I wrote this for a prompt over at sherlockbbckinkmeme that requested Sherlock characters with strange superpowers. The powers I gave them are mostly the same the prompter suggested. Minerva is the Roman goddes of wisdom. as always, I don't own a thing. Reviews are still my greatest joy.
He supposes it makes sense in a strange, senseless way. It is a gift from the same source that gave him his brilliant mind and his capable body to carry it, and it wouldn't do for those gifts to contradict themselves.
He often rages around the flat, wishing he were cleverer (cleverer than Mycroft, more cunning, able to fool humanity more thoroughly just like Mycroft, never enough, never) but if he's being honest with himself, he wouldn't have it any other way. He is smart enough as it is; there wouldn't be anything in the whole world to satisfy him if he would be as intelligent as Mycroft is. He has seen enough of his brother's empty life to know that he doesn't want that for himself, not really.
He is very pleased with what he has. It's an interesting ability, endlessly useful and gloriously invisible and he never tires of trying to figure it out. It's an endless mystery he carries around hidden underneath his skin. He rarely does more with it than read an email without even picking up John's laptop. The mere knowing that he could upturn the world with a few thoughts pleases him to no end. He isn't going to do it, though; he isn't so noble as to destroy the mysteries he adores.
Sometimes, when he can't sleep, and when cocaine is no longer an option and John isn't an option yet, he climbs to the roof and just listens to the endless, eternal murmur of a rainbow of signals. It's the best thing beside Paganini's caprices - a tangle of information he isn't supposed to know, a grand symphony of electricity.
Her earliest memory is a voice of her mother, echoing through her pink-decorated room, softly singing a lullaby.
Years and years later, Sherlock Holmes looks at her for the first time and tells her everything about her except for the fact that she has been a murderer since the moment she was born. She doesn't really know if he doesn't mention it because he's truly missed it or because he has for once decided to be considerate, but she doesn't care. She is grateful and in return, she lets him have his strange way with some of the corpses. Not with all of them, of course; some are far more sensitive than the others, still afraid of being hurt, not yet used to the invincibility Death grants.
She knows it's an unusual occupation for a young, quirky woman like herself, but she likes it. The dead are a good company. Never cruel, never hurtful, and always wiser than the living. There is nothing she likes more than the quiet nightshifts when she can do her work at her own pace and listen to a choir of voices climbing through the black plastic of the body bags like silk curtains.
Most of them are friendly enough, and if she asks nicely, they help her find what she's looking for in their bodies so she doesn't have to cut them apart too severely. Some even remember Sherlock, and they ask for her to give him their regards and gratitude. Those who die of natural causes are the kindest; their voices are silver silk in the still air and they call her dear and ask for tea she can't give them. Children can still laugh, but some don't understand they're dead, and her heart always breaks a little when she has to explain it to them. Artists are the best, though; they always ask for pens and brushes and violins, and when she points out that they're dead, their voices laugh and laugh. (So what? they ask. Who says we have to stop being what we are just because we are dead?)
Of course everything has its drawbacks, and more often than she'd like there are the ones whose deaths were too violent, and those are never pleasant to be around. They scream and wail and cry, and some yell at her and accuse her of killing them. She used to hid herself from them, but the years pass and she is stronger now.
She often wonders if there is someone like her somewhere in the world. She doesn't feel lonely, not really; but she would like to sing someone her story when she's dead.
A nervous breakdown tastes like baking soda at the back of one's tongue, sizzling and stinging. A sickly taste that's salty and sour at the same time.
Preventing a nervous breakdown is quite easy once you know the trick. You have to simply spit it out, all of it, just like you would with a spoonful of baking soda. And then rinse your mouth to get the last remains of it out, preferably with something stronger. Whisky works best. Cheap gin is sufficient, too.
He doesn't think much about it. He never has. Hell, he never even knew he could do it until he joined the Yard. He is a practical man, always has been, and when something good falls into his hands, he doesn't question it. It does not matter why and how and why him. All that matters is that he makes the best of it.
That doesn't mean he isn't curious.
Internal bleeding smells like a perfume made of blood and pure alcohol.
"Sherlock, we need to get you to the hospital." John sounds calm, but his hand is deathly steady.
"No!" He's lying on the dirty pavement, gasping for air like a fish out of water. "It was just ... a punch in the stomach ... it's nothing ... I've had worse ... help me up," he wheezes. "He'll escape, we have to ..."
"Trust me on this one," John says and prevents him from getting up.
Under the blue sky of Afganistan, John often had to close his eyes and cut through an artery. Sometimes, his bullets missed and hit his wounded brothers, but nobody ever noticed. Being a good doctor means you know how to save a life, but having his nose also means to know when there isn't anything to be done anymore.
The numbers in front of him are downright diabolical.
He sighs softly. He truly hoped for a nice, relaxing evening, but alas, the work awaits.
Expensive heels click thrice and she's standing by his shoulder. "Sir?"
"A cup of tea, my dear, and a scone. I need to work."
"Of course." And the heels click away.
Coded speech is tiresome, but providing evidence for his own hidden microphones is very important. An assistant on whom he can thoroughly rely is another crucial asset. Once upon a time he still harboured hope Sherlock would come to work for him and everything could stay in the family, so to speak, but his assession of his brother's vanity is always terribly underestimated.
Still, she who is Minerva today is trustworthy enough. She will never even indicate how Mycroft does his work on various budgets: staring at the ceiling with a teacup in one hand and a scone in the other.
Jimmy is four. He has just broken his new microscope.
He can repair it, he knows he can. Last week, he smashed a glass by incident, and he put the pieces back together and told them to stay together. And they did.
He can do the same with his microscope. He scowls as fiercely as he can manage while he puts back together the pieces of the shattered lens - like a puzzle, but more interesting - and then he pushes.
The air around him trembles slightly.
And the microscope breaks into countless pieces.
Jimmy sits among broken glass, cracked plastic and pieces of twisted metal and starts to cry.
John Watson is a rumbled mess of twisted life lines and with a vast black emptiness where his future should be.
Mike takes a good look at him and secretly cracks his knuckles. He's seen worse. Still, there isn't any point in wasting time.