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My entry for Letsdrawsherlock, scene from a movie. The scene is from the 2009 film Push, where the telekinetic loner with a gambling problem, Nick, agrees to help the admittedly crappy artist and psychic, Cassie.

I cannot draw. Can you tell? I pretty much had to work straight over the top of a screenshot *facepalm* I’m more of a writer so I wrote an accompanying thingy:

"For you."

Sherlock automatically took what John handed him.

"What’s this?"

"It’s a lotus." John didn’t even look up from where he was scribbling in his ever present notebook, images of the future flashing in and out of his head and making their way in a rainbow of possible fates across his page.

Sherlock looked down at the flower in his hand. A flower…

In an instant he was transported back twenty years to that shabby hotel, his brother dragging him desperately down the halls and pulling him into a bare bones room.

"Mycroft, what’s happening?"

His brother crouched down in front of him, grabbing his small shoulders and staring intensely into his face.

"I need you to listen to me, like we’re the last two people on the planet, okay Sherlock?"

Sherlock had done nothing else, not since their mother and father had died, not since the unseen enemy called Division  had begun to lurk in every shadow. Mycroft’s grip was tight, bruising, his eyes wide and earnest. His words were rushed but Sherlock knew they were the most important thing in the world right now, they always had been.

"Someday, Sherlock, a boy is going to give you a flower. Do you understand that? A flower. And you have to help him, Sherlock. You help him and you help us all. Understand? I know it doesn’t make any sense right now, but I believe the woman who told me that. Do you think you can believe me?"

Sherlock nodded. He might be just a kid but he was smart, Mycroft was smart.

Mycroft grasped his face between his shaking hands suddenly. “I love you. You know how I’ve always said you were special, Sherlock? It turns out I was right.”

With a sharp gesture of his hand the air-vent in the wall next to them exploded outwards. Another gesture and Sherlock found himself thrown out after it. He wanted to stay, wanted to be with his brother, but he couldn’t let Mycroft down. On his hands and knees he scambled away, away from the footsteps of the Division agents, away from the gunshots, away from the sound of a single body being dragged down a hall…

Sherlock pulled himself out of the memory and back to the dingy, temple room in Hong Kong.

Back to the boy with the ridiculous hair and certain death mission. He stretched his shoulders and cracked his bruised joints back into place before hopping off the table. John put his pen down and looked at him with more cynicism than a thirteen year old had any right to have.

With the barest of what could generously be called a smile he gave a small shrug of defeat.

"Alright. Let’s go."


Push at IMDB

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