marysutherland: (Rupert)

BBC Sherlock

Rating: PG (preslash)

Spoilers: minor for Scandal in Belgravia


In Greg's view, the correct number of Valentine's Day cards for him to get was one. From his wife. He'd had too many horrendous rows with Jane over the years when other people had showed any interest.  So by now the whole of New Scotland Yard knew that any cards received by him would be forensically examined and the culprits identified. After which, they would be reported to Personnel for creating a hostile working environment.

This year, though, he was expecting zero cards. Jane had left, but he hadn't told anyone yet. Though if you worked with a bunch of detectives, it was always hard to conceal things. He'd winced slightly at the envelope left on his desk on 14th February, and then noticed something. The handwriting on the outside was very familiar. Maybe because it was his own.

 Written inside the card was one of Ronsard's sonnets. Someone with access to a forger and who knew he was fluent in French. Hadn't the British Government more important things to do? But it was oddly comforting finding someone he didn't have to explain things to. Below the poem was a single line: Is it too soon to express my appreciation?

He dug out a number kept for emergencies and texted: Not too soon. Jane's told me she's not coming back.

marysutherland: (Mark Gatiss)
BBC Sherlock

Rating 12 (implicit slash)

Spoilers: minor for The Reichenbach Fall

Summary: Mycroft's doing a little preparation for Moriarty's trial.

For Pudupudu who pointed out to me that Ian Hallard (Mark Gatiss' husband) made a brief appearance as a barrister in Fall.


Mycroft considered British justice to be the best in the world, but occasionally it did need a little assistance. The judge presiding over the "trial of the century" was sound and counsel for the prosecution had been warned about Sherlock. Time for a private meeting with another key player.

Daniel Crayhill was unremarkable in appearance: an experienced barrister, but not a stellar name. He looked nervous as he stood in the warehouse facing Mycroft.

"Why did you take Mr Moriarty's case?" Mycroft inquired silkily. "You're hardly going to enhance your reputation losing such a high profile trial."

"Every accused person has the right to have their defence heard."

"And that defence is?"

"None of your business, sir."

An unexpected response. Time for some pressure perhaps.

"It's your lucky day, Mr Crayhill. When you go home you'll find fifty thousand pounds more in your bank account."

"I can't be bribed, sir."

"What if the police found out?"

"Or blackmailed."

"How would you explain the money away, then?"

Crayhill looked at him for a moment and then announced. "Say I moonlight as a rentboy.  I'm not having my professional integrity called into question."

Tougher than he looked, and able to think on his feet. Maybe off them as well. Mycroft wondered if after the trial it might be worth investigating Daniel Crayhill's briefs.

marysutherland: (Wallpaper)
Sherlock BBC

Rating 12 (implicit slash)

Spoilers: for A Scandal in Belgravia

Summary: Sherlock doesn't notice everything.


"I trust your brother is as good as you claim," Harry Pointdextre said, once he and Mycroft were alone. "Can't say he has much to recommend him otherwise."

"No?" Mycroft said, raising an eyebrow. "Which was doubtless why you were surreptitiously checking him out during our conversation? I thought Dr Watson would be more your type."

"Excellent chap, but far too short. You know my tastes, Mycroft. But I'm not sure it's quite the thing to tease your little brother if he is inexperienced in the bedroom department."

"I wanted to distract him from deducing your preferences. But Sherlock's not a virgin; he's simply given up sexual encounters."

"Can hardly be for lack of offers, I'm sure. From either side of the fence."

"He claims he prefers to focus on the life of the mind. I suspect it's more that he's hopeless at sex. No quicker passion-killer than someone realising that their partner's mind is currently focused on bloodstains. Multitasking is not advisable on those occasions."

"Well, let's hope he can still sort out Miss Adler and deal with those photos. Thanks for your help, as well, Mycroft. And, under the circumstances, if you'd like a quick tour of the palace's private rooms, I'd be happy to show you round now."

