marysutherland: (Tanya Moodie)

BBC Sherlock/ACD Sherlock crossover

Rating 12 (implicit femslash and het)

Spoilers: for A Scandal in Belgravia

Summary: Anthea and Ella do a bit of literary detective work.

A couple of months ago, fengirl88 had a five acts meme asking for writing and Anthea/Ella or Anthea/ACD!Irene. That prompt somehow turned into this.

Many thanks to the Small Hobbit for betaing


"I found something curious on Ms Adler's phone, Anthea," Mycroft announces, and she freezes, wondering if any of her friends might have been involved with Irene. )

marysutherland: (Mark Gatiss)
BBC Sherlock

Rating 12 (implicit shady goings-on and violence)

Spoilers: minor for Tinker, Tailor, Soldier Spy

"They don't want a repeat of nineteen seventy-two" -- Mycroft Holmes on the Diogenes Club.


Mycroft didn't know what the big building was or why it was called the Digger-Knees. He just knew it had the best buns he'd tasted in all his five years. On every trip to London, he pestered his parents to be allowed to go back there. Till the day that Father came home with a bloody nose and a swollen lip, and announced:

"Had to resign from the club. Sorry, Mycroft, old chap, no more buns for you when we go to Town."

Mycroft pretended to read his Enid Blyton, secretly listening to Father's quiet, angry explanations to Mummy.

"Lot of argy-bargy there recently about the Troubles and the Reds. Then today a crowd from the Circus turned up." Mycroft's ears pricked up, but the next thing Father said was odd. "Including a new scalphunter: some thug called Ricki Tarr. I don't know why, but halfway through a conversation someone took a swing at him."

"Really, Siger," Mummy said. "And you got involved in this brawl?"

"Seemed a chance to give Bill Haydon a little lesson," Father replied in a flat voice, and Mummy's face went red, and she told Mycroft to go upstairs.

It wasn't till next summer that Mycroft thought to ask Mummy why he and she were no longer getting their special little visits from his Uncle Bill.

marysutherland: (Harry the Historian)

Happy Christmas to rabidsamfan

Rating: 12 (embarassing medico-historical facts)

Prompt: Harry/Molly, last word "bananas"


“We get to the junction in about a m-mile,” Harry said, staring at the map by torchlight.

“And what direction do we go?” Molly asked. There was a moment’s intense concentration in the passenger seat.

“Left,” Harry announced triumphantly.

Molly tried not to look relieved when the signpost confirmed that Shrewsbury was the next turn on the left. It hadn’t been an easy drive.

“I could have come on my own,” Harry said mildly. “Taken the train.”

“I wanted to come. You need...” Molly paused. She mustn’t say: You need looking after. “You need someone to discuss medieval medicine with.”

“They should have invited you to speak, not m-me,” Harry said. “Why does a Cadfael Weekend want a historian of eighteenth-century crime?”

“Because one of the organisers heard your talk about hanging, and thought it was brilliant,” Molly replied, smiling. “But please don’t mention post-mortem priapism this time.”

“Not very Ellis P-Peters?” Harry asked. “But it’s fascinating.”

Molly had mostly got over her fear that Harry would start drinking when she went off to conferences. Now she just worried that she’d tell a roomful of elderly women about hanged men getting erections. Or forget to sleep or eat properly. Which was why, besides the sexy underwear she’d packed for herself, their luggage also included ear-plugs, lavender oil, cereal bars and bananas.

marysutherland: (Harry the Historian)
BBC Sherlock

Spoilers: none

Rating 12 (historical weirdness)

Summary: Indulgent historian's fluff with Dr Harriet Watson on the phone to Molly.


"Hi, M-Molly. It's m-midnight here and I'm sitting in my hotel room topless.  )
marysutherland: (Default)

BBC Sherlock
Rating 15 (alcoholism, drug-taking, explicit femslash and slash, homophobia, swearing, vomiting)

Sequel to Birthday Surprise and Launch Off in which Molly gets together with Dr Harriet Watson, historian of eighteenth-century women and recovering alcoholic

Huge thanks to my beta Blooms84 for tackling this monster and making extremely helpful suggestions

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Parts 5 & 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9 & 10, Part 11, Part 13, Part 14, Part 15, Part 16, Part 17

Summary: Even Sherlock's finding this weekend a strain now...

