Prompting Part XXVI
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IMPORTANT! Spoilers for aired episodes are now being allowed on this area of the meme, without warning. If you do not want to encounter spoilers, please prompt at our Spoiler-Free Prompt Post.
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IMPORTANT! Spoilers for aired episodes are now being allowed on this area of the meme, without warning. If you do not want to encounter spoilers, please prompt at our Spoiler-Free Prompt Post.
( Read more... )
"My mother called me last night," Mycroft said at last. It had clearly been on his mind since he'd kidnapped Greg after work, as he'd been quiet and out of sorts all night. He sighed again and made for the drinks cabinet. "She informed me that she's going to be visiting London next month and staying with me for a few days."
Greg laughed and fished around in the bottom of the basin for the last fork. "Mothers." He found the fork and washed it, then pulled the plug out and turned to lean against the counter. "Go on."
Mycroft smiled, passing him the towel so that he could dry his hands. "She would be heartbroken if you didn't at least join us for dinner, but I will understand if three Holmeses is more than you can cope with. Goodness knows, two is more than I can cope with some days."
"I wouldn't want her to think that our relationship is anything less than it is," he insisted. "Christ, now I'm even talking like you. Yes, I'd love to meet her, and as long as you're happy to have me around I'm happy to be around - you know that." Mycroft relaxed slightly and Greg reached out for him. "I've had your brother in my spare room for six months, remember? As long as your mother... I can't keep calling her your mother."
"Her name is Mummy." Mycroft sighed. "Well, her name is Cecelia-Julianne, but she always hated it. Naturally, she became Sissy and then I came along and she became Mummy. Even Grandmama called her Mummy."
Greg takes pleasure in translating Mycroft-ese into Greg-ese. That last sentence, especially, is brilliant. "Your nan... Right." He finally persuades Mycroft to stand up and step close enough for Greg's arms to circle him loosely. "Well, as long as she can cope with me and you can cope with the pair of us, I'll cope as well. As long as I don't have to clean mine in preparation for her coming over there..."
"I'll keep her here," Mycroft promised. "As much as I am able to."
They went through to the living room and Mycroft made for the drinks cabinet whilst Greg settled himself on the sofa with the Radio Times. A quick scan revealed that there was nothing on, so he dropped it back on the table and accepted a glass from Mycroft, who sat at the other end of the sofa and put his feet in Greg's lap. "Thursday," he explained, needlessly.
"Ah, Thursday."
"So..." he started, rubbing one thumb up the arch of Mycroft's foot absently and staring into his glass. "What's she doing in London?"
"She's presenting a paper to the Royal Horticultural Society, and giving a talk at University College London." He smiled at Greg's surprise. "Mummy is an expert on conservation through alternative habitat creation. She used to give talks all over the world, but since James died she's been focused on this paper. It was their life's work."
Greg squeezed Mycroft's foot. "James was your dad?"
"My step-father," he corrected, then he sighed. "But yes. Have I ever thanked you for being there for Sherlock after he died?"
"He's family," he said, a touch gruffer than he'd hoped. "Has been since I met him, really. Couldn't let him slip back, could I?"
Mycroft smiled sadly. "Whatever did we do to deserve you?"
"I guess it's one of those times when good things happen to bad people." He grinned and finished his drink, leaning over to set it on the table. The mood lifted a little and he flopped back into the sofa. "So... tell me about them."
"There isn't much to tell," Mycroft protested. "I never knew my father, and frankly I'm not entirely sure Mummy did either. She retired to the country to avoid the cloud of shame and indulge her love of conservationism and botany, and comes to London occasionally to do her duty in the House of Lords." He raised his eyebrows. "When she dies, Sherlock will become a Baron. And then God help us."
Greg considered that, looked at his empty glass, considered the idea of Sherlock in the House of Lords again. "Does he even know what the House of Lords is?"
"I sincerely hope not."
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He laughed. "I should have known, shouldn't I?" There was an awkward pause whilst he tried to decide whether to offer his hand or kiss her cheek, but she made the decision for him by hugging him and laughing brightly at whatever Mycroft was doing behind him. When she released him to give Mycroft the same treatment, Greg got a good look at her.