"I'd be delighted. Starting, one presumes – hopes – in your bedroom."

marysutherland: (Wallpaper)
BBC Sherlock

Rating: 15 (swearing)

For shouldboverthis, with congratulations on her clever Gloria Scott-inspired fic.

A sort of sequel to B221


"She fooled your team again, I see. Hardly surprising, when you're so blind."

"How did she do it then? How did she pass the message on?"

"Obvious, surely, to the meanest intelligence? Oh, I forgot-"

"Up yours, Sherlock! She's beaten you before now. Ms Adler's too clever for the lot of us."

"Lestrade, I hardly think you can compare my minor error to your catastrophic blunder. You actually saw her write the story in the internet cafe."

"Don't rub it in. It looked harmless."

"But it wasn't."

"OK. But we checked it, like you told us to. Every third word, reading it backwards, looking for codewords. We even ran it through that statistical analysis programme."

"Visual inspection would have been enough, if you had but eyes to see."

"Excuse me, I came here for help, not to get sneered at."

"Really? It's so simple, I wonder why I bother."

"Tell me. For God sake, Sherlock, tell me what you know."

"How it was done? Simple. Look carefully down the story and tell me what you see."

"If you take the first letter of every sentence...no, the first letter of every paragraph, it –"

"Spells out the name of Ms Adler's contact. Who has now had ample time to escape. I think the word you're looking for here, Lestrade, is Buggeryfuckingbollocks."
marysutherland: (Default)
BBC Sherlock

Rating 15 (bad language, implicit slash, unsportsmanlike behaviour)

Note: possible spoilers for 'Maurice' and 'Murder Must Advertise', from both of which parts of this story have been blatantly nicked.

Special thanks to my beta kalypso_v for sorting out my spelling, scoring, and cricketing metaphors.

Lestrade is helping Sherlock investigate a string of country-house robberies. By playing in a cricket match with a load of bankers.

Part 1


"It's ten to two," Hugh Durham announced, as he stood on the pitch. "Where the hell is Sherlock? )
marysutherland: (Default)
Rating: 12 (language)

Note: I haven't posted RPF before (well, unless you count a cameo by Samuel Taylor Coleridge), but a while ago ariadnes_string had "voice kink" and Benedict Cumberbatch/Martin Freeman among her Five Acts meme, and this is the result.

Disclaimer: This didn't happen. It wouldn't happen, not even in a parallel universe. This is not true.


It's the night before the read-throughs of the second series start, and Martin is feeling amazing.  )
marysutherland: (Default)
BBC Sherlock metafic

Rating 12 (minor character death)

Summary: In a recent comment, I compiled a list of 221B closing words I'd used. Which was bound to lead to my imagination taking an even more bizarre turn....

A sequel to Death of a Fanatic. However this story does not make any more sense if you read that first.




Mary Sutherland was dead: to begin with. There was no doubt whatever about that.

"Yes, there is," Lestrade protested. "She was that barking mad RPF writer, wasn't she? She died of an aneurism in London in January. How the fuck can she now have died in June on Dartmoor?"

"Oh, we know that bit, sir," Sally replied. "She didn't technically die on that fangirl outing, after all. Apparently, she accepted a drink from some Italian friar she met that made her seem to be dead, and then woke up forty-two hours later on a mortuary slab. Gave Molly Hooper a hell of a fright, I gather."

"That sort of thing doesn't happen in real life," said Lestrade.

"Sounds a bit dull," said an irritatingly familiar voice behind him. "This, however, is not. I sent John down to Devon with instructions to report back. Here are his pictures of the scene."

Lestrade stared at the phone screen, and the tall brown-haired woman sprawled lifeless on the ground. "Moriarty's work?" he enquired. It normally was.

"You idiot," Sherlock replied. "Look over there, at that spot near the woman's head. Can't you see the footprints?"

"Footprints? Those look...they look like rabbit tracks, except ten times larger."

