Re: Fill: Thinking it Through. 2/3grassleFebruary 10 2011, 18:40:25 UTC
Thinking it Through. 2.
Luckily, special agent - and that was special in the espionagy sense of the word, not a modern euphemism for anything - John Watson had kept his army Browning, even if it did sometimes look more like a Sig, and got his usual thrill out of prancing around with it down the back of his waistband. Even if having cold steel so near his arsecrack did make him squirm a bit. Sherlock might not notice.
“What’s wrong?”
John stopped walking oddly and replied, “Just met a friend of yours.”
“A friend?”
“An enemy.”
“Oh. Which one.”
“Your archenemy, according to him. Do people have archenemies?”
“Did he offer you money to spy on me?”
Blimey, did Mr “Oh noes! Someone’s nicked me bowler hat!” do this a lot? Maybe John could go about in disguise and get propositioned again? Make it double or quits?
“Yes.”
“Did you take it?”
Sherlock’s voice had gone quiet and soft, and John was going to hurt him, but…
“Yes. I thought we could split it, pay the rent. But I’ve been thinking it through…”
And John explained his cunning plan. Sherlock snorted a little, but insisted there was no time right now, they had to get back to his even more cunning plan to flush out a serial killer using John’s phone. Ahh!
“He’s your brother?”
“Of course he’s my brother!”
And so John learned the identity of his benefactor/employer and tried to make a double agenty, winky, noddy “See you soon with some juicy info; I’m just stringing Sherlock along for it,” face.
“Here.” Sherlock passed him a yellow roll of antacid tablets. “You look like you need these.”
“Ballroom dancing? Sherlock? Are you sure, Dr Watson?”
“Call me James, please.”
“But isn’t your name John?”
“Well, yes, but I thought I’d…never mind. Yeah, ballroom dancing.”
And John nodded, first playing eeny, meeny miny moe to select his sandwiches, then piling all the little triangular cucumber ones onto his plate. Nice place, these Palm Court tea rooms, although he could have done without that ruddy great fountain in the middle. He knew he’d be needing the loo before too long.
“He’s driving us all batty this week with the chachacha.”
“This week?” Mycroft ran a finger under his collar.
“Umm. He learns a different one every week and needs people to practice with. They’re partner dances, you see. Last week was the quickstep.”
“Really.” It wasn’t a question, but John nodded in affirmation anyway, crossing his legs as the splishy stream of tea being poured into the china cups splashed in harmony with the fountain.
“He’s got me at it with him, and poor Mrs Hudson, and she’s got a hip, you know.”
The second “really” that followed came out a bit grimly, John thought.
“And it’s not just us. He has this gang of street urchins he hangs out with-have you met them?”
Was that tiny jerk of the head a nod? John continued, “So he goes on Mondays for classes - I could follow him and film him if you got me a camera. Here’s some leaflets I picked up at Dixons, if you…anyway, and then he has this long mat with footsteps on it, for him to practice at home, to the music. But he needs partners.”
“I see.”
“He’s pressing the Scotland Yard people to practice with him, as well. I thought you’d want to know that. I did a drawing of him and Sgt Donovan…well, it’s just of her, really, more of an artist’s impression of what I imagine she looks like nude, if you need to see…no?” John put the paper back in his bag and twirled the cake stand round faster and faster, then grabbed up the three petits fours which had whizzed off. He and Harry had devised a huge range of games over the years to ensure fair shares at the table.
“Look, I’ve got a petit twelve. Ha. Anyway, next week’s the bolero, so you can imagine we’re all a bit on edge, what with the costumes and everything.”
“Indeed. And is there any reason for this most uncharacteristic, not to mention unseemly behaviour?”
John nodded again and piled a tower of scones in front of him.
“Strictly Come Dancing. Do you watch it? Cor blimey, Ann Widdecombe, eh? Yeah, there’s been nobbling, apparently. Fixing, you know.” John squashed slices of chocolate cake into a plastic box.
Fill: Thinking it Through. 3/3grassleFebruary 10 2011, 18:43:58 UTC
Thinking it Through. 3.
“And?”
“Well, the Met’s investigating, but on the DL, the down low, so the public doesn’t become alarmed.”
“AND?”
“Sherlock’s going in undercover as a dance teacher. Should have said that earlier, I see that now, yeah. We had that Louie Spence round yesterday, giving him what for. Crikey, they worked up a sweat. There’ll be at it again tomorrow as well. I could have a bash at bugging the living room, if you…no?” He prattled on at some length.
