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storypaint) wrote2015-02-08 09:40 pm
storypaint) wrote2015-02-08 09:40 pm
[Sherlock Holmes] then he's finished (Watson and Mycroft gen)
Title: then he's finished
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Length: 722 words
Prompt: Sherlock Holmes fic battle: Steampunkverse, Watson and Mycroft
Pairing: Watson and Mycroft gen with mentioned Shirley/Watson
Other: Set in an AU-verse where Sherlock was born Shirley, but the setting is (mostly) retained with some occasional steampunk elements that don't show up in this fic.
Excerpt: "Why didn't you ask her to marry you?" Mycroft said, after the servant had left. Watson looked up sharply, confused.
"When you were first living together at Baker Street," Mycroft clarified impatiently, and Watson dropped his gaze again. He drank the tea, even though it was still too hot. There was no telling half-truths or lies to Mycroft. He couldn't even lie to Shirley about something trivial, because she always noticed. Still, he hated to dig that up again.
About a week after Shirley returned to Baker Street, Watson went round to the Diogenes Club and asked for Mycroft, unsure if the man would oblige him. He had only seen Mycroft once in the years of Shirley's disappearance, a reticent figure in the crowd of mourners around her empty coffin. Well, perhaps twice. Watson had a habit of walking past their old apartment once in a while, whenever he was in the area, and one time he was certain he was being watched, but when he turned, there was only a tall, broad man alighting from a carriage somewhat down the street. It wasn't until later that he paused to think that the man's gaze had lingered overlong on him, gray and glittering.
But after about twenty minutes or so, Mycroft appeared in the door of the sitting room. He immediately gestured for Watson to follow him out. A bit annoyed, Watson did, and soon found himself in a set of small rooms that reminded him quite a bit of the mess he'd left at home. Mycroft's papers seemed to be better sorted, but their piles were even larger.
"If you must make a scene," the elder Holmes remarked abruptly, "better here than at my club."
Watson scowled, rising to his feet from the seat he'd only just taken.
"I see that this interview will be pointless," he said, cold and quiet. He didn't consider himself a man any more hot-blooded than the rest, and certainly he knew better than to do such a thing. He wasn't a dog to mess on the carpet.
"No, no," Mycroft said, waving him back to his chair. "What you can see, doubtlessly, is that I will not have the answers you seek. I wouldn't blame you for a raised voice, in such frustration, but my fellow club-members do so abhor any loudness whatsoever."
Watson sighed, sinking back into his chair. After a moment, Mycroft offered him tea, and they sat in a somewhat tense silence until the servant entered the room, clearly practiced with stepping around the stacks of paperwork and books that ringed the large, comfortable armchair that Mycroft clearly favored, and the smaller, worn leather couch that Watson was perched on.
"Why didn't you ask her to marry you?" Mycroft said, after the servant had left. Watson looked up sharply, confused.
"When you were first living together at Baker Street," Mycroft clarified impatiently, and Watson dropped his gaze again. He drank the tea, even though it was still too hot. There was no telling half-truths or lies to Mycroft. He couldn't even lie to Shirley about something trivial, because she always noticed. Still, he hated to dig that up again.
"I asked. She wouldn't," he said. Shirley was at Baker Street at the moment, taking a languid nap upon the couch. He'd checked her three times before he'd gone. She was still wearing the simple ring he'd given her. She was still breathing, more importantly.
"Well, there's your answer," Mycroft said. "I would have told you, but she said not to. She said you were sure to give it away. Which," and he paused to sip his tea, still calm and frank, "was entirely likely, of course. I didn't tell our siblings either. I don't say that to comfort you, you understand. Just so you understand the practicalities of Shirley's business. She loves being a detective more than anything in the world." He yawned. "How tedious. But that's her business, not mine. Are you satisfied, Watson?"
He couldn't say that he was, really. But then again, he didn't think he would get anything more than that from Mycroft. Platitudes were not in him. Nor were lies, and despite his bluntness, John did appreciate the truth.
"Thank you," he said, nodding and getting up.
"I shall see you again in three months. Quite a social life I'm developing, mhmm," Mycroft said, sounding amused. Watson wasn't sure what he was referring to until he remembered the date that he and Shirley had set earlier this week for the wedding. Soon he was going to have this man as a brother-in-law. What a strange feeling.
"Until then," Watson said, making his goodbyes.