"Serves Ms Sutherland right," said Sherlock cheerfully. "She's been mauled to death by a gigantic plot bunny."
marysutherland: (Default)

BBC Sherlock

As a bonus for the end of the week, 2 Harry/Molly fics. Sequels of a kind to Birthday Surprise and Launch Off.


(1)

"Why do I have to go to your sister's?" Harry asked Molly grumpily.

Because Jo and Chris are curious about you, and want to show they're not prejudiced about lesbians.  Because you're struggling with writing the current chapter, and you need distracting. Because...

"Because it's Kirsten's birthday party, and I said we'd help," she replied.

"I don't like birthday p-parties. You kn-know what I'm like at them."

At Molly's last birthday party, Harry had got drunk and Molly had ended up letting Harry seduce her. The things you did when you were thirty-two.

"Kirsten's going to be seven," Molly said. "Different sort of party."

"I hated b-birthday parties when I was seven as well." Harry's voice was plaintive. "They m-made m-me play p-p-party games."

***

Molly noticed Harry was missing during Pass the Parcel. Not the kitchen, she prayed. The temptation of  Jo's "grown-up punch" might be too much if Harry was getting stressed. But she didn't find Harry there, but in Francesca's bedroom. Francesca was five and three-quarters, and "the shy one", but she and Harry were happily sitting on her bed, talking.

"Frankie's interested in p-pirates," Harry said, beaming up at Molly.

"Can girls really be pirates?" Francesca demanded.

"Of course, " said Harry. "And I'll tell you a story now about a famous one, an Irishwoman called Anne Bonny."

 

(2)

"Why did we get invited?" Harry demanded, going into the cinema. "I thought your sister was still cross with me."

"It's Francesca's birthday treat and she specially asked that you should come," Molly replied.

"Frankie's very sweet, isn't she?" Harry said. "Kids that age are wonderful, so eager to learn about everything."

"Yes, but please don't tell her stories about pirates this time."

"But Frankie doesn't want to be a p-pirate anymore. She said that to me earlier."

"You've been talking to her already?" Molly tried not to sound alarmed.

"When Jo was hunting for Kirsten's coat. Frankie wants to be a doctor n-now, just like you."

"You didn't say I was a pathologist, did you?" Molly, asked, wincing.

"She thought it was fascinating what you could learn from skeletons."

"You shouldn't talk about dead bodies to a six-year old!"

"If she gets upset about death, we shouldn't see this film. You know about the sad bits, so I brought some spare tissues."

"I'm not going to cry," Molly lied.

"You're supposed to," Harry said. "Walt Disney was a bastard, but a brilliant storyteller too . If you want to cry, it's fine, M-Molly." She squeezed Molly's hand.

Harry was so sweet sometimes, thought Molly. Even though she knew this evening was going to end with a detailed academic critique of Bambi.

marysutherland: (Default)

Rating 12

Written a while ago for a five acts meme: one of janie_tangerine's kinks is books, and she likes Lestrade/Sherlock

Note: no books were harmed in the writing of this fic

 

Typical Sherlock, thought Lestrade, to invite him round for the evening, and then ignore him while he finished an experiment. No John around – handy in some ways – but at least he'd remembered to bring a book this time.

***

Halfway through chapter 11, Sherlock started attacking the nape of Lestrade's neck with kisses, which suggested the experiment had worked. Quite hard to ignore him, but he was going to try for a while longer.

"I didn't know you read French," Sherlock said, managing to sound as if Lestrade reading at all was a major accomplishment. "You let me do all the talking on the stolen Eurostar case."

"The Parisians would have sniggered at my accent," Lestrade replied, "but I'm pretty fluent. Spent every summer with Grand-maman, after Mum walked out."

Sherlock was peering over his shoulders now, even as his hands were reaching down the chair's back to untuck Lestrade's shirttail.

"The book's clearly 1930s design," he announced, "so it's one of your grandmother's originals. Nostalgia, then. I thought a roman policier was a slightly odd choice otherwise. Who's the author?"

