Well… they’ve always been open, but I figured I’d make it official.
Feel free to send in any questions you have, whether it’s for the author (me!) or any of the characters… OC’s included! If there’s anything you’re dying to ask Sam or Dean, Nixie and the others, send them in.
Anonymous asks are open as well, I just ask that everyone be polite. Rude asks are not tolerated and will not be posted to the page.
If anyone has a headcanon to share, feel free to send it in. If your headcanon fits a part of a future story that I already have written, you’ll win everyone a sneak peek! So have some fun, I love to see what everyone comes up with.
Dean glanced to the side to see where they were sitting, the visible corner of his mouth quirking up into a grin, familiar even from that angle. “Found us some grub,” he said, sounding proud. “You two should get some cover.”
With #eotm the only remaining title to guess (along with the new excerpts that will be posting), #a:asocs is unlocked for everyone to enjoy!
Aftermath: A Series of Consulted Shorts
(This is why we didn’t think it would be guessed XD Definitely a different style)
Short stories and small occurrences are an important part of Sherlock Holmes, and Brothers Consulted is no different! Enjoy a sneak peek at our favorite short story from within, The Borrower and the Baker!
Stan’s brow went up when a small older woman with an apron and cleaning gloves on her hands answered the door, and he put on his most charming smile, shoving his hands casually into the pockets of his dark wool coat. Unlike the black suits he and his team were encouraged to wear under Mycroft’s direct instruction, Stan was on his own time today and decided to make this visit in his street clothes.
“Afternoon,” he amicably greeted the woman he knew to be the landlady, Mrs. Hudson, even though they had never formally met. “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything, I was just hoping to speak with Mr. Holmes.”
Mrs. Hudson understood right away and let him inside, pointing him toward the stairs. He thanked her for her trouble and followed her directions, coming upon another door on the landing. It was closed, so he knocked and waited.
Sherlock Holmes answered the door after a moment, looking Stan up and down. Despite the hour, he was still in a dressing gown over an odd combination of a dress shirt and pyjama trousers. Recognizing him from their most recent adventure, the detective’s brow pinched.
“What is it?” he demanded bluntly, under the assumption that something must have happened or changed to cause Agent Baker to visit.
Stan made a move to unfasten his coat. “May I come in?”
Sherlock stepped aside, holding the door open for Stan as he entered and closing it behind him.
“Sorry for sort of barging in on you like this,” said Stan, shedding his coat and draping it over one arm, “but my team and I are in a bit of a bind and we need some advice.”
“Yes, yes, get to the point,” Sherlock grumbled impatiently.
Stan scratched at the back of his neck, a little hesitant. “Actually, sir, I was rather hoping to discuss this with Dean as well–”
“Dean! ” Sherlock called to the seemingly empty room, knowing the smaller man would hear. Then he snatched a chair from the end table against the wall and placed it across from the fireplace, indicating that Stan should sit as he dropped into his own chair. Bemused, Stan did just that, laying his coat over the back of it before taking a seat, folding his hands in his lap while he waited.
They weren’t left waiting for long; it was only moments before there was movement deep in the bookshelf by John’s empty armchair.
There was very little dust left on the shelf from the time Sherlock removed all the books. This meant Dean didn’t get as messy when he passed through the crack that lead to their home. The old spiderwebs that had once draped over the area were gone as well, leaving him a clear path.
In annoyance, the little guy stormed out into plain sight. His leather jacket was hastily thrown on and his duffel bag hung askew, and he was glaring right at Sherlock when he came out into the light.
“You know, I’m right there, like two feet away,” Dean complained. “You’re gonna wake the dead one of these days, and the last thing we need to deal with is any vengeful spirits knocking on our doors along with all the rest of the problems going on.”
The sight of Stan sitting across from where Dean was standing brought him up short, not expecting anyone else in the flat. Dean scanned him up and down, evidently remembering the man from the late-night case two weeks ago. “Stan!” he called, his voice warmer than during his scolding of Sherlock. “Didn’t expect to see you droppin’ in!”
A smile broke through Stan’s bemusement regarding the situation as a whole. As strange as it was to watch the tiny man appear from the bookshelf and chastise someone so much larger than himself, it was good to see Dean again. He was the first and only tiny person Stan had ever met, and he would not forget their meeting anytime soon.
