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I'm writing a Sherlock fic that can be easily summed up with an equation.
Sherlock + Magic = a depressed John (lol no figure) who meets an extraordinary non-magical Sherlock (whaaaaat) and they solve magical crimes together.
...Not much changes, really, when you add the fact that elementals and magical symbols and talking trees exist.
Also, London has become a mix of San Francisco and one of those places in Discworld where grass doesn't grow and owls become two-headed.
If any specific city has a tenacity for breeding people willing to accept consequences, it is London. After all, Londoners know the importance of history. It is not uncommon for it to be discussed at least a few times by every person who needs to wander out into its streets, generally in the form of "God damn all wizards and their fucking weather machines. Thanks to them, I have to slog to my weekly session through three feet of slush in high winds while the sun beats down on me like a timpani player, beaming like this whole thing was its brilliant idea."
Well, not all of these bright and eye-opening discussions use exactly those words, though they come close. And usually not that weather pattern, either, since it varies wildly from hour to hour. And definitely not those specific weekly sessions; those are the specific sessions of a certain Doctor John Watson, recently returned home from war in Afghanistan. To be honest, his bloody psychosomatic limp is not helping. It acts up in the cold. John knows it because London is heading towards spring this week, which means cold showers and snow unexpectedly about every ten minutes followed by a moment of hail and an overture of cheery sun. Next week is predicted to be desert heat with sporadic bursts of fall breeze, so that's something at least.
Let's just say that Mycroft is not the only person to bring an umbrella everywhere they go, either.
Sherlock + Magic = a depressed John (lol no figure) who meets an extraordinary non-magical Sherlock (whaaaaat) and they solve magical crimes together.
...Not much changes, really, when you add the fact that elementals and magical symbols and talking trees exist.
Also, London has become a mix of San Francisco and one of those places in Discworld where grass doesn't grow and owls become two-headed.
If any specific city has a tenacity for breeding people willing to accept consequences, it is London. After all, Londoners know the importance of history. It is not uncommon for it to be discussed at least a few times by every person who needs to wander out into its streets, generally in the form of "God damn all wizards and their fucking weather machines. Thanks to them, I have to slog to my weekly session through three feet of slush in high winds while the sun beats down on me like a timpani player, beaming like this whole thing was its brilliant idea."
Well, not all of these bright and eye-opening discussions use exactly those words, though they come close. And usually not that weather pattern, either, since it varies wildly from hour to hour. And definitely not those specific weekly sessions; those are the specific sessions of a certain Doctor John Watson, recently returned home from war in Afghanistan. To be honest, his bloody psychosomatic limp is not helping. It acts up in the cold. John knows it because London is heading towards spring this week, which means cold showers and snow unexpectedly about every ten minutes followed by a moment of hail and an overture of cheery sun. Next week is predicted to be desert heat with sporadic bursts of fall breeze, so that's something at least.
Let's just say that Mycroft is not the only person to bring an umbrella everywhere they go, either.