prompt meme keeps giving me many too many ideas (and most of those long-winded ones; I get a bit done on Cinders
and then get distracted by Aquiline Scenes
, which gets postponed for "D. C. al Fine" and temporarily shelved for "The Enchanted Neighborhood," and that isn't even getting into the one where Soo Lin gets Chosen or the next part of Sherlock Ambroteros
...), but every now and then I get the beginnings of something done enough to post it. A placeholder, if you will, for the expanded crossover I might write once I get my at least ten other things out of the way.
So I've cleaned a few of these up a bit, and here they are.
"Tea?" Mycroft asked, adding a lump of sugar to his own cup.
The Goblin King huffed, refusing to sit down (truly remarkable, how very many persons... and, ah, non-persons... persisted in believing that height was the only or the most important nonverbal advantage to secure in negotiations).
"On reflection," he said instead, "it is quite apparent that thirteen hours to negotiate a topologically variable labyrinth is hardly reasonable."
Mycroft hummed noncommitally.
"It would be my very great... pleasure," the King added, leaning forward on the last word and giving it a weight on his tongue reminiscent of nothing so much as the radio advertisements for the concert Mummy had sadly told Mycroft she couldn't possibly let him attend, not when Sherlock had driven off another nanny, "to give you a... personal... tour of my castle."
"Honoured as I am by Your Majesty's suggestion, I doubt I have the strength to ask so great a favor; I have only just finished tidying up the house, and I fear the most my sinews will permit me to be to sit here and enjoy the peace, and silence, and lack of interference with my tea. I suspect it could grow to be quite addictive."
The King slammed the heel of his hand down on the table (in plenty of time for Mycroft to casually lift his own cup and saucer out of the way), making the rest of the tea-service jump. "Do you expect ME to bring that brat of a brother of yours back to you?"
"Well, that would depend." Mycroft sipped his tea, focusing on the movement of the milky liquid within the fragile cup to mask his moment of preparation for this delicate stage of the most crucial negotiation. Besides, it blocked his view of one of the most blatant intimidative and/or mating displays since the well-deserved fall from fashion of the codpiece. "What concessions is Your Majesty prepared to offer me in return for my possible reclamation of Sherlock?"
"You hurry too much, Rra. It is not good, to hurry, hurry, hurry all the time. You tire out, and when you are needed, you will not be able to get there quickly. Or at all."
John liked his work at the surgery, liked having simple problems he could usually solve himself and the chance to use his own skills to help people, but after a full shift he was more than ready to indulge in a long, gloriously hot shower, especially when he'd been caught in the rain on his way home.
When he stopped towelling his hair and started pulling on slightly less professional clothes, he could hear voices drifting in from the sitting room: not well enough to tell what Sherlock and Mrs Hudson were saying, but from their tones it sounded as if they had a client.
John had thought
this was shaping up to be a good day, drizzle notwithstanding: Sherlock had only just had time to rest up after the last case, and clients who came in person were more likely to be 'interesting.'
He was not-quite-whistling under his breath when he came into the room and saw Sherlock, perched in his favorite chair, steeple his fingers and say 'Now, young man, what can I do for you?'
'I... I thought you'd like to tell me that yourself, sir,' a voice piped.
John hastily dropped his gaze as he turned to the right to see a boy. A small
, rather damp, fair-haired boy, dressed in newly begrimed shorts and cardigan over some sort of button-down shirt, clutching a computer printout and staring at Sherlock with a familiar desperate hope.
'You,' Sherlock told John, turning his head slightly, 'have been exaggerating again.'
While John was still opening his mouth and closing it, trying to settle on something to say rather than blurt all of them out at once in an incomprehensible mulligatawny, his mad flatmate turned back to the boy and added 'This is my friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson, who I'm afraid is somewhat inclined to overcredit my powers of observation: other than the facts that you are from an at least reasonably well-to-do family, that you have made your way here on the Tube in some distress of mind without their knowledge and taking some pains to avoid security cameras, that you have been in contact with a small animal with short black hair, and that you or someone else in your family have been following my flatmate's overly romanticised accounts of our cases, I really know very little about you.'
'My brother Jerry -- St. George, you know -- has been reading them to us; my name's Peter. Peter Wimsey.' He took a deep breath, and added, 'And it's about the puff -- I mean Seneca, sir, our black kitten, he's got a white tummy and left front paw and splotch above his right eye here.' Peter drew a vague egg-shape over his own eye and temple with the point of his finger.
John folded his arms and fixed Sherlock with a determined stare, although at least his friend was maintaining a look of polite interest rather than betraying disdain.
'And he's only so big and he's an indoor cat and we've never let him out of our suite and we were all in the outer room having breakfast anyway, and there aren't any other doors out into the rest of the house and the screens are all still stuck down round the windows, and Alice who helps look after us says she didn't see him when she was in cleaning up but she doesn't like
cats and he's missing
*With greatest admiration and respect for the relevant parties at Jim Henson Productions, Alexander McCall Smith, and particularly Dorothy L. Sayers, whose crack crossover I have borrowed.