Mycroft’s assistant sidled up as John left.
“Shall I have him followed, sir?” she asked.
“Do what you want,” replied Mycroft, weakly. “I need a drink.”
(One month later.) “Knitting. As in old ladies, tea cosies, lumpy scarves and itchy sweaters? Are you trying to tell me Sherlock is merely spending more time with his landlady, Mrs…Hudson, isn’t it?”
“No! It’s not like that these days! Knitting is urban, edgy and radical. But you should see him, all hunched over, trying to decide between bamboo or plastic, two needles or a circular one, double pointed needles or magic loop, casting on with needles or thumb… You wouldn’t believe it.”
“No,” replied Mycroft suavely. “I dare say I wouldn’t. More wine?”
“Just a splash. Bit splashier. Yeah, that’s it.”
And John knocked back more of the Chateau Petrus he’d selected seemingly at random from the wine list.
“Nice place this.” John tucked into his steak as he glanced around the restaurant he’d suggested they meet in as it was close to his work. Well, his practice wasn’t that far from Notting Hill. Not in a chauffeur-driven car. “Number 1 in the Zagat guide.”
“So, knitting, you said?” prompted Mycroft, after John had ordered another helping of the steak to go.
“Oh, yeah. For the 2012 Olympics.”
“I wasn’t aware that knitting was now an Olympic sport.”
“It isn’t. Is it? No, I mean because of the terrorist threat. You probably wouldn’t have heard of it, but Sherlock’s privy to all sorts of inside information, and…are you feeling all right? Have some wine.”
Mycroft inclined his head and raised an eyebrow, and after whipping around to see who he was looking at, John took it to mean he should continue.
“That knitting group that was in the news, the one who got thrown out of Claridge’s for the clicking noise of their needles, well, a splinter cell formed. Really radical and hard line.”
“I see.”
“And they started covering patriarchal monuments in their knitting. It’s all been suppressed, there’s hardly anything about it in the news, but their aim is to humanise, or womanise, the male urban environment. Insert handmade art into the manmade landscapes. Give a feminine energy to soulless concrete and steel.”
“Interesting.”
“Umm. I’ve got some pictures, off the Internet. Printed them in the library - the receipt’s in the folder, if you could… Well, anyway, they’re protesting against the 2012 Olympics, the carrying of the torch. They say the torch is too phallic, not vulvic enough. They’ve threatened to cover the Olympic Park in knitting.”
John finished his narrative and selected a crème caramel, and a chocolate crèmeux to go.
“And so Sherlock…”
“Is infiltrating the group, yeah. So his disguise has to be good. So for days it’s been increase this, decrease that, yarn back, yarn forwards, slip one, pass the slip stitch over… The trouble he’s had with intarsia. Still, it’s not all bad. I expect you’ll be getting a handknitted jumper for Christmas. I know I will. Coffee?”
Once alone, when John had left loaded down with swag, Mycroft looked around for his PA.
Fill: Thinking it Through. EpiloguegrassleFebruary 10 2011, 18:46:10 UTC
EPILOGUE
(One more month later.) “Llamas, you say, Dr Watson?” Mycroft sagged against the doorframe of his town house a little and stared at John and the ugly-looking animal he had with him.
“It’s a bit complicated, this one. Might take a while to explain. I’d best come in. Can I bring Xavier in with me?”
When he’d finally gone, after watching the match on Mycroft’s huge plasma TV and drinking all his beer and leaving the llama behind, Mycroft had a little lie down with a cold flannel on his face. His assistant came quietly into the room, skirting around the snorting Xavier.
“Sir, when are you going to tell him you’ve known all along he’s making all this up?”
“Not for a while,” answered Mycroft. “I’m fascinated to see what he can possibly come up with next. I mean, Sherlock in Peru because of llama smuggling for an underground llama fighting ring, and the current champion needing round-the-clock protection against jealous rivals? How can he possibly top that?”
John was googling “civilian space travel + drag queens” as the car took him home.
Re: Fill: Thinking it Through. EpilogueuptothewordsFebruary 11 2011, 02:00:25 UTC
Epically hilarious.
This is my favorite part: as the ringtone of his sister Harry’s old phone, now his, was the Spice Girls singing ‘Wannabe’, and John had no idea how to change it. Most times, he was lucky if he remember how to answer it before it got to “really really really wanna zigazig.” He doubted Mr “Why, yes, I am wearing sock garters!” would join in on the “Ahh!” ROFLMAO!
