of the ambulance team that helped stabilize him at the scene. One of the nurses told me he had pulled through. I’m surprised, you know. With the rate he was losing blood, and the damage he sustained- well, I’m sure you’ve seen enough to know how bad he was.”

Greg stayed silent, which the woman took as a sign to continue.

“You can almost always tell the shooter’s intent from the wound itself, you know.” She took a gulp of her tea. “Sometimes, we’ll transport people who’ve shot themselves in the foot or something, you know, from messing around. And sometimes we’ll get people who’ve been shot by a jealous spouse or a raging friend- someone who doesn’t really want to kill them, but wants them to hurt. They’ll maybe get them in the shoulder or the leg, maybe the abdomen if they’re really pissed off.

“But that one,” She leant forward conspiratorially. “That one was right next to the heart, it was. Whoever shot him meant it. I mean, he near enough died when he was in the back with us. I certainly don’t envy the surgical team that had to work on him- I heard his heart stopped three times while he was on the table.”

“Five times, actually.” Greg corrected.

The woman ignored the irritation in his tone, and emitted a low whistle of amazement. “Who shot him then? I’m guessing it wasn’t a drug hit- those guys usually come in with more than one bullet stuck in them- but he does look a bit like the junkie type. Did he piss off his dealer?”

“He’s a friend, actually.” Greg stated, meeting the woman’s eyes with a hard glare.

Her eyes widened. “Oh. Sorry, guess that was rude of me.”

Greg hummed, still glaring and desperately hoping she would move tables.

“He a policeman too then?”

Greg closed his eyes, sighing. “No. He’s a consulting detective.”

“What’s that? Like a, what are they called,” she tapped her finger, “private detective?”

“A bit.”

“Sounds like this bloke one of my friends over at St. Bart’s is always going on about. Always asking her to borrow bits and pieces of corpses for experiments or something freaky like that. But she’s got a bit of a crush on the wanker so,”

“I should be going.” Greg stood, abruptly cutting her off.

“Weren’t you waiting for breakfast? The café will open any minute now. I mean, the hash browns are far too greasy, but the eggs aren’t half bad.”

Greg was already tossing his coffee into the bin and striding quickly towards the door.

“Before you go, Gregory,” The cockney accent had suddenly dropped from her voice. At the mention of his voice, Greg slowed. He hadn’t recalled introducing himself. “Do remember that whoever shot Sherlock, shot to kill. He was not meant to survive this. And he still mightn’t.”

Hearing Sherlock’s name- which he was sure he hadn’t mentioned- had Greg spinning back to face the table he had abandoned in a rush just moments before. But in the half-second it took for him to do so, the woman had already disappeared, leaving behind only her still-steaming cup of tea.

 September 11th, 2014 - Slightly Later Morning

Seraphin

Running into Greg Lestrade had been largely coincidental but quite fortuitous. Seraphin had always wanted to introduce herself to the man, one she considered to have an underestimated intellect and the presumed patience of a saint- having put up with Sherlock for so many years.

Running into Mycroft Holmes was also coincidental, but not quite as fortuitous.

“And just what are you doing here, sister mine?”

Seraphin met Mycroft’s calculating gaze with her own. “I could ask the same, brother dear.”

“Well, I’m not parading around as a paramedic.” He answered, eyes glancing coldly at the uniform she still wore. She had discovered it in the breakroom after she had tried and failed to locate a doctor’s coat and scrubs.

“Yes, you never could pull off green.”

Mycroft’s lips tightened. “Let’s drop the charade, shall we?”

“It’s hardly any fun without it.”

“Seraphin.”

The two looked at each other intently, each waiting for the other to crack first.

Usually, Seraphin would win this game. Though the youngest of the Holmes’, she was by far the most stubborn- if not to a near fatal fault. But she was also the least patient, and her patience was already worn thin.

“Fine, Myc.” She acquiesced, though not without throwing out the endearment that Mycroft so thoroughly despised. “I’m here to visit Sherlock.”

“Sentiment, Seraphin?” Mycroft scoffed. “Never did I expect you to admit to it so freely.”

“And yet, you’re here,” Seraphin observed, “even after I hacked into your system and sent a rather raunchy email to the Bulgarian prime minister from your address- something certainly deserving of your direct intervention.”

Mycroft’s jaw clenched so tightly she was sure she could hear his teeth squeak in protest. “Yes, thank you for that.”

Seraphin smirked. “So I suppose we’ve both become rather sentimental, haven’t we.”

She began to walk around him, but a hand around her upper arm quickly stopped her.

“Why are you really here, Seraphin?” Mycroft whispered, leaning in close. “While I know that you care for Sherlock, you also have a rather demanding job- one I sent you only two days back, if you’ll recall- and you’re hardly fool enough to waste your time coming to see a comatose man.”

“What does that say about you then, brother mine?”

“Would it be too much for you to answer me honestly, if only just this once?”

Seraphin pulled her arm away from her brother’s grip, before taking a moment to closely examine the man.

His suit was wrinkled- indicating that he had not been home in at least twenty hours. His coat pocket lacked the subtle bulge of the protein bar Mycroft never left home without, meaning he had not eaten a meal within the last fifteen. His eyes were tired and somewhat sunken, showing both sleeplessness- he had been up all night then- and dehydration- stressed. Finally, he had chosen to remain at the hospital, rather than return to work to make reparations with Bulgaria. Conclusion, Mycroft was genuinely worried about Sherlock.

That gave Seraphin pause. She racked her brain, searching for another moment in which Mycroft had showed such genuine concern for either herself or his younger brother, and came up only with moments that had occurred deep into Sherlock’s drug addicted years. Years in which overdoses, periods of self harm and self-endangerment, and suicidal efforts were hardly a rarity. Years in which both the youngest and the oldest of the Holmes siblings had truly wondered whether or not the middle one would survive.

Secondary conclusion, Sherlock’s condition was more serious than his admittance report had indicated.

The most appropriate course of action, she decided, was to indulge her brother- if only just this once.

“I’m here to visit Sherlock’s shooter.” She said, a steel edge in her voice. Mycroft’s eyebrows furrowed, prompting Seraphin to roll her eyes. “Honestly, Mycroft if you, yourself, reviewed the footage you so meticulously take of our brother instead of having some halfwit staffer do so, you’d know who that is, just the same as I do.” She couldn’t indulge him too much, after all.

She then reached up and undid her tight bun, letting her red curls fall around her shoulders, discarding the paramedic’s jacket as she did so. Beneath it was a gray woolen sweater- grossly oversized, as were all the sweaters she owned.

“Seraphin-”

“Now, now, Mycroft,” she grinned. “It’s not fair for you to have all the fun.”

She turned, wool swishing in the way she so enjoyed, and with a final wave she disappeared around the corner, leaving a tired and frustrated Mycroft in her wake.

#johnlock #john watson x sherlock holmes #John/Sherlock #sherlock bbc #fanfic