Hello strange and unusual family! If you're one of the many people joining tumblr for the first time, coming back, or getting into fiction podcasts for the first time, we've got a show we think you might like!
The Bright Sessions is a science fiction podcast that follows a group of therapy patients. But these are not your typical patients - each has a unique supernatural ability. The show documents their struggles and discoveries as well as the motivations of their mysterious therapist, Dr. Bright. The show is complete, with seven seasons and three books, and has a cast of interesting characters, found family feels, and swoon-worthy ships.
There's a whole world of Atypicals to jump into, and you can start right now! And keep reading to see the *chef's kiss* ideal way to consume all the different content (aka in in-universe timeline order)
The original podcast ran from 2015-2018 as a single, serialized story over four seasons. Then, in 2018, 10 standalone bonus episodes were produced as a fifth season. In partnership with Luminary, two spin-offs were produced: first, The AM Archives in 2019, and then The College Tapes in 2020. Both are now available on all podcast apps and can be listened to as stand alone series, but should be listened to after listening to the original show. Within the events of the universe, this is the correct order of story progression:
A Neon Darkness (book)
The Bright Sessions Season 1 (original podcast)
The Bright Sessions Season 2 (original podcast)
The Infinite Noise (book)
The Bright Sessions Season 3 (original podcast)
The Bright Sessions Season 4 (original podcast)
Some Faraway Place (book)
The Bright Sessions Season 5 (bonus episodes)
The Bright Sessions Season 6 (The AM Archives)
The Bright Sessions Season 7 (The College Tapes)
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Sherlolly #1 (Soulmates AU) please? Something with a happy ending?
1: soulmates au. Also for @juldooz who wanted the same au.
Mycroft knew his brother was up to something when he walked into his bedroom, because Sherlock shot up to his full height and glared. Mycroft sighed, leaning against the doorknob.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Sherlock said quickly, all hair and height, disappointingly stereotypical for a young teenager. The high of his cheeks went beetroot red.
“Mummy says that dinner’s ready.”
“Fine,” Sherlock said tightly, hurrying to the door and skirting past Mycroft. He yelped as Mycroft grabbed his arm.
“That hurt!”
“Be quiet,” Mycroft snapped, yanking his little brother to his side. He turned the inside of his brother’s arm upwards, towards the hall light. Marker pen was scrawled across his skin. Mycroft’s smile sagged as he realised what it said.
“Oh Sherlock…”
“I told you, it’s nothing,” his brother spat, wrenching his arm out of his grip. He tugged at his sleeve uselessly. “I was just experimenting.”
There was a horrible silence between them for a moment. As ever, Mycroft was the one who broke it. “It’s okay,” he said slowly. “I won’t tell our parents.”
“Don’t tease me,” Sherlock spat.
“I’m not—”
It was too late. Sherlock had disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door hard enough to shake the door off its hinges. The sound of running water filtered through.
“Boys!” called up the voice of their mother. “Stop fighting and come downstairs!”
Mycroft squared his shoulders, clearing his throat. He hurried downstairs, greeting his mother with a kiss on the cheek. Their family had suffered enough; it wasn’t his place to create further upset to his brother. He just had to manage it, that was all.
—
SOME YEARS LATER
The rain was pouring down. The London traffic crawled by, sleek saloon cars alongside hatchbacks with dents in every panel. That was something to admire about traffic jams; they could be a wonderful social leveller. Sherlock flipped up his collar as he opened the door, preparing to step out into the rain.
“Sherlock,” said a soft voice behind him, and he quelled the temptation to roll his eyes. Turning instead on his heel, he faced Anthea. She had only the hint of a smile on her face, peeking out from underneath a large black umbrella.
“Don’t you get tired of being my brother’s gofer?”
Anthea, quite admirably, didn’t dignify his jab with a reply, and instead gestured to the car just pulling up alongside the pavement.
Sherlock eyed it, weighing his options. He could go through with his original plan; get a taxi, buy some takeaway and try to ignore it, as he had been doing for weeks now. On the other hand… the rain really was pouring down, and Mycroft’s drivers did always make sure the heating was ‘just so’.
With a half-hearted grumble, he climbed into the back of the car. Anthea slid in beside him, shaking off her umbrella and fetching her phone from her pocket.
The drive was shorter than he imagined, and didn’t, for once, take him to some dilapidated warehouse or empty office building. Instead, it took him somewhere worse. Far worse.
Molly Hooper’s flat had, in the past, been a place of refuge for him. She had taken him when no-one else had, when everyone else (even his brother) had lost their patience and thought he’d continue to slip down the drain; she’d let him sleep there, among familiarity, when the strangeness of being a dead man walking got a little too much.
Now, it loomed over him, the windows darker than he’d ever seen them, the door an intimidating shade of yellow.
The rain had petered off during the too-short drive, and Mycroft was stood on the pavement, leaning on his cane with his right hand, his left hand tucked into his pocket.
“Hello Sherlock.” In response, Sherlock tugged the collar of his coat up to line his chin. Mycroft stared hard at him. “Don’t hide.”
“I’m not… hiding.” As he spoke, the car door closed and its engine started, easily pulling away. Sherlock looked at the flat again, blowing out his cheeks slightly. Nowhere to hide, nowhere to escape to. Just as his brother wanted.
“I don’t know if you remember this, Sherlock, but when you were younger…”
“I know what you’re referring to.”
“What, then?”
“I was embarrassed about the fact that I hadn’t got my - mark - yet, so I tried to fool everyone by writing a name on my arm every morning. Until you got wind of it and told our parents.”
“I had to tell them Sherlock.” Mycroft sighed. “Mummy would’ve found out eventually anyway. She always did.”
“Not about everything.”
“That was a low blow. Which I shall ignore. If,” Mycroft added, and he pointed with the tip of his umbrella towards the windows, “you go up to that woman and stop denying reality.”
Our family is very good at denying reality, Sherlock thought bitterly. Against his worst instincts, he followed the line formed by Mycroft’s umbrella and stared up at the window. A lamp had been lit, lighting the curtains in a low sunset hue. A shape, small and obviously upset (going by the hunched shoulders), entered the frame.
“It’s very easy to get scared. You had your mark since you were a boy. Mine came the moment she got engaged. Is it any wonder I think I’m broken?”
“We’re all broken in this family,” Mycroft said softly, after a pause soundtracked by traffic. “The most radical thing we can do is find our piece of happiness and not let go of it. Everything I do is to protect my happiness, and help you find your own. I admit,” Mycroft continued when Sherlock opened his mouth with a retort, “I made bad decisions. Very bad decisions. But you have a chance to be better than me.”
Sherlock felt the temptation to squash his brother’s vulnerability with a cruel barb, but his eyes could only focus on that small silhouette.
He’d hurt her too many times to hurt her again.
Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock stepped forward and knocked on the door.
The silhouette withdrew from the frame. The yellow door swung open. It took some silence, but Molly Hooper carried forgiveness in her eyes as she smiled.
“Took you long enough.”
“Too long,” Sherlock said, glancing to his wrist. The name ‘Molly’ was etched like a delicate scar into his skin. He was still getting used to the itch that came when she came near, but right now, as he stepped forward and embraced her in a gentle kiss, the itch became a warm tingle, casting a fuzzy glow around his eyes. “Far, far too long.”
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