Also hysterical: “And it’s not just us. He has this gang of street urchins he hangs out with-have you met them?”
well, it’s just of her, really, more of an artist’s impression of what I imagine she looks like nude, if you need to see…no?”
“Do what you want,” replied Mycroft, weakly. “I need a drink.”
John was googling “civilian space travel + drag queens” as the car took him home.
Re: Fill: Thinking it Through. EpiloguegrassleFebruary 11 2011, 07:31:53 UTC
Oh, thanks, guys! And you know John would be like that his phone (remember the chip and PIN machine). It is in no way based on me being unable to change the Banana Splits ringtone on my second-hand phone. La la la la la la la.
Martinius, I am thinking about your prompt but can't get an angle on it, so if you have any further ideas, for it please tell me!
(Just wondering if as a librarian, uptothewords had to turn away from all the book and library abuse in TBB!)
Re: Fill: Thinking it Through. EpiloguegrassleFebruary 12 2011, 17:52:34 UTC
I just had to explain the underground llama fighting ring to my husband, who I WOKE UP WITH MY LAUGHING.*
Each scenario is funnier than the last. I love John's insistence on meeting in expensive restaurants - and the tea-room fountain! - and obviously Mycroft is trying desperately not to laugh, because this is the best entertainment he's had in years... John's impressions of Mycroft's wardrobe killed me.
*My husband is now telling me an elaborate plot bunny in which all the sidekick/helper/butler/whatever figures meet up and complain about their other halves. Every few minutes, he announces another one. Dobby the house elf is now in it. Also, John and Ianto have sex. This is YOUR FAULT.
Re: Fill: Thinking it Through. EpiloguegrassleFebruary 12 2011, 19:20:26 UTC
Oh, thanks! I had more scenes, but they got very silly, more or less just one-line gags ("Trying to find Atlantis? Sherlock?" (And John with an invoice for SCUBA gear) "He's living in The Village as Number One?" (And here John's on a penny farthing)) and I was pressed for time.
Your husband is obviously a genius, and you have to write the story of the annual Sidekicks' Ball.
Can I request Wimsey's Bunter and Campion's Lugg trying to out-Cockney one another, Raffles's Bunny and Poirot's Hasting out-camping one another without even trying, and Morse's Lewis getting blind drunk and leading all the other TV detectives' sidekicks in a singalong. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? (And obviously scorching-hot John and Ianto sex. Goes without saying.)
On a final note: cuidado, llamas! (Yes, Python nerd!)
Luckily, special agent - and that was special in the espionagy sense of the word, not a modern euphemism for anything - John Watson had kept his army Browning, even if it did sometimes look more like a Sig, and got his usual thrill out of prancing around with it down the back of his waistband. Even if having cold steel so near his arsecrack did make him squirm a bit. Sherlock might not notice.
“What’s wrong?”
John stopped walking oddly and replied, “Just met a friend of yours.”
“A friend?”
“An enemy.”
“Oh. Which one.”
“Your archenemy, according to him. Do people have archenemies?”
“Did he offer you money to spy on me?”
Blimey, did Mr “Oh noes! Someone’s nicked me bowler hat!” do this a lot? Maybe John could go about in disguise and get propositioned again? Make it double or quits?
“Yes.”
“Did you take it?”
Sherlock’s voice had gone quiet and soft, and John was going to hurt him, but…
“Yes. I thought we could split it, pay the rent. But I’ve been thinking it through…”
And John explained his cunning plan. Sherlock snorted a little, but insisted there was no time right now, they had to get back to his even more cunning plan to flush out a serial killer using John’s phone. Ahh!
“He’s your brother?”
“Of course he’s my brother!”
And so John learned the identity of his benefactor/employer and tried to make a double agenty, winky, noddy “See you soon with some juicy info; I’m just stringing Sherlock along for it,” face.
“Here.” Sherlock passed him a yellow roll of antacid tablets. “You look like you need these.”
“Ballroom dancing? Sherlock? Are you sure, Dr Watson?”
“Call me James, please.”
“But isn’t your name John?”
“Well, yes, but I thought I’d…never mind. Yeah, ballroom dancing.”
And John nodded, first playing eeny, meeny miny moe to select his sandwiches, then piling all the little triangular cucumber ones onto his plate. Nice place, these Palm Court tea rooms, although he could have done without that ruddy great fountain in the middle. He knew he’d be needing the loo before too long.
“He’s driving us all batty this week with the chachacha.”
“This week?” Mycroft ran a finger under his collar.