She was tall, with silver hair that fell almost to her waist. Smart trousers and a waistcoat over a silk blouse emphasised her trim figure without making her look emaciated like Sherlock sometimes did - less so recently, thank goodness. A black mini top hat with a real purple rose completed the look in a suitably glamorous, if eccentric, fashion. The red E Type Jaguar, with not one but two hatboxes and two bunches of roses on the passenger seat, was just the icing on a fabulous cake.
He got the feeling that Mycroft hadn't quite told him the full story.
They moved her things from the car into the house so that she could put the hood up and lock it, and then abandoned everything on the bed in favour of watching Greg prepare lunch. One of the bunches of roses, a selection of half a dozen different colours, took pride of place in a vase on the counter, and Greg collected his ingredients together.
"So," he started, "I hope I'm going to get all the embarassing details of Mycroft as a kid."
"Of course," she confirmed, and Mycroft groaned. "I've even brought the photos. Oh stop it, you were an angel!" She swatted Mycroft and turned back to Greg. "Did he tell you about the treehouse he built on the golf course at Eton?"
"Mycroft built a treehouse?" He looked over his shoulder and grinned. "You mean Mycroft was once cool?"
"Mycroft was nearly expelled," she confided in a scandalised whisper. "But the other boys wouldn't let them. They said that Mycroft was far too much fun, and he was getting top marks, after all... Well, they just told him not to build another one."
"And did he?"
"Of course he did." She slaps the table. "And a damn good treehouse it was too. I think it's still there - it was when Sherlock left, anyway. The Holmes Home, or something equally daft. You know what public schoolboys are like."
"Mummy..." Mycroft sighed again. "May I leave the table? Then you two can gossip in peace."
Greg put lunch in the oven and turned back to the table. He rubbed his hand across Mycroft's shoulders as he passed. "Relax. My mum will make me sit through it when she recounts my drunken teenaged antics and that time she... never mind. Point is, I'm struggling to think of anything that could be more embarassing than what my mum has to tell you. So no, sit."
"Where are you from, Greg?" Mummy asked. "Are you a London native?"
"More or less, yeah. Mum and Dad are from the West Country, but they moved to London... just because, I think. They're back out there now, growing cider." He paused to consider that. "Oh, you know what I mean."
Mummy raised her head. "What apples do they use?"
"Um... Sorry, I have no idea."
"Pity. I'd like to meet them, though. I did some research into the impact of pig keeping on the ecosystems of organic cider farms about ten years ago." She drummed on the table. "I prefer perry myself, but that's neither here nor there."
"All information is useful," he intoned. "I've got a book about the farms in their valley somewhere, though. I'll dig it out for you next time I go home."
He saw her look around and see, in the way that only a Holmes could, just how entwined his stuff was with Mycroft's by now, but she just smiled at him. "Thank you. It's not a bad dream, is it? Retiring and making cider."
"Mummy, you'd have to retire to do that." Mycroft reached out and rested his hand on her arm. "I wish you'd slow down a bit."
She huffed. "I am slowing down, dear! I'll retire when I finish my book."
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"The grimoir. The memoirs is for my retirement." She turned back to Greg. "You know what they say about the sixties?"
"If you remember it, you weren't there?" he guessed.
Mummy sat back in her chair with a smug grin. "I don't remember it."
Greg looked at Mycroft, checking for willing rather than resigned acquiescence. He wouldn't have asked if Mycroft hadn't seemed to want him to know, but Mycroft showed no signs of discomfort. Still, he proceeded carefully. "Mycroft was a Summer of '69 baby. There must be a story there."
She took Mycroft's hand and nodded. "Mycroft isn't just a Summer of '69 baby. Mycroft is a Woodstock baby. Or the Isle of White, but I'm pretty sure it was Woodstock. Backstage with The Who."
"You..." He raised a hand. "This is not a pun or a sketch. They are the greatest rock band of all time. But who?"
"Keith Moon... or Roger Daltrey." She shrugged. "One of them. Probably."
Mycroft sighed, fighting laughter. "And that is why I have to earn my own peerage."
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And you still might get the story of their childhood, because I have enough backstory to make my head explode
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I'm hoping that there will be lots more, but I finish uni in two months and I'm not supposed to be writing anything until then. After that, I promise, there will be a whole universe of this, because I love the prompt so much and it gave me so many ideas.
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