Fic: Mister Undercover
Title: Mister Undercover
Rating: G
Characters: Ensemble
Words: 756
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Summary: „Never, Sherlock, never! I am not going to be your undercover agent at ‘Britain’s Next Top Model’!”
Author’s notes: Originally written for thegameison_sh challenge prompt "undercover" and slightly edited. Comments and criticism are always very welcome! Enjoy! :)
„Never, Sherlock, never!“ Mycroft was furious and caught off-guard, both things that rarely happened alone and even less often simultaneously. “I am not going to be your undercover agent at ‘Britain’s Next Top Model’!”
They had gathered at Detective Inspector Lestrade’s office after some madman (and possible serial killer to be) had invaded a show of the London fashion week on the last weekend, killed a model and promised to strike again on the famous TV show.
“You know, I can’t go myself, Mycroft. Look at me!” Sherlock exclaimed theatrically. They all turned their attention to him, especially to his colourful black eye; Mycroft with worried concern, Lestrade with a carefully blank expression and John trying to suppress laughter. But before anyone could say anything, Sherlock continued, trying to sound reasonable. “Besides, we don’t know if the killer saw me at that fashion show.”
“What were you doing at a fashion show, anyway?”
“Sarah wanted to go”, John explained with a small smile. “Which excludes us two as well.”
Mycroft looked around the room and focused on Lestrade who shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable, avoiding Mycroft’s eyes. “I was there, too, reinforcing the security. It was a rather big event.”
Lestrade thought for a moment before he added dutifully: “Sergeant Donovan and Anderson were working as well.”
“Fine”, snapped Mycroft, not yet out of his wits. “What about that girlfriend of yours from the morgue, then, Sherlock?”
Sherlock snorted. “Molly? You know very well she isn’t anybody’s girlfriend and she - …”
“It’s too dangerous for her with a serial killer running around freely”, intervened John quickly.
In fact, Molly had volunteered when she had somehow got wind of it.
“I could be your undercover model like Sandra Bullock in that movie”, she had suggested very excitedly. Sherlock had obviously had no clue what she had been talking about which had made her and John exchange an amused look. The irritation at his ignorance of mundane things being exposed in front of Molly had prompted Sherlock to lecture her that nobody would ever mistake her for a model, even if she got rid of that ridiculous wardrobe of hers. At which point Molly had started to cry and then the whole affair had got ugly and various things had been thrown at Sherlock.
Later when they had been walking home John had lectured him: “You could have just told her we didn’t need anyone anymore”, far more cheerfully than Sherlock, who had been pressing a cold pad against his eye, had found appropriate.
“You won’t have to be a model, of course”, Sherlock offered Mycroft generously now. “We thought of something like the girls’ personal beauty coordinator, caring about their beauty sleep, carrying their makeup and things like that. Thus, you could always be around them and hopefully catch the murderer in time.”
Mycroft’s face brightened. “What about Anthea? She is a personal assistant, so she would be much more convincing, wouldn’t she?”
Anthea shot him a deadly look.
“Impossible. She was a model at the London fashion week, so the killer has doubtlessly seen her.”
If looks could kill, Sherlock would be the second dead person in this room. Mycroft raised his eyebrows in surprise, then his face fell again. “I do so loathe legwork.”
Later, at 221b Baker Street.
“Don’t you think you overdid it a bit, Sherlock, claiming that Anthea was a model last week?”
“She was a model last week. Didn’t you see her? Presented some new swimsuit collection, I remember.”
“That was Anthea?” John almost choked on his tea. Luckily, he was spared from an answer by Mrs. Hudson who burst into their flat excitedly.
“Sherlock, dear, is your brother going to be in the new season of Top Model? Mrs. Jones from the knitting circle lives next door to one of the producers and she happened to overhear a phone call earlier this evening. Mycroft hasn’t decided to become a model, now, has he?”
“No. Obviously, he is going undercover to investigate a serial killer who is after models.”
“But didn’t you already catch that horrible murderer last week which made you so happy you had to blow up the microwave?”
“Mycroft doesn’t know that. We kept everything top secret.” Sherlock grinned happily, like a child in front of the Christmas tree, trying to guess his presents. Or - more likely in Sherlock’s case - already knowing all of his presents and waiting impatiently to finally open them.
“Well, dear, let’s hope he doesn’t find out before the season finale, then.”