“Umm. He learns a different one every week and needs people to practice with. They’re partner dances, you see. Last week was the quickstep.”
“Really.” It wasn’t a question, but John nodded in affirmation anyway, crossing his legs as the splishy stream of tea being poured into the china cups splashed in harmony with the fountain.
“He’s got me at it with him, and poor Mrs Hudson, and she’s got a hip, you know.”
The second “really” that followed came out a bit grimly, John thought.
“And it’s not just us. He has this gang of street urchins he hangs out with-have you met them?”
Was that tiny jerk of the head a nod? John continued, “So he goes on Mondays for classes - I could follow him and film him if you got me a camera. Here’s some leaflets I picked up at Dixons, if you…anyway, and then he has this long mat with footsteps on it, for him to practice at home, to the music. But he needs partners.”
“I see.”
“He’s pressing the Scotland Yard people to practice with him, as well. I thought you’d want to know that. I did a drawing of him and Sgt Donovan…well, it’s just of her, really, more of an artist’s impression of what I imagine she looks like nude, if you need to see…no?” John put the paper back in his bag and twirled the cake stand round faster and faster, then grabbed up the three petits fours which had whizzed off. He and Harry had devised a huge range of games over the years to ensure fair shares at the table.
“Look, I’ve got a petit twelve. Ha. Anyway, next week’s the bolero, so you can imagine we’re all a bit on edge, what with the costumes and everything.”
“Indeed. And is there any reason for this most uncharacteristic, not to mention unseemly behaviour?”
John nodded again and piled a tower of scones in front of him.
“Strictly Come Dancing. Do you watch it? Cor blimey, Ann Widdecombe, eh? Yeah, there’s been nobbling, apparently. Fixing, you know.” John squashed slices of chocolate cake into a plastic box.
Reply
“And?”
“Well, the Met’s investigating, but on the DL, the down low, so the public doesn’t become alarmed.”
“AND?”
“Sherlock’s going in undercover as a dance teacher. Should have said that earlier, I see that now, yeah. We had that Louie Spence round yesterday, giving him what for. Crikey, they worked up a sweat. There’ll be at it again tomorrow as well. I could have a bash at bugging the living room, if you…no?” He prattled on at some length.
Mycroft’s assistant sidled up as John left.
“Shall I have him followed, sir?” she asked.
“Do what you want,” replied Mycroft, weakly. “I need a drink.”
(One month later.)
“Knitting. As in old ladies, tea cosies, lumpy scarves and itchy sweaters? Are you trying to tell me Sherlock is merely spending more time with his landlady, Mrs…Hudson, isn’t it?”
“No! It’s not like that these days! Knitting is urban, edgy and radical. But you should see him, all hunched over, trying to decide between bamboo or plastic, two needles or a circular one, double pointed needles or magic loop, casting on with needles or thumb… You wouldn’t believe it.”
“No,” replied Mycroft suavely. “I dare say I wouldn’t. More wine?”
“Just a splash. Bit splashier. Yeah, that’s it.”
And John knocked back more of the Chateau Petrus he’d selected seemingly at random from the wine list.
“Nice place this.” John tucked into his steak as he glanced around the restaurant he’d suggested they meet in as it was close to his work. Well, his practice wasn’t that far from Notting Hill. Not in a chauffeur-driven car. “Number 1 in the Zagat guide.”
“So, knitting, you said?” prompted Mycroft, after John had ordered another helping of the steak to go.
“Oh, yeah. For the 2012 Olympics.”
“I wasn’t aware that knitting was now an Olympic sport.”
“It isn’t. Is it? No, I mean because of the terrorist threat. You probably wouldn’t have heard of it, but Sherlock’s privy to all sorts of inside information, and…are you feeling all right? Have some wine.”
Mycroft inclined his head and raised an eyebrow, and after whipping around to see who he was looking at, John took it to mean he should continue.
“That knitting group that was in the news, the one who got thrown out of Claridge’s for the clicking noise of their needles, well, a splinter cell formed. Really radical and hard line.”
“I see.”
“And they started covering patriarchal monuments in their knitting. It’s all been suppressed, there’s hardly anything about it in the news, but their aim is to humanise, or womanise, the male urban environment. Insert handmade art into the manmade landscapes. Give a feminine energy to soulless concrete and steel.”
“Interesting.”
“Umm. I’ve got some pictures, off the Internet. Printed them in the library - the receipt’s in the folder, if you could… Well, anyway, they’re protesting against the 2012 Olympics, the carrying of the torch. They say the torch is too phallic, not vulvic enough. They’ve threatened to cover the Olympic Park in knitting.”
