Remix of Neurotoxia: “Deepen the Mystery”
Original Story:
Author: Neurotoxia
Title & Link: nothing is more serious than pleasure
Pairings & Rating: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Victor Trevor/Sherlock Holmes; Teen
Warnings/Content Notes: incest, tattoo!lock
Remix Story:
Author: xfdryad
Title: Deepen the Mystery
Pairings & Rating: Victor Trevor/Sherlock Holmes, pre-slash, G
Warnings/Content Notes: none
Beta: n/a
Britpicker: n/a
Summary: Art is representation of the soul.
He walked in behind Victor, spitefully graceful in a way that few of her male clients were. They came in for their bulwarks and their sigils and their skin games, but he's going to want everything she can give him and more.
"T. Justine, this is Sherlock Britannicus."
Victor had that look on his face, the one that always had her warning him off staff and customers both. He was wearing his nicest clothing, which meant he really wanted her to take him seriously. That was good. He was learning. She still wasn't sure how seriously he took his work. The boy had talent, when he was able to focus, and was trusted by those who come to her shop, and in these days of segregation and unity - ha! - trust was hard earned.
"Justine?" Victor repeated, his smile fading slightly. He glanced at his new friend nervously.
"Unusual nomen," she said, in perfect Anglish.
Sherlock looked at her evenly. "And yet, appropriate."
Justine nodded. She didn't have a nomen, it didn't run in her family, not for centuries, anyway. She made a point a eyeing him up and down; expensive shoes, understated but clearly expensive clothing, casually tousled hair. Beautiful eyes, even in the harsh light of the studio. "What else?"
"T. Justine, no other cognomen. You're from the Massif Central, where you grew up in a care home. You were adopted out to Valerius, an old and distinguished nomen, yet were never added to the rolls - "
Iesu!
" - which is quite intriguing as you are an intelligent woman who could have been quite useful in the Unity. Despite your formal education and your multiple degrees in chemistry and mathematics, you have chosen to serve the Unity here on Earth rather than on Labrys," Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "With your connections you could be in very nearly any position you wanted. You have two children, one husband, male. Two cats, several fish. You prefer the countryside to the city, yet you live and work in Paris."
Victor was grinning away, like the fool he was.
"And," she prompted, hoping her apprehension didn't know on her face.
"You enjoy your reputation, you've worked hard to earn it, and if you can be a scandal to your family, especially Julian, all the better. "
"You've met him?" she asked dumbly.
"I understand that completely, my brother is also an utter arsehole," Sherlock put his hands behind his back and looked hard at the black on cream display of La Reine. It was the biggest sample in the room. "You sell sigils?"
Her most popular creation, as it happened. The one she had drawn in twenty minutes only to find it amongst the most powerful sigil she had ever made. While the wealthy were desperate to acquire it, she only ever gave it away to those who needed it. Her own little way of getting back at the rich.
"He can do that with anyone," said Victor, bouncing up and down on his toes. "Isn't he amazing? Because Justine, I think we should take him on. He's a brilliant artist, imagine what he could do with a tattoo!"
Yes...imagine that. "Why should I hire you?"
"Because you're curious."
She snorted. "There's no magic to making sigils or drawing tattoos, any fool can teach you."
"T. Justine, that's not true!" interjected Victor, his dreads moving like long snakes when he shook his head. "Sherlock, don't believe a word she says. She's the best in Paris, in France, the world!"
"Obviously," Sherlock ambled behind Victor to get a closer look at La Reine.
Justine folded her arms, abruptly aware of the burning in her leg. Iesu, ten years and counting. If only it didn't drive all sense out of her head when it happened. At least everything she had learned at the home helped keep it from the clients. And the children. And her husband. Hopefully from Sherlock. Keeping her work face on, she wondered aloud - "What do you see?"
He pondered for a moment before turning back to her. "The symbol for love. The moon, the stars, the sun. A rose, almond blossoms."
Among other things. She was impressed that he had been able to decipher that much. Most people only saw a grouping of swooshing lines that was pleasing to the eye, and the promise of magic with a lit candle and a bowl on a moonlit night. Was he worth the danger? He knew she was Valerius, even if unnamed...so that meant he too had connections, and like her, chose not to use them. Had it cost her? Yes, probably. She had grown into this life of hers, had carved it out and inhabited it and grown comfortable in it. And it appeared he had done, or was doing, the same for himself. That left only one question. "Britannicus?"
When no answer was forthcoming, she reconsidered her options. Say no and he might move on to another haunt, where the owner would not be so partial to keeping secrets. She might not have been born Valerius, but that didn't mean she refused to do her duty. Besides, anyone could learn to draw a sigil and perform the rite.
Anyone.
"You come here from eight to eleven. You start at the floor and work your way up. Victor will be your teacher - "
Victor fluttered both hands in the air, looking back and forth between the two of them. "Oo, T.Victor! I love it!"
Justine stared at him until he went quiet. She flicked back to Sherlock. "You work with me from noon until I say you're finished. Clear?"