“Been a while,” Stan mused with a grin. “My team and I have been working round the clock the past few week, figured I’d stop in and give you an update.”
“You know he doesn’t mind, right?” Sam asked in a hush. “Really. I’ve sat here pretty much every day since I left.”
Walt couldn’t stop his eyes from flickering to Dean’s again. Dean didn’t even twitch at Sam’s words. Maybe he really couldn’t hear them like this.
“It’s just…” Walt kept his voice just as soft as Sam. “You’re used to this. And him. How?”
Sam grinned and couldn’t stop a slight laugh at that. “We make our own normal, Dad. If I can’t ride shotgun like a regular human can, I’ll do it here.”
A quiet instinct ran in the blood of any wood sprite. Prey instincts. Anything that could overpower him so easily could eat him. Bowman’s wings spasmed just before Bryce secured a hold around them.
Humans didn’t eat sprites. So he’d heard. Bowman’s heart fluttered in brief terror anyway.
Giants might be real, but at least Bigfoot’s a Hoax!
All of these thoughts crowded Dean’s mind and he was absently shoving his phone back in his pocket when it happened.
Behind him, a massive spring responded to his presence. A steel door thicker than a wall slammed shut behind him, and Dean was surrounded by metal bars as thick as his arms.
Trapped, with a hungry giant missing in the forest. No way to reach Sam by cell, and no way to get out of the cage.
To be sure, Dean pulled on the thick bars that comprised the sides of the cage. They didn’t budge. The massive metal door of the cage could be used for warehouses, and no matter how he pushed, nothing happened. The damn thing must weigh a ton.
Dean slumped down with a frustrated sigh.
Seconds later, a sound came to him through the woods. The crashing sound of footsteps, like he’d been chasing only moments before. The leaves around him shook, and Dean knew that Jacob was coming.
And he was caught in a trap.
A trickle of sweat dripped down Dean’s neck. They only knew a little about the teenager. There was no way of knowing how Jacob would react to them after his dash from the cliff. Why had he run away? Was he afraid of what would happen if he was around two bite-sized people while he was so hungry?
The footsteps were hurried, rushed. Dean hesitantly got out his machete, prepared to fight for his life if it came down to it. Sam was on his own by the cliff, investigating Jacob’s belongings and campsite. If there was a fight, and Dean lost, Sam would have no warning that Jacob was dangerous. No way of even knowing that Jacob and Dean had run into each other out in the forest. For all Sam would know, Dean was still combing the trees in search of the giant.
Leaves rustled, and a huge hand came into view as a maple tree was pushed out of the way with a lingering creak. Hungry brown eyes fell onto Dean’s small form, and deep shadows covered Jacob’s face as another echoing growl came from his stomach.
Dean took a step back from Jacob, and felt his back press up against the thick metal wires of the cage. He was cornered. Holding the large knife defensively in front of his chest, he was prepared to go down fighting.
It was hard to forget that every single bit of lore they’d found on giants specifically called out the fact that they ate people. Jacob might be reasonable enough, but this hex or curse or whatever it was might change him when he was hungry, a lot like what a werewolf went through during the full moon. Without fresh hearts, werewolves would die, so their instincts compelled them to hunt humans, even people that they knew and respected in their normal life. Jacob had only met them that day, and most of their time had been spent tracking him down.
If he was operating by instinct, he might see them as a threat. Dean had emptied his clip into Jacob’s palm in an attempt to escape a grab.
Dean hadn’t missed the hunger that shone in Jacob’s eyes when he pushed aside that tree.
“Jacob,” Dean greeted, a strain in his voice. “We’re all friends here, right?”
If we call these snacks “guilty pleasures,” then the first thing that comes to mind for Jacob is Fritos corn chips. Generally he will either go for some fruit or vegetable (or some leftovers from his mom’s cooking), but he just can’t always resist.
It wasn’t odd to hear movement from upstairs when John returned to Baker Street. It had been ages since Sherlock took a case, it was a miracle he’d lasted this long without breaking into one of his antsy episodes. What did catch his attention was a voice he didn’t recognize, giving a grunted exclamation every now and then.
“Get back here, you li’l–! ” rang out when John reached the door, and it set every single one of his nerves on edge.