Ten second notice on whatever landline is closest. (Really-he has his own mobile and Sarah is getting tired of picking up the phone and having anyone with the last name Holmes on the other end).
Black car drives up.
Door pops open.
He slides in.
Greets ‘Anthea’. (Just because she rarely answers, doesn’t give him an excuse to be less than civil).
The car ride is so silent the click-click of Anthea’s perfectly manicured nails on her Blackberry sound like small explosions.
He is dropped off. Usually in an abandoned warehouse with creepy lighting and a sole chair.
He has a conversation with Mycroft that could have easily been solved with a text or a simple phone call.
An umbrella is used to vaguely threaten him.
He’s returned to a black non-descript car.
A return trip always as equally as silent and interminable as the first phone-clicking leg of this journey.
He’s dropped back off at Baker St.
So, when John has the opportunity to break the monotony of this kidnapping attempt (It’s a testament to living with Sherlock that he thinks kidnapping is boring) he snaps it up.
He’s sitting across the seat from Anthea, watching her fingers fly, when he says: “How long have you and Mycroft been together then?”
The small furrow between her perfectly plucked eyebrows deepens, the only sign that she hasn’t developed selective hearing and does in fact understand the words that come out of John Watson’s mouth. There’s a pause, so long that John thinks that this avenue of conversation too will be ignored, before she replies. She uses the tone of someone who is as used to denying being in a relationship as John himself is, when she flatly states: “Mr. Holmes and I have solely an amicable working relationship.”
But John’s not falling for that. Not with the way Anthea peeks over her Blackberry and smiles at Mycroft when he’s speaking with someone else, like she knows exactly what secret messages are hidden in his words. Not with the way she’ll put the damned device down when he’s directly talking to her. Not with the way Mycroft subtly shifts towards her when she stops typing, as if to reassure himself that she and her little clicking noises haven’t entirely disappeared. Or the way Mycroft helped her into the car after he was done harassing John. The gesture had been almost courtly, the way he’d leaned over his umbrella almost bow-like, to make sure she made it into the car.
John snorts, and his annoyance of Anthea’s habit of completely ignoring him despite how many times they’ve been trapped in a car together makes him a little lewder and ruder than he’d normally be. “I may not be a Holmes, but I can tell when a man and a woman are trying to be professional, but are really thinking about the next time they can bend each other over a desk.” “Anthea pauses for a moment, her fingers utterly still, hovering like little flying saucers preparing for touchdown over the keys. Her voice, cool, smooth, uninterested-too uninterested, questions, “You got that impression from Mr. Holmes, did you?”
John’s eyebrow quirks up. “Yes.”
Suddenly, Anthea drops the phone that must hold more secrets than a high-class hooker’s little black client book, and scoots forward on her seat. John’s almost rocked backwards from the torrent of words that burst out of her. “My God, I’m so glad! I thought it was just me! Last month I was taking a taxi, on the way to a date, and we hit every red light! I mean, lights turned red right after they’d been green for five seconds! I was stuck in the taxicab for three hours, and I couldn’t get cell service to call him on my Blackberry! And that’s a satellite phone guaranteed by the tech department to always get service! And this is after my last boyfriend relocated to South America!” Her voice lowers, and she leans forward into John, piercing him with her eyes. “I know I’m under surveillance, but I think he’s pulling the feed, maybe even live. Just yesterday, he told me I that pink did not suit me, and the only pink I’ve worn in five years are the horrid pajamas my mother purchased last Christmas! And I would swear just right now, that he was peeking down my blouse when he escorted me to the car.”
John squirmed a little in his seat, a little discomforted by Anthea’s abrupt personality shift.
Anthea wasn’t finished, however. “He called me in last night for a national crisis that turned out to be-well, you don’t need to know about that, but, by the time I got here he only required me to take dictation. Dictation! He might claim to be a minor civil servant and I his glorified secretary, but I assure you that I don’t need to be summoned after a twelve hour shift at three o’clock in the morning when I was just blowing off some steam in my bathtub!”