"Georges Simenon."

"Ah, of course," said Sherlock, his fingers tracing Lestrade's spine. "Careless of me simply to assume that you were half-French."

Lestrade smiled, as he put a marker in the book. "Don't you know all the best detectives are Belgian?"

marysutherland: (Default)

BBC Sherlock

Rating: U



Where did you go on holiday, Lestrade thought, with the man who'd been everywhere and mostly hated it? EU countries were out, Mycroft said firmly, and so was the US.

“The CIA would expect assistance with local operations, I'm afraid. In fact anywhere in the Americas is...problematic.”

Australia?”

“Spiders.”

“Russia?”

“Putin.”

“South Africa?”

“Discussions of rugby. And barbecued ostrich.”

How on earth, Lestrade wondered a little later, did someone become "unwelcome" in Iceland, Japan and Turkey? Then there were the places in which Sherlock might turn up unexpectedly.

“Tibet?” he demanded.

“He spent two years there, claims to have tracked down the Panchen Lama.”

Lestrade was going to suggest Guinea, but he needed to check the atlas, make sure it wasn't the same as Guyana. And then he had an idea.

“There was a book I read as a kid where they choose a place to explore by sticking a pencil in an atlas at random.”

“Doctor Dolittle and Blind Travel,” said Myroft, smiling. “Very well, Greg. You can give it a try.”

***

Lestrade squinted at the pencil point – no he did not need glasses, thank you – and then grinned.

“No CIA or Sherlock, at least,” he said cheerfully, “and if it's good enough for royalty, it's good enough for us. Pack your bags, Mycroft, we're having a week in Bognor.”

 

     

marysutherland: (Default)

I have quite a lot of 221B fics lurking on my hard drive, so thought I'd post one every day this week (RL allowing):

BBC Sherlock

Rating 12 (implicit slash)


Unfortunately, 'Simon Holloway' was the sort of man who flew economy class to Thailand. But he was also a suitable target for the prostitution scam that had already resulted in the death of three tourists. Which was why Sherlock's long limbs were currently cramped into the inadequate seats of a Boeing 747 7443.

Beside him 'Joseph Walters' was doing better. John had somehow got himself comfortable for the flight (11 hours, 35 minutes) and was now curled up asleep in the window seat. Advantage of being five foot seven, Sherlock thought. But then John could make himself comfortable almost anywhere. Stick him on a desert island for two months with a penknife and a box of teabags and he wouldn't mind.

The third tourist had been Californian. He'd had a choice of FBI operatives to accompany him, but it had been no choice. No public displays of affection once they were there: Simon Holloway was going to Thailand for the girls, not the boys. But now Sherlock couldn't resist his hand sneaking under John's red blanket, for a quick squeeze of a muscular thigh.

"Sherlock?" John said, rapidly alert. And then a more drawn-out, reproachful "Sherlock", but with a sleepy, cheeky grin.

"Don't worry," he replied, as his hand slid under the blanket again. "I'll behave when we get to Bangkok."

marysutherland: (Default)
Sherlock BBC

Rating: PG

Summary: A couple of fluffy 221B fics about Mycroft and his first love at Oxford. The second is for Pudupudu, whose exams have just finished.


David dyeing

Oxford changed both Mycroft and David rapidly  – or maybe it simply revealed what was already there. Mycroft had known his sexual preferences, but never expected a boyfriend. The appalling college food, and more exercise – walking with David, sex with David -  meant the pounds were now falling off him, along with some of the defensiveness.

David was learning how to talk to people, rather than just at them. Coming out of his shell. Coming out in other ways as well. David was the one who wanted to hold hands in public; Mycroft was far warier. There was a flamboyant streak in David, despite his shyness, Mycroft concluded. Maybe he needed to get the urge to be noticed out of his system harmlessly, before they joined the civil service.