He nodded. "Clear."
"Now get out of my office," she finished on a half gasp, because her thigh was tormenting her and she needed to sit down and massage the pain.
"Come on, I'll show you the gear," Victor said eagerly, heading out of the office without waiting to see if Sherlock was hot on his heels.
Sherlock, however, turned back to her at the door. "There are treatments for Meralgia paraesthetica."
She grimaced as she tried not to dig her nails into her skin to relieve the itching. "Already had treatment, it didn't take."
"You've already seen the Green Branch Witches in Avesbury."
Shaking her head, she gimped around the desk to the nearest chair. Hot knitting needles burned into the long muscle of her outer thigh, forcing a whimper and another gasp past her lips. Dropping onto the seat she clawed at her thigh, desperate for the agony to pass. She closed her eyes and knuckled her leg, even though that made her hurt more. She didn't even care there was someone else in the room. "The...green witches...?"
There was a soft whish of fabric, then hands on her person. Justing stiffened and drew back, glaring at Sherlock, who crouched at her knee.
"Let me help you."
Up close, his voice was deeper than she had realized, and his cologne was green and deeply masculine without being overpowering. His eyes really were...well. No wonder Victor had fallen for him. More electric bee stings lanced down her leg and she nodded.
"Holmes," he said, pushing up her skirt to palpate her thigh directly. His hands were hot even through her leggings, and his touch very firm.
"Wh-what?" Justine had to speak past the fist she pressed to her mouth. "Sorry?"
"My nomen. Holmes. You were sent to London for your education, then studied in America, I'm sure you came across one of us at least once."
He pressed hard with both thumbs and just like that, the pain lessened and her wits returned. "Be careful with Victor."
"You should return to the Witches. They can help you further," he said, before looking up at her, one hand sliding under her knee. "As can I."
"Sherlock?"
Justine pushed her skirt down and said, "He's waiting for you."
Sherlock released her and stood, inclined his head in a swift little bow. "I'll be here at eight."
She watched him leave her office and made a mental note to call Charlotte. She recognized the nomen, of course, and Charlotte, having married into the family, would be able to tell her exactly who Sherlock was and if she needed to be careful around him. Might be a lost cause, he clearly could divine a person's secrets merely by looking at them. Nonetheless. She would call Charlotte, and watch him, and watch Victor, and warn Victor, even though it wouldn't make a bit of difference to him. No matter, she already had a sigil in mind that he could burn to help with his heartache.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Remember to leave feedback for both authors!
Author: Neurotoxia
Title & Link: nothing is more serious than pleasure
Pairings & Rating: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Victor Trevor/Sherlock Holmes; Teen
Warnings/Content Notes: incest, tattoo!lock
Remix Story:
Author: xfdryad
Title: Deepen the Mystery
Pairings & Rating: Victor Trevor/Sherlock Holmes, pre-slash, G
Warnings/Content Notes: none
Beta: n/a
Britpicker: n/a
Summary: Art is representation of the soul.
He walked in behind Victor, spitefully graceful in a way that few of her male clients were. They came in for their bulwarks and their sigils and their skin games, but he's going to want everything she can give him and more.
"T. Justine, this is Sherlock Britannicus."
Victor had that look on his face, the one that always had her warning him off staff and customers both. He was wearing his nicest clothing, which meant he really wanted her to take him seriously. That was good. He was learning. She still wasn't sure how seriously he took his work. The boy had talent, when he was able to focus, and was trusted by those who come to her shop, and in these days of segregation and unity - ha! - trust was hard earned.
"Justine?" Victor repeated, his smile fading slightly. He glanced at his new friend nervously.
"Unusual nomen," she said, in perfect Anglish.
Sherlock looked at her evenly. "And yet, appropriate."
Justine nodded. She didn't have a nomen, it didn't run in her family, not for centuries, anyway. She made a point a eyeing him up and down; expensive shoes, understated but clearly expensive clothing, casually tousled hair. Beautiful eyes, even in the harsh light of the studio. "What else?"
"T. Justine, no other cognomen. You're from the Massif Central, where you grew up in a care home. You were adopted out to Valerius, an old and distinguished nomen, yet were never added to the rolls - "
Iesu!
" - which is quite intriguing as you are an intelligent woman who could have been quite useful in the Unity. Despite your formal education and your multiple degrees in chemistry and mathematics, you have chosen to serve the Unity here on Earth rather than on Labrys," Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "With your connections you could be in very nearly any position you wanted. You have two children, one husband, male. Two cats, several fish. You prefer the countryside to the city, yet you live and work in Paris."
Victor was grinning away, like the fool he was.
"And," she prompted, hoping her apprehension didn't know on her face.
"You enjoy your reputation, you've worked hard to earn it, and if you can be a scandal to your family, especially Julian, all the better. "
"You've met him?" she asked dumbly.