John can’t help himself, it just comes out. “Sherlock’s like that too! He’s always crashing my dates, showing up at the clinic, making him fetch him tea, or send off a text. I know he’s fully capable of all these things, but it’s like he can’t stand for my attention to be off him for half a second.”
“I know what you mean! Mycroft forced me into every single one of his lunch meetings this week. Said I was ‘indespensible’ and I ended up doodling a giant mustachioed Prime Minister on the meeting’s schedule. I nearly collapsed of boredom. Afterwards he told me my presence had been instrumental. In what way, I’ll never know, when I could have been covering the riots!”
“Sherlock pulled the same thing on me yesterday. Made me sit for three hours in Lestrade’s office, while he went over case-files looking for connections to Moriarty. I ended up experimenting on how fast the Yard’s shitty coffee would congeal in the bottom of the cup.”
They volley back and forth, the volume of their voices growing as they swap horror stories. John relates the time Sherlock burnt a giant hole in his date jumper, deduced his date until she left insulted, called him for ‘a medical emergency ’ (which turned out to be Sherlock ‘dying of boredom’ while in the middle of the salad course, conducted experiments on the flammability of his date’s hairspray. Anthea talks about called up for late night meetings, being kidnapped on family vacations, having small wars break out on her first dates in years.
By the end of it, they’re both in a lather. Finally, Anthea nearly shouts, as they pull up to Baker Street, “And the worst part is, he’s not even interested! I’m just his little go-to girl, and he’s so possessive of my time that I can’t even touch myself without a without a national crisis springing up!” Her breasts are heaving, and her cheeks are slightly flushed with embarrassment at her latest pronouncement.
For a minute, John just sits there stunned before he too remembers all the aborted wanks, whether by leeches in the shower, or bloody screeching violin music just as he’s getting into things.
They just sit there, eyes locked, when John says, with that calm, unshakable voice that he talks about killing cabbies in, the voice one that commands everyone who hears it to keep calm and trust John. That proclaims that nothing could ever rattle him while he’s this focused. “I think we have the same problem.”
Anthea, calmed by John’s voice, just listens.
“Our Holmeses get jealous of our attention. They monopolize every second of our lives.”
“We can’t take care of our needs,” Anthea pipes in.
And in the back of that little inconspicuous black government car, a plan was formed.
Ten second notice on whatever landline is closest. (Really-he has his own mobile and Sarah is getting tired of picking up the phone and having anyone with the last name Holmes on the other end).
Black car drives up.
Door pops open.
He slides in.
Greets ‘Anthea’. (Just because she rarely answers, doesn’t give him an excuse to be less than civil).
The car ride is so silent the click-click of Anthea’s perfectly manicured nails on her Blackberry sound like small explosions.
He is dropped off. Usually in an abandoned warehouse with creepy lighting and a sole chair.
He has a conversation with Mycroft that could have easily been solved with a text or a simple phone call.
An umbrella is used to vaguely threaten him.
He’s returned to a black non-descript car.
A return trip always as equally as silent and interminable as the first phone-clicking leg of this journey.
He’s dropped back off at Baker St.
So, when John has the opportunity to break the monotony of this kidnapping attempt (It’s a testament to living with Sherlock that he thinks kidnapping is boring) he snaps it up.
He’s sitting across the seat from Anthea, watching her fingers fly, when he says: “How long have you and Mycroft been together then?”
The small furrow between her perfectly plucked eyebrows deepens, the only sign that she hasn’t developed selective hearing and does in fact understand the words that come out of John Watson’s mouth. There’s a pause, so long that John thinks that this avenue of conversation too will be ignored, before she replies. She uses the tone of someone who is as used to denying being in a relationship as John himself is, when she flatly states: “Mr. Holmes and I have solely an amicable working relationship.”
But John’s not falling for that. Not with the way Anthea peeks over her Blackberry and smiles at Mycroft when he’s speaking with someone else, like she knows exactly what secret messages are hidden in his words. Not with the way she’ll put the damned device down when he’s directly talking to her. Not with the way Mycroft subtly shifts towards her when she stops typing, as if to reassure himself that she and her little clicking noises haven’t entirely disappeared. Or the way Mycroft helped her into the car after he was done harassing John. The gesture had been almost courtly, the way he’d leaned over his umbrella almost bow-like, to make sure she made it into the car.