He hadn't gotten much from Mycroft, but he found himself a touch more light-hearted when he strode down the street towards home, anyway.
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Length: 722 words
Prompt: Sherlock Holmes fic battle: Steampunkverse, Watson and Mycroft
Pairing: Watson and Mycroft gen with mentioned Shirley/Watson
Other: Set in an AU-verse where Sherlock was born Shirley, but the setting is (mostly) retained with some occasional steampunk elements that don't show up in this fic.
Excerpt: "Why didn't you ask her to marry you?" Mycroft said, after the servant had left. Watson looked up sharply, confused.
"When you were first living together at Baker Street," Mycroft clarified impatiently, and Watson dropped his gaze again. He drank the tea, even though it was still too hot. There was no telling half-truths or lies to Mycroft. He couldn't even lie to Shirley about something trivial, because she always noticed. Still, he hated to dig that up again.
About a week after Shirley returned to Baker Street, Watson went round to the Diogenes Club and asked for Mycroft, unsure if the man would oblige him. He had only seen Mycroft once in the years of Shirley's disappearance, a reticent figure in the crowd of mourners around her empty coffin. Well, perhaps twice. Watson had a habit of walking past their old apartment once in a while, whenever he was in the area, and one time he was certain he was being watched, but when he turned, there was only a tall, broad man alighting from a carriage somewhat down the street. It wasn't until later that he paused to think that the man's gaze had lingered overlong on him, gray and glittering.
But after about twenty minutes or so, Mycroft appeared in the door of the sitting room. He immediately gestured for Watson to follow him out. A bit annoyed, Watson did, and soon found himself in a set of small rooms that reminded him quite a bit of the mess he'd left at home. Mycroft's papers seemed to be better sorted, but their piles were even larger.
"If you must make a scene," the elder Holmes remarked abruptly, "better here than at my club."
Watson scowled, rising to his feet from the seat he'd only just taken.
"I see that this interview will be pointless," he said, cold and quiet. He didn't consider himself a man any more hot-blooded than the rest, and certainly he knew better than to do such a thing. He wasn't a dog to mess on the carpet.
"No, no," Mycroft said, waving him back to his chair. "What you can see, doubtlessly, is that I will not have the answers you seek. I wouldn't blame you for a raised voice, in such frustration, but my fellow club-members do so abhor any loudness whatsoever."
Watson sighed, sinking back into his chair. After a moment, Mycroft offered him tea, and they sat in a somewhat tense silence until the servant entered the room, clearly practiced with stepping around the stacks of paperwork and books that ringed the large, comfortable armchair that Mycroft clearly favored, and the smaller, worn leather couch that Watson was perched on.
"Why didn't you ask her to marry you?" Mycroft said, after the servant had left. Watson looked up sharply, confused.
"When you were first living together at Baker Street," Mycroft clarified impatiently, and Watson dropped his gaze again. He drank the tea, even though it was still too hot. There was no telling half-truths or lies to Mycroft. He couldn't even lie to Shirley about something trivial, because she always noticed. Still, he hated to dig that up again.
"I asked. She wouldn't," he said. Shirley was at Baker Street at the moment, taking a languid nap upon the couch. He'd checked her three times before he'd gone. She was still wearing the simple ring he'd given her. She was still breathing, more importantly.
"Well, there's your answer," Mycroft said. "I would have told you, but she said not to. She said you were sure to give it away. Which," and he paused to sip his tea, still calm and frank, "was entirely likely, of course. I didn't tell our siblings either. I don't say that to comfort you, you understand. Just so you understand the practicalities of Shirley's business. She loves being a detective more than anything in the world." He yawned. "How tedious. But that's her business, not mine. Are you satisfied, Watson?"
He couldn't say that he was, really. But then again, he didn't think he would get anything more than that from Mycroft. Platitudes were not in him. Nor were lies, and despite his bluntness, John did appreciate the truth.
"Thank you," he said, nodding and getting up.
"I shall see you again in three months. Quite a social life I'm developing, mhmm," Mycroft said, sounding amused. Watson wasn't sure what he was referring to until he remembered the date that he and Shirley had set earlier this week for the wedding. Soon he was going to have this man as a brother-in-law. What a strange feeling.
"Until then," Watson said, making his goodbyes.
He hadn't gotten much from Mycroft, but he found himself a touch more light-hearted when he strode down the street towards home, anyway.