Rating: G
Characters: Ensemble
Words: 756
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Summary: „Never, Sherlock, never! I am not going to be your undercover agent at ‘Britain’s Next Top Model’!”
Author’s notes: Originally written for thegameison_sh challenge prompt "undercover" and slightly edited. Comments and criticism are always very welcome! Enjoy! :)
„Never, Sherlock, never!“ Mycroft was furious and caught off-guard, both things that rarely happened alone and even less often simultaneously. “I am not going to be your undercover agent at ‘Britain’s Next Top Model’!”
They had gathered at Detective Inspector Lestrade’s office after some madman (and possible serial killer to be) had invaded a show of the London fashion week on the last weekend, killed a model and promised to strike again on the famous TV show.
“You know, I can’t go myself, Mycroft. Look at me!” Sherlock exclaimed theatrically. They all turned their attention to him, especially to his colourful black eye; Mycroft with worried concern, Lestrade with a carefully blank expression and John trying to suppress laughter. But before anyone could say anything, Sherlock continued, trying to sound reasonable. “Besides, we don’t know if the killer saw me at that fashion show.”
“What were you doing at a fashion show, anyway?”
“Sarah wanted to go”, John explained with a small smile. “Which excludes us two as well.”
Mycroft looked around the room and focused on Lestrade who shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable, avoiding Mycroft’s eyes. “I was there, too, reinforcing the security. It was a rather big event.”
Lestrade thought for a moment before he added dutifully: “Sergeant Donovan and Anderson were working as well.”
“Fine”, snapped Mycroft, not yet out of his wits. “What about that girlfriend of yours from the morgue, then, Sherlock?”
Sherlock snorted. “Molly? You know very well she isn’t anybody’s girlfriend and she - …”
“It’s too dangerous for her with a serial killer running around freely”, intervened John quickly.
In fact, Molly had volunteered when she had somehow got wind of it.
“I could be your undercover model like Sandra Bullock in that movie”, she had suggested very excitedly. Sherlock had obviously had no clue what she had been talking about which had made her and John exchange an amused look. The irritation at his ignorance of mundane things being exposed in front of Molly had prompted Sherlock to lecture her that nobody would ever mistake her for a model, even if she got rid of that ridiculous wardrobe of hers. At which point Molly had started to cry and then the whole affair had got ugly and various things had been thrown at Sherlock.
Later when they had been walking home John had lectured him: “You could have just told her we didn’t need anyone anymore”, far more cheerfully than Sherlock, who had been pressing a cold pad against his eye, had found appropriate.
“You won’t have to be a model, of course”, Sherlock offered Mycroft generously now. “We thought of something like the girls’ personal beauty coordinator, caring about their beauty sleep, carrying their makeup and things like that. Thus, you could always be around them and hopefully catch the murderer in time.”
Mycroft’s face brightened. “What about Anthea? She is a personal assistant, so she would be much more convincing, wouldn’t she?”
Anthea shot him a deadly look.
“Impossible. She was a model at the London fashion week, so the killer has doubtlessly seen her.”
If looks could kill, Sherlock would be the second dead person in this room. Mycroft raised his eyebrows in surprise, then his face fell again. “I do so loathe legwork.”
Later, at 221b Baker Street.
“Don’t you think you overdid it a bit, Sherlock, claiming that Anthea was a model last week?”
“She was a model last week. Didn’t you see her? Presented some new swimsuit collection, I remember.”
“That was Anthea?” John almost choked on his tea. Luckily, he was spared from an answer by Mrs. Hudson who burst into their flat excitedly.
“Sherlock, dear, is your brother going to be in the new season of Top Model? Mrs. Jones from the knitting circle lives next door to one of the producers and she happened to overhear a phone call earlier this evening. Mycroft hasn’t decided to become a model, now, has he?”
“No. Obviously, he is going undercover to investigate a serial killer who is after models.”
“But didn’t you already catch that horrible murderer last week which made you so happy you had to blow up the microwave?”
“Mycroft doesn’t know that. We kept everything top secret.” Sherlock grinned happily, like a child in front of the Christmas tree, trying to guess his presents. Or - more likely in Sherlock’s case - already knowing all of his presents and waiting impatiently to finally open them.
“Well, dear, let’s hope he doesn’t find out before the season finale, then.”