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“Anthea pauses for a moment, her fingers utterly still, hovering like little flying saucers preparing for touchdown over the keys. Her voice, cool, smooth, uninterested-too uninterested, questions, “You got that impression from Mr. Holmes, did you?”
John’s eyebrow quirks up. “Yes.”
Suddenly, Anthea drops the phone that must hold more secrets than a high-class hooker’s little black client book, and scoots forward on her seat. John’s almost rocked backwards from the torrent of words that burst out of her. “My God, I’m so glad! I thought it was just me! Last month I was taking a taxi, on the way to a date, and we hit every red light! I mean, lights turned red right after they’d been green for five seconds! I was stuck in the taxicab for three hours, and I couldn’t get cell service to call him on my Blackberry! And that’s a satellite phone guaranteed by the tech department to always get service! And this is after my last boyfriend relocated to South America!” Her voice lowers, and she leans forward into John, piercing him with her eyes. “I know I’m under surveillance, but I think he’s pulling the feed, maybe even live. Just yesterday, he told me I that pink did not suit me, and the only pink I’ve worn in five years are the horrid pajamas my mother purchased last Christmas! And I would swear just right now, that he was peeking down my blouse when he escorted me to the car.”
John squirmed a little in his seat, a little discomforted by Anthea’s abrupt personality shift.
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John can’t help himself, it just comes out. “Sherlock’s like that too! He’s always crashing my dates, showing up at the clinic, making him fetch him tea, or send off a text. I know he’s fully capable of all these things, but it’s like he can’t stand for my attention to be off him for half a second.”
“I know what you mean! Mycroft forced me into every single one of his lunch meetings this week. Said I was ‘indespensible’ and I ended up doodling a giant mustachioed Prime Minister on the meeting’s schedule. I nearly collapsed of boredom. Afterwards he told me my presence had been instrumental. In what way, I’ll never know, when I could have been covering the riots!”
“Sherlock pulled the same thing on me yesterday. Made me sit for three hours in Lestrade’s office, while he went over case-files looking for connections to Moriarty. I ended up experimenting on how fast the Yard’s shitty coffee would congeal in the bottom of the cup.”
They volley back and forth, the volume of their voices growing as they swap horror stories. John relates the time Sherlock burnt a giant hole in his date jumper, deduced his date until she left insulted, called him for ‘a medical emergency ’ (which turned out to be Sherlock ‘dying of boredom’ while in the middle of the salad course, conducted experiments on the flammability of his date’s hairspray. Anthea talks about called up for late night meetings, being kidnapped on family vacations, having small wars break out on her first dates in years.
By the end of it, they’re both in a lather. Finally, Anthea nearly shouts, as they pull up to Baker Street, “And the worst part is, he’s not even interested! I’m just his little go-to girl, and he’s so possessive of my time that I can’t even touch myself without a without a national crisis springing up!” Her breasts are heaving, and her cheeks are slightly flushed with embarrassment at her latest pronouncement.
For a minute, John just sits there stunned before he too remembers all the aborted wanks, whether by leeches in the shower, or bloody screeching violin music just as he’s getting into things.
They just sit there, eyes locked, when John says, with that calm, unshakable voice that he talks about killing cabbies in, the voice one that commands everyone who hears it to keep calm and trust John. That proclaims that nothing could ever rattle him while he’s this focused. “I think we have the same problem.”
Anthea, calmed by John’s voice, just listens.
“Our Holmeses get jealous of our attention. They monopolize every second of our lives.”
“We can’t take care of our needs,” Anthea pipes in.
And in the back of that little inconspicuous black government car, a plan was formed.
The Holmeses wouldn’t know what hit them.
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(Mycroft says risclo LEGACIES. Yes! You must leave a legacy by finishing this fic!)
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