FIC: Mycroft and the Mysterious Package
Fandom: Sherlock
Title: Mycroft and the Mysterious Package
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Umbrella None
Spoilers: None
Summary: Mycroft receives a mysterious package and it’s just what he’s always wanted.
Disclaimer: Character originally belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle, modernised to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss
Mycroft didn’t know how it had gotten there, or why, but there it had been. It sat across his doorstep upon returning home after a particularly long day at work, just lying there, leaning slightly against the doorframe. No name; just a note saying ‘With Love x’. It was perplexing.
And now he sat inside his house, the package resting on his lap, a glass of bourbon on the table - poured, but not touched. It was obvious what the package held. Loosely wrapped in brown paper - “So overdone,” Mycroft thought - the shape was clearly visible, that of an umbrella. However this was not the reason why he had been sitting for the last 10 minutes staring into his lap. He was mystified as to why anyone would send him an umbrella. No one knew he had an assortment of them upstairs - some fancy, some parasols, some small, some automatic, some with carved handles - not even Mummy Holmes knew of his secret collection. Yet here, quiet clearly, was proof that someone knew.
He reached for his glass on the table, eyes remaining at all times on the brown paper. He lifted the glass to his lips, but neglected to take a sip before placing it back on the table and reaching instead for the paper. His hand hovered ever so slightly above the edge of the wrapping. He grabbed hold of the umbrella and turned it over in his hands, looking once again for a sign of its origin. But there was nothing, nothing other than the note. Typed in Garamond - incidentally his favourite font, he mused whether the sender was acknowledging that little known fact too - and printed out on plain white paper, the kind of stuff sold in thousands of shops across the country. Even the ink was everyday HP own brand, and frankly, it wasn’t worth the effort to list all the people who used HP printers. The sender had done well to remain anonymous.
He hesitated one last moment before pulling the paper off from around the umbrella. He let the wrapping fall from his hands onto the floor as he once again stared into his lap. The umbrella that lay on him was simplistic; a standard issue long, black in colour, tapering to a blunt point and a smoothly polished wooden handle. On closer inspection, Mycroft saw his name engraved in gold on the base of the handle. This wasn’t just any umbrella; this was one specifically made for him.
He stood to his feet, giving the umbrella a twirl in his hands to test its balance. Perfect. He glanced out of the window and making up his mind, left his house. His paused stood outside the door. The sky was grey and a drizzle of rain had begun to fall. He undid the clasp that held the fabric together and shook it lightly. Then he slid the his fingers up the slender frame, opening it to its full extent and enjoying the momentary but delightful ‘pop’ noise it made as the fabric unfolded. Raising it above his head, he stepped out into the street and began to walk down the road, humming the opening bars of ‘Singing in the Rain’.
Title: Mycroft and the Mysterious Package
Genre: Gen
Characters/Pairings: Mycroft/Umbrella None
Spoilers: None
Summary: Mycroft receives a mysterious package and it’s just what he’s always wanted.
Disclaimer: Character originally belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle, modernised to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss
Mycroft didn’t know how it had gotten there, or why, but there it had been. It sat across his doorstep upon returning home after a particularly long day at work, just lying there, leaning slightly against the doorframe. No name; just a note saying ‘With Love x’. It was perplexing.
And now he sat inside his house, the package resting on his lap, a glass of bourbon on the table - poured, but not touched. It was obvious what the package held. Loosely wrapped in brown paper - “So overdone,” Mycroft thought - the shape was clearly visible, that of an umbrella. However this was not the reason why he had been sitting for the last 10 minutes staring into his lap. He was mystified as to why anyone would send him an umbrella. No one knew he had an assortment of them upstairs - some fancy, some parasols, some small, some automatic, some with carved handles - not even Mummy Holmes knew of his secret collection. Yet here, quiet clearly, was proof that someone knew.
He reached for his glass on the table, eyes remaining at all times on the brown paper. He lifted the glass to his lips, but neglected to take a sip before placing it back on the table and reaching instead for the paper. His hand hovered ever so slightly above the edge of the wrapping. He grabbed hold of the umbrella and turned it over in his hands, looking once again for a sign of its origin. But there was nothing, nothing other than the note. Typed in Garamond - incidentally his favourite font, he mused whether the sender was acknowledging that little known fact too - and printed out on plain white paper, the kind of stuff sold in thousands of shops across the country. Even the ink was everyday HP own brand, and frankly, it wasn’t worth the effort to list all the people who used HP printers. The sender had done well to remain anonymous.
He hesitated one last moment before pulling the paper off from around the umbrella. He let the wrapping fall from his hands onto the floor as he once again stared into his lap. The umbrella that lay on him was simplistic; a standard issue long, black in colour, tapering to a blunt point and a smoothly polished wooden handle. On closer inspection, Mycroft saw his name engraved in gold on the base of the handle. This wasn’t just any umbrella; this was one specifically made for him.
He stood to his feet, giving the umbrella a twirl in his hands to test its balance. Perfect. He glanced out of the window and making up his mind, left his house. His paused stood outside the door. The sky was grey and a drizzle of rain had begun to fall. He undid the clasp that held the fabric together and shook it lightly. Then he slid the his fingers up the slender frame, opening it to its full extent and enjoying the momentary but delightful ‘pop’ noise it made as the fabric unfolded. Raising it above his head, he stepped out into the street and began to walk down the road, humming the opening bars of ‘Singing in the Rain’.