Fill: Time In Lieu Of Part 1/?squidwhiskNovember 10 2010, 23:20:52 UTC
Notes: I know this is being filled right now, but I could not resist to fill as well. Also, I mixed up pestilence and war. Sorry! I should have read over the prompt more than once.
--- They met every morning of the new moon in a small cafe off High Holborn. Anthea (or Xena or Medea or Alice) arranged for the security and so they were rarely accosted by the CIA, FBI, or MI6 (or the MIB, which don't exist. Of course they don't. Why would you even think such a ridiculous thing?)
They used to call themselves the Homeland Order for Rapid Societal Enlightenment; an (admittedly small) order of artisans, individuals who could work sublime materials into earthshattering art. However, that order soon deteriorated due first to internal struggles and secondly due to the Industrial Revolution, which destroyed artistry and replaced it with a drive for mass produced drivel and the constant push for numbers. The group reformed in pieces for a century before coming back together in 1928 after a particularly disastrous event. Now they just called themselves the Board.
Perhaps they operated more efficiently but John, who was a bit of a traditionalist at heart, certainly found it less rewarding. Time to forego even that. Personally, he was going to outsource.
By the time he managed to detangle himself from everyone in the tube station and make his way through the crowd he felt decidedly put upon and in desperate need of tea. He entered the froufrou little cafe, ignoring the latest addition (a tiny bell that tinkled in a charmingly cloying manner) and assessed the room. It was covered in dark wooden panelling, with minimalist modern furniture, and cool mirrors. In other words, one could not hide anywhere in the room. How very thoughtful of Anthea. Each of the tables boasted an overpriced blue/white flower arrangement (gladioli, monkshood, hydrangea and begonias nestled in cypress). Modern art in flower form. Society was going to hell and he didn't even have to raise a finger. Anthea was already there, looking splendid in a simple black suit and nestled between the flowers and a single teacup and saucer.
"I could murder a cuppa." John gratefully sank into an overstuffed velvety chair and sighed in relief. It was so nice and quiet in the café. Mind, his expectations of nice settings had really devolved in the past few months. The criteria now consisted exclusively of: serves tea, lacks human heads that are not attached to human bodies, and lacks unidentifiable substances dripping from the tables. Wasn't humanity at large supposed to have gotten over this pursuant to the renaissance?
"Hmm." Anthea did not stand to greet him. Instead she daintily picked up her teacup and sipped at the outrageously expensive tea she insisted on drinking. John had heard it was first digested by a cat. Ewwww. After being a soldier and living with Sherlock, Anthea still managed to find things that unsettled his stomach. Maybe this was how Mycroft was losing weight.
John sat in quiet contemplation looking over the minutes of their previous meeting and the quarterly production statements as Anthea nibbled on a biscuit and dexterously typed away at her Blackberry. She would address him eventually, undoubtedly she was following up on her latest endeavour (A virus specifically designed to crash the pentagon's computers; a red herring for her work in rerouting supplies and humanitarian aid.) Luckily, some of Anthea's artistry had survived the Industrial Revolution. There was a tricky moment for a while, with the advent of sewage systems, but Anthea had persevered. John had always known she was the cleverest of them all.
"So, how is his royal Holmes-ness? Still kidnapping hapless soldiers and stuffing them into unmarked cars?"
Anthea smirked. "Not so much these days. He is currently working on a little situation. Should have it all sorted out by lunch, he would have dealt with it in minutes but working with the Prime Minister can be so very tedious."
John sighed. "You realize that Mycroft's never going to be allowed to croak?"
Anthea snorted in amusement. How unladylike of her. "Serenity would make him go mad and Lucy won't take him. She does have some concept of self-preservation. Speaking of which, how is the domestic life?"
---
They met every morning of the new moon in a small cafe off High Holborn. Anthea (or Xena or Medea or Alice) arranged for the security and so they were rarely accosted by the CIA, FBI, or MI6 (or the MIB, which don't exist. Of course they don't. Why would you even think such a ridiculous thing?)
They used to call themselves the Homeland Order for Rapid Societal Enlightenment; an (admittedly small) order of artisans, individuals who could work sublime materials into earthshattering art. However, that order soon deteriorated due first to internal struggles and secondly due to the Industrial Revolution, which destroyed artistry and replaced it with a drive for mass produced drivel and the constant push for numbers. The group reformed in pieces for a century before coming back together in 1928 after a particularly disastrous event. Now they just called themselves the Board.
Perhaps they operated more efficiently but John, who was a bit of a traditionalist at heart, certainly found it less rewarding. Time to forego even that. Personally, he was going to outsource.
By the time he managed to detangle himself from everyone in the tube station and make his way through the crowd he felt decidedly put upon and in desperate need of tea. He entered the froufrou little cafe, ignoring the latest addition (a tiny bell that tinkled in a charmingly cloying manner) and assessed the room. It was covered in dark wooden panelling, with minimalist modern furniture, and cool mirrors. In other words, one could not hide anywhere in the room. How very thoughtful of Anthea. Each of the tables boasted an overpriced blue/white flower arrangement (gladioli, monkshood, hydrangea and begonias nestled in cypress). Modern art in flower form. Society was going to hell and he didn't even have to raise a finger. Anthea was already there, looking splendid in a simple black suit and nestled between the flowers and a single teacup and saucer.
"I could murder a cuppa." John gratefully sank into an overstuffed velvety chair and sighed in relief. It was so nice and quiet in the café. Mind, his expectations of nice settings had really devolved in the past few months. The criteria now consisted exclusively of: serves tea, lacks human heads that are not attached to human bodies, and lacks unidentifiable substances dripping from the tables. Wasn't humanity at large supposed to have gotten over this pursuant to the renaissance?
"Hmm." Anthea did not stand to greet him. Instead she daintily picked up her teacup and sipped at the outrageously expensive tea she insisted on drinking. John had heard it was first digested by a cat. Ewwww. After being a soldier and living with Sherlock, Anthea still managed to find things that unsettled his stomach. Maybe this was how Mycroft was losing weight.
John sat in quiet contemplation looking over the minutes of their previous meeting and the quarterly production statements as Anthea nibbled on a biscuit and dexterously typed away at her Blackberry. She would address him eventually, undoubtedly she was following up on her latest endeavour (A virus specifically designed to crash the pentagon's computers; a red herring for her work in rerouting supplies and humanitarian aid.) Luckily, some of Anthea's artistry had survived the Industrial Revolution. There was a tricky moment for a while, with the advent of sewage systems, but Anthea had persevered. John had always known she was the cleverest of them all.
"So, how is his royal Holmes-ness? Still kidnapping hapless soldiers and stuffing them into unmarked cars?"
Anthea smirked. "Not so much these days. He is currently working on a little situation. Should have it all sorted out by lunch, he would have dealt with it in minutes but working with the Prime Minister can be so very tedious."
John sighed. "You realize that Mycroft's never going to be allowed to croak?"
Anthea snorted in amusement. How unladylike of her. "Serenity would make him go mad and Lucy won't take him. She does have some concept of self-preservation. Speaking of which, how is the domestic life?"
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