12) Saturday: Sherlock



All this talk about a 24/7 society was rubbish, thought Sherlock, swigging yet another cup of coffee. )
marysutherland: (Mary Sutherland)
After my previous post, I got several comments pointing out the possible use of fanfic to remedy the flaws of a film or TV series. In this spirit, I offer my first (and almost certainly last) X-Men First Class fic. Be warned: This has not been betaed or US-picked, and though I'm a historian it's not my period.

Feeling so blue
Rating PG (preslash, prehet)

Read more... )
marysutherland: (Default)

BBC Sherlock

Rating: PG

Summary: More backstory for the David fics about Mycroft's first marriage. Set in the year that UTA Flight 772 went down.


London, January 1989

One of Mycroft’s early lessons in the Service was the danger when forecasting events. All too easy to predict what you wanted to happen and ignore worst-case scenarios. You had to learn to face less favourable possibilities, have a plan ready for the things you most feared happening.

What he feared was David not returning from Africa. When the year was up, would he really be prepared to come home, he wondered, as he read David’s letters, with their extravagant descriptions of places, and their long accounts of conversations with his houseboy. He found himself looking obsessively at the photos David enclosed of the beautiful black-skinned boys by Lake Chad. Was he secretly comparing their exotic beauty to Mycroft’s pallid body?

No, David wasn’t like that, he would be faithful. But they were growing up, growing apart, even. Despite their marriage, or perhaps because of it. David didn't properly realise yet that life wasn't going to be like his dreams, that love didn't conquer all. Mycroft knew by now, though, that you had to live in the real world, where gay men might be tolerated, but never fully accepted. There was no proper place for him, for them. So what he most feared, finally, was that it wasn't just his own heart that was going to get broken.

***

N'Djamena, June 1989

David fell in love with places easily. The birch grove at Wakehurst Place, aged six, where he'd naughtily peeled away the papery bark from a trunk to reveal the pale pinkness underneath. The stony hillsides of Attica, aged twelve. And now he was falling for the savannas, and the starry nights, full of sudden harsh noises.

He fell in love with people much more rarely, but he fell hard then. Achilles, when he was eleven and first read Homer in translation. Them Alcibiades and Socrates, of course. And now Mycroft, who was flesh and blood, not just a hero on a page.
 
He'd enthusiastically dragged Mycroft off to Wakehurst Place and to Greece, but he couldn't imagine Mycroft enjoying this bit of Africa. He'd probably call it 'primitive'. As if that mattered. He wondered if eventually he could talk Mycroft round to coming to Chad, maybe even living here for a while. Though he'd promised that the next post, his first proper posting, would be nearer home. He'd stick to that, of course. It wouldn't kill him to go to Paris, would it? 

They had world enough and time, now they were married. Mycroft didn't understand yet how that had changed everything. That it meant that they'd be together forever, proving their enduring love even to the bigots.

***

London, November 1989

 

Stuart was fun in bed, Lestrade thought, but he could be a pain afterwards. Still, that was barristers for you: never shut up, even when they didn't have any briefs. 

"You need to grow up, Greg," Stuart announced. "Twenty-six and still just a constable? If you tried, you could go places." 

"Been a lot of interesting places already tonight. You come back over here, maybe we can find some more." 

"Can't you be serious for once? I've worked out what you should do. You should apply to the CID." 

"Me, a detective? Come off it, Stu, they'd never take me." 

"I know you hate exams, but you're bright, observant. I spotted that the first time I cross-examined you." 

"Wrecked your case, didn't I?" Lestrade said, smiling. 

"And then wrecked me. The point is, you can change your life, if you want to. Like the East Germans." 

"What?" 

"You've seen the news, haven't you? They're pulling down the Berlin Wall. You need to pull down the wall in your head that says: Can't go there." 

"You're just weird. And I'm fine as I am." 

"In twenty years time, you'll be a desk sergeant at best. And you'll have lost your looks." 

In twenty years time, Lestrade thought, maybe at least I'll have got over my weakness for posh bastards. 

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