So he didn't protest too much when he found David staring intently at the notice on the JCR board: Dye your Hair for Rag Week. He simply smiled benevolently and said: 'I'll sponsor you, but I won't be seen associating with you."

The hair dye was fluorescent green, and turned David's beautiful blond hair into a rigid mat. Mycroft helped him wash it out at the end of the week, rinse after rinse. And said: "If you ever do dye it again, at least try something more appropriate. Maybe a tasteful dark blue?"


Testing Times

Mycroft enjoyed exams, found the challenge exhilarating. Especially at Oxford, where you got to dress up, and march through the town in subfusc to match wits with the examiners. David hated exams: sick with nerves beforehand, dazed afterwards. The evening before David's Mods, the Gilbert and Sullivan Society marathon sing through started. Mycroft dragged David along, as a distraction.

“You stay for the whole thing.” David said, “I'll be fine.”

Twenty-three hours in, just before The Mikado started, Jo Malone appeared and collared Mycroft.

“Sorry chaps,” he announced, “got to go.”

“You're singing Ko-Ko,” Colin complained.

“I'm sure I won't be missed.”

“David was in a terrible state after the exam,” Jo said, scurrying to keep up with Mycroft's long stride. “We ended up taking him to the college doctor, only David got even more wound up when she asked if he'd taken any drugs. Did you really give him something last week?”

“Poppers. Helps with...internal tension. Nothing to do with this."

He'd picked up supplies, so when he got to David's room it was simple. David stood up, his face almost as white as his tie, gasping for breath. Mycroft gave him a gentle hug before they sat down on the bed.

“Hyperventilation, Jo told me. So here's a paper bag, and we'll sit together, and you just breathe.”

marysutherland: (Default)

Sherlock BBC

Rating 15: slash, crack

Summary: last week Irisbleufic tweeted about getting honey on her laptop. A few tweets from myself, Gayalondiel and Morelindo later, we had a plot bunny about Sherlock solving a case through licking a laptop and John getting distracted by this. Someone obviously had to write that...

Special thanks to Gayalondiel for betaing.

 

The text came on September 3rd: Lestrade said you liked the strange cases. Can you please come to 89, The Avenue, Surbiton? Dimmock. )
marysutherland: (Default)

BBC Sherlock

Rating 15 (violence, drug-taking, slash, attacks on literature)

Summary: In the grand tradition of Sherlock library fics, here is some British Library crack

Betaed by Ginbitch

 

Sherlock had once glanced at a novel of John's in which someone claimed that a large enough library could bend space and time, and that all libraries were somehow mystically connected together.  )

 

Part 2
marysutherland: (Default)

BBC Sherlock

Rating: PG (implicit slash)

Summary: Blooms84 expressed a recent craving for glasses!fic. (She said any pairing would do, but I know her heart really belongs to Mystrade).

It was Sherlock's fault, naturally. Yes, he'd saved Lestrade's life by rugby-tackling him as John 'Killer' McMurdo took aim. But they shouldn't have been chasing McMurdo in the first place, rather than waiting for the armed response team. And Sherlock could surely have avoided toppling Lestrade into the Serpentine while saving his life.

By the time he surfaced, minus contact lenses, of course, the shouting suggested that McMurdo had been collared. His eyes were streaming, but a tall, black-haired blur in a dark coat was bending down on the bank, offering him a hand up.

"Sod off," he said. "I don't need more of your help."

"If you say so, Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft's precise voice replied.

***

Lestrade's eyes still felt scoured the next day, so he had no choice but to dig out an old pair of glasses for work. McMurdo's arrest meant even more bloody paperwork, and his mood wasn't improved by seeing Mycroft arrive. Probably come to complain about his behaviour last night, he thought. And then he saw the startled look on Mycroft's face as he came into Lestrade's office, heard a tiny gasp.

***

Three weeks later, Lestrade remembered to ask Mycroft why he'd finally plucked up the courage to ask him out.

"Did no-one ever tell you, Greg," Mycroft replied, "that with your glasses, you're beautiful."       

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