"I understand that completely, my brother is also an utter arsehole," Sherlock put his hands behind his back and looked hard at the black on cream display of La Reine. It was the biggest sample in the room. "You sell sigils?"
Her most popular creation, as it happened. The one she had drawn in twenty minutes only to find it amongst the most powerful sigil she had ever made. While the wealthy were desperate to acquire it, she only ever gave it away to those who needed it. Her own little way of getting back at the rich.
"He can do that with anyone," said Victor, bouncing up and down on his toes. "Isn't he amazing? Because Justine, I think we should take him on. He's a brilliant artist, imagine what he could do with a tattoo!"
Yes...imagine that. "Why should I hire you?"
"Because you're curious."
She snorted. "There's no magic to making sigils or drawing tattoos, any fool can teach you."
"T. Justine, that's not true!" interjected Victor, his dreads moving like long snakes when he shook his head. "Sherlock, don't believe a word she says. She's the best in Paris, in France, the world!"
"Obviously," Sherlock ambled behind Victor to get a closer look at La Reine.
Justine folded her arms, abruptly aware of the burning in her leg. Iesu, ten years and counting. If only it didn't drive all sense out of her head when it happened. At least everything she had learned at the home helped keep it from the clients. And the children. And her husband. Hopefully from Sherlock. Keeping her work face on, she wondered aloud - "What do you see?"
He pondered for a moment before turning back to her. "The symbol for love. The moon, the stars, the sun. A rose, almond blossoms."
Among other things. She was impressed that he had been able to decipher that much. Most people only saw a grouping of swooshing lines that was pleasing to the eye, and the promise of magic with a lit candle and a bowl on a moonlit night. Was he worth the danger? He knew she was Valerius, even if unnamed...so that meant he too had connections, and like her, chose not to use them. Had it cost her? Yes, probably. She had grown into this life of hers, had carved it out and inhabited it and grown comfortable in it. And it appeared he had done, or was doing, the same for himself. That left only one question. "Britannicus?"
When no answer was forthcoming, she reconsidered her options. Say no and he might move on to another haunt, where the owner would not be so partial to keeping secrets. She might not have been born Valerius, but that didn't mean she refused to do her duty. Besides, anyone could learn to draw a sigil and perform the rite.
Anyone.
"You come here from eight to eleven. You start at the floor and work your way up. Victor will be your teacher - "
Victor fluttered both hands in the air, looking back and forth between the two of them. "Oo, T.Victor! I love it!"
Justine stared at him until he went quiet. She flicked back to Sherlock. "You work with me from noon until I say you're finished. Clear?"
He nodded. "Clear."
"Now get out of my office," she finished on a half gasp, because her thigh was tormenting her and she needed to sit down and massage the pain.
"Come on, I'll show you the gear," Victor said eagerly, heading out of the office without waiting to see if Sherlock was hot on his heels.
Sherlock, however, turned back to her at the door. "There are treatments for Meralgia paraesthetica."
She grimaced as she tried not to dig her nails into her skin to relieve the itching. "Already had treatment, it didn't take."
"You've already seen the Green Branch Witches in Avesbury."
Shaking her head, she gimped around the desk to the nearest chair. Hot knitting needles burned into the long muscle of her outer thigh, forcing a whimper and another gasp past her lips. Dropping onto the seat she clawed at her thigh, desperate for the agony to pass. She closed her eyes and knuckled her leg, even though that made her hurt more. She didn't even care there was someone else in the room. "The...green witches...?"
There was a soft whish of fabric, then hands on her person. Justing stiffened and drew back, glaring at Sherlock, who crouched at her knee.
"Let me help you."
Up close, his voice was deeper than she had realized, and his cologne was green and deeply masculine without being overpowering. His eyes really were...well. No wonder Victor had fallen for him. More electric bee stings lanced down her leg and she nodded.
"Holmes," he said, pushing up her skirt to palpate her thigh directly. His hands were hot even through her leggings, and his touch very firm.
"Wh-what?" Justine had to speak past the fist she pressed to her mouth. "Sorry?"
"My nomen. Holmes. You were sent to London for your education, then studied in America, I'm sure you came across one of us at least once."
He pressed hard with both thumbs and just like that, the pain lessened and her wits returned. "Be careful with Victor."
"You should return to the Witches. They can help you further," he said, before looking up at her, one hand sliding under her knee. "As can I."
"Sherlock?"
Justine pushed her skirt down and said, "He's waiting for you."
Sherlock released her and stood, inclined his head in a swift little bow. "I'll be here at eight."
She watched him leave her office and made a mental note to call Charlotte. She recognized the nomen, of course, and Charlotte, having married into the family, would be able to tell her exactly who Sherlock was and if she needed to be careful around him. Might be a lost cause, he clearly could divine a person's secrets merely by looking at them. Nonetheless. She would call Charlotte, and watch him, and watch Victor, and warn Victor, even though it wouldn't make a bit of difference to him. No matter, she already had a sigil in mind that he could burn to help with his heartache.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Remember to leave feedback for both authors!