John finished his narrative and selected a crème caramel, and a chocolate crèmeux to go.
“And so Sherlock…”
“Is infiltrating the group, yeah. So his disguise has to be good. So for days it’s been increase this, decrease that, yarn back, yarn forwards, slip one, pass the slip stitch over… The trouble he’s had with intarsia. Still, it’s not all bad. I expect you’ll be getting a handknitted jumper for Christmas. I know I will. Coffee?”
Once alone, when John had left loaded down with swag, Mycroft looked around for his PA.
“Sir, I’m armed. I can easily…”
“Good God, no. At least, not quite yet.”
Reply
(One more month later.)
“Llamas, you say, Dr Watson?” Mycroft sagged against the doorframe of his town house a little and stared at John and the ugly-looking animal he had with him.
“It’s a bit complicated, this one. Might take a while to explain. I’d best come in. Can I bring Xavier in with me?”
When he’d finally gone, after watching the match on Mycroft’s huge plasma TV and drinking all his beer and leaving the llama behind, Mycroft had a little lie down with a cold flannel on his face. His assistant came quietly into the room, skirting around the snorting Xavier.
“Sir, when are you going to tell him you’ve known all along he’s making all this up?”
“Not for a while,” answered Mycroft. “I’m fascinated to see what he can possibly come up with next. I mean, Sherlock in Peru because of llama smuggling for an underground llama fighting ring, and the current champion needing round-the-clock protection against jealous rivals? How can he possibly top that?”
John was googling “civilian space travel + drag queens” as the car took him home.
Reply
Also, Holmes sisters prompt here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6375.html?thread=28090343#t28090343
Reply
This is my favorite part:
as the ringtone of his sister Harry’s old phone, now his, was the Spice Girls singing ‘Wannabe’, and John had no idea how to change it. Most times, he was lucky if he remember how to answer it before it got to “really really really wanna zigazig.” He doubted Mr “Why, yes, I am wearing sock garters!” would join in on the “Ahh!”
ROFLMAO!
Also hysterical:
“And it’s not just us. He has this gang of street urchins he hangs out with-have you met them?”
well, it’s just of her, really, more of an artist’s impression of what I imagine she looks like nude, if you need to see…no?”
“Do what you want,” replied Mycroft, weakly. “I need a drink.”
John was googling “civilian space travel + drag queens” as the car took him home.
Your John is totes adorable here.
Reply
And you know John would be like that his phone (remember the chip and PIN machine). It is in no way based on me being unable to change the Banana Splits ringtone on my second-hand phone. La la la la la la la.
Martinius, I am thinking about your prompt but can't get an angle on it, so if you have any further ideas, for it please tell me!
(Just wondering if as a librarian, uptothewords had to turn away from all the book and library abuse in TBB!)
Just remembered that John is sweet in this one too, where he and Sherlock are on the run from rabid fangirls, and Mycroft sticks his brolly in as usual:
http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4076.html?thread=10701292#t10701292
Reply
Each scenario is funnier than the last. I love John's insistence on meeting in expensive restaurants - and the tea-room fountain! - and obviously Mycroft is trying desperately not to laugh, because this is the best entertainment he's had in years... John's impressions of Mycroft's wardrobe killed me.
*My husband is now telling me an elaborate plot bunny in which all the sidekick/helper/butler/whatever figures meet up and complain about their other halves. Every few minutes, he announces another one. Dobby the house elf is now in it. Also, John and Ianto have sex. This is YOUR FAULT.
Reply
Your husband is obviously a genius, and you have to write the story of the annual Sidekicks' Ball.
Can I request Wimsey's Bunter and Campion's Lugg trying to out-Cockney one another, Raffles's Bunny and Poirot's Hasting out-camping one another without even trying, and Morse's Lewis getting blind drunk and leading all the other TV detectives' sidekicks in a singalong. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? (And obviously scorching-hot John and Ianto sex. Goes without saying.)
On a final note: cuidado, llamas! (Yes, Python nerd!)
Reply
Reply
Reply
Thanks for filling, made me laugh!
Reply
Reply
(The comment has been removed)
http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=1030975#t1030975
she pimped as shamelessly as Mrs Bennett ripping the ficu from Jane when Netherfield was let?
Reply
(The comment has been removed)
Here's an even crackier one about BBC Sherlock fangirls, in case you haven't seen it
http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4076.html?thread=10701292#t10701292
Reply
Leave a comment