(bless you for paining me in my soul places)
When Sherlock was young, Mother’s Day was less a holiday to be recognized and more an… institution. His father (or, later, Mycroft) would wake him up unnecessarily early, stuff him in an itchy suit, force a yellow rose into his hands, and make him stand perfectly still at the bottom of the stairs until his mother came down. At first, Mycroft was also involved in this horrendous tradition, standing next to him rosy-cheeked and a little bulbous looking. He was older, though, and soon got to an age where he felt continuing wasn’t respectable.
Or, rather, Father had a heart attack and wasn’t around to enforce it anymore.
There was one brief moment where it was worth it, though - where the suit didn’t itch, pricks from the rose never hurt, and the tired ache in his eyes faded away. Each year, Mummy appeared in what he might have sworn was a burst of light, wafting out of her bedroom in her prettiest robe with a serene tilt to her lips. She slowly walked down the stairs, murmuring her mild protests at such lavish treatment, stopping briefly to kiss Father on the cheek the same way she would later kiss Mycroft. She paused on the last step, looking down at her youngest, and then.
Then, she smiled.
“This is for you, Mummy.” As a child he lisped, something he very quickly eradicated once he realized how it sounded, but even after that it always seemed to come out around his mother.
“My love,” she always replied, taking the rose in one long-fingered hand and giving him one swift kiss on the forehead. Then she glid away, out of the room and possibly off to breakfast. Sherlock was never sure. After that blinding moment of focus and affection, he was dismissed, free to throw off the suit and go about his business. The rest of the day was his.
Unfortunately, that was generally the most personal attention he received from his mother, and as he grew older he came to resent it. The last time he stood in that spot, sixteen years old and just as itchy as ever, something passed between them, and Mummy’s smile faltered. In a few fluid but quick moments, it was back, she left a smear of lipstick on his forehead, and she was away.
The next year, he was at university, and before he can think about it he’s in his thirties and John is asking him if he’s going to visit for Mother’s Day. He snorts, unwilling to look away from the collage of evidence he’s got pinned to the wall, and says something he’s sure is dismissive. Either way, John doesn’t ask him about it again.
He does send flowers, though. Yellow roses.
If she remembers right (and she thinks she does), Tom always kept a handgun locked in the bottom left-hand drawer of his desk.
After the little upset Marius causes at the meeting of the ABC, when Jean Prouvaire leaves he is surprised to find that Grantaire wishes to keep him company. It begins on the street, being assaulted by the wind, and ends, as all things do, in a cafe.
For Tiffany, who asked about it; answers correspond to the questions here:
“What I mean,” Wheatley stammered, rubbing the back of his head so hard he worried he might be creating a bald spot, “is that, well, I think you’re - quite nice, actually. Even though you are a bit, you know, smelly. A bit… um…” The manic, nervous stretch of his lips slowly sank as he realized what he’d said, at about the same time Chell folded her arms across her chest. “N-not that you’re really smelly,” he tried, holding up his hands, “not - a bit insensitive, that, wasn’t it? You’re not - I didn’t mean you’re bad smelly, just that there’s a specific… smell…”
A cool voice broke in over his blabbering, intoning through the loudspeaker. “Remember: students are encouraged to be in class within thirty seconds of the warning bell, as we activate the electric security tiles to prevent ax murderers and insects. Your safety is our primary concern, which is why the tiles will be set to ‘kill,’ instead of ‘stun.’” A harsh buzzer’s sound pierced the air, followed by unnervingly speedy ticking.
We should go, Chell said with a quick twitch of her eyebrows. As she turned to walk away, a sudden panic seized so tight in his throat that he took advantage of his long limbs and jumped right back in front of her. “Look!” he cried, taking hold of her shoulders and shouting against the ticking. “I’d like to go out with you! Somewhere! Sometime! Anytime! Doesn’t matter! I don’t think you’re smelly!”
Chell blinked at him, three times. A half smile crossed her face, she shook her head, and she pointed up. Wheatley was an expert in Chell, knew her gestures like they were a written language, but he was still dumbfounded to realize what she was ‘saying.’
We are outside.
Wheatley could do nothing but gape as she turned and stalked toward the edge of the courtyard, waving over her shoulder - she was going to be late to class.
“Wow,” the loudspeaker nearest him crackled as Chell pulled open the door and headed inside. “Do you feel as moronic as you look? You probably should. That was almost painful for me.”
“I’m not a moron,” he grumbled, shoving The Prince back into his bag before he set off at an uncoordinated jog to catch up with Chell.
“Hurry up,” the P.A. lady said, her voice transitioning to each speaker he went past. “I have enough paperwork as it is; I don’t need you making more by getting electrocuted.”
Drink Me (Auld Lang Syne)