The Address is 221B Baker Street - May
“The new newsletter is out.”
Annoyed at the interruption, Sherlock didn’t even try to keep the tetchiness from his voice. “What are you on about?”
“Grandmother just sent out this month’s Production newsletter, you prat. Do you think I’d be telling you I just got an inside line on Top Gear’s latest news?”
Mention of the Production immediately chased away his irritation. “What does it say?” He got up to read over John’s shoulder.
“We’re supposed to know our lines by now.”
Sherlock snorted in derision. “What else? Anything helpful?”
“What exactly would be helpful aside from my suddenly being possessed by the spirit of Laurence Olivier?”
“Olivier never played Benedick.”
“This, you retained.”
“Knowledge is power where the Production is concerned. He would, of course, be capable of playing the part, so you’re right that it would probably be helpful.”
“Hm. He’d probably be a bit of a hindrance during a foot chase, though. Swotty actor whinging on about the physical exertion.”
“Yes, if you’re going to go down the possession path, do choose someone useful in a fight.”
“They’ve all been taught to swing a sword round uselessly; nothing you can do once that’s in their heads.”
“Perhaps you’d best not, then.”
“Mm. Grandmother wants an update from us. I’ll let her know we’ve decided against possession, shall I?”
“Do.”
“There’s a sketch of the set design.”
“Hm…” Sherlock leaned further over John’s shoulder in order to study the scan of the sketch. “That’s good, I’ll take it into account when we rehearse.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
“Hm.”
“What?”
“Erm, Don Pedro has been recast.”
“And?”
“I think you’ll find, Brother dear, that I have been assigned the role.”
Sherlock froze. Surely, he thought, Grandmother wouldn’t have done this to him. Grimly, he corrected himself. In Grandmother’s eyes all was fair in love and the Production. “What, you couldn’t convince her you’d make a most exquisite Claudio?” he sneered without turning to his brother.
“Why on earth would I want to take on the role of that idiot child?”
“Oh I don’t know, Mycroft, perhaps to keep your lady love from kissing some other clot.”
“My - lady love - as you so charmingly name her, is free to kiss any clot she pleases.” He paused. “At least, in the service of the Production.”
“And I suppose you expect me to fall into line as Don John?”
“Well,” purred Mycroft, “while that would certainly be appropriate casting, as you are already filling a role and presumably know at least some of your lines, it would be counterproductive to reassign you at this point.”
Sherlock bristled. “I know all of my lines, Mycroft.”
“Do you now?”
And… they were off, John thought. Grandmother possibly had no idea she had just set off the Apocalypse. In an attempt to ward off the inevitable, he blurted out, “What is her name, by the way? Your - lady love?”
Mycroft turned to John and smirked that Mycroftian smirk of his. “What makes you think she has just one?”
“Well, most people do.”
“She is very definitely not ‘most people’.” He bristled as if John had labelled her some sort of barnyard animal.
“All right, all right, calm down Signior Mountanto.”
Sherlock’s head whipped around, his smile that of a proud parent. “John,” he exclaimed, “that was perfectly done. Bravo!”
“Well we are living and breathing Shakespeare this year. Some of it’s bound to creep into our daily snark.”
“How delightful,” drawled Mycroft, “the Holmes family has managed to elevate Dr Watson’s insults to the level of the Bard himself.”
“Next thing you know I’ll be biting my thumb at you, and then you’ll truly understand how much I dislike your kidnapping me off to abandoned warehouses.”
“Oh, very good, you’re even branching out into other plays; I might in turn suggest thou art like a toad; ugly and venomous,” he said mildly.
John glanced to Sherlock, hoping his partner realized he had already exhausted his store of knowledge in this area.
It seemed he did, because he had already struck up his ‘about to lay into Mycroft’ pose; fingers steepled and eyes alight. And I,” he drawled, “would respond, Brother dear, that you are both strangely troublesome and a tedious fool.”
Mycroft sniffed and brushed absently at his impeccable coat sleeve. “Your abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone, little brother.”
“Me think’st thou art a general offence and every man should beat thee,” came the response, a touch of heat surfacing in his tone.
John raised an eyebrow and turned back to his keyboard.
“At times, Sherlock, thou hast the most unsavoury similes, which leads me to think your brain is as dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage.”
“Thou sodden-witted lord! Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.”
John couldn’t help grinning because that had been particularly well-aimed. He scrolled through the insults the internet was so cheerfully providing.
“Take you me for a sponge?” queried Mycroft witheringly.
“Thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou whoreson obscene greasy tallow-catch!” spat Sherlock.
Suddenly John chipped in, “You rampallian! You fustilarian! I’ll tickle your catastrophe!”
The brothers turned and cast upon him twin looks of disbelief. John shrugged. “If you can point to it I’ll have a look at it in a strictly medical capacity then decide whether or not it should be tickled; but, you know, to paraphrase.”
Mycroft, having belatedly remembered he had come for a reason other than the flinging of Shakespearean insults, cut in to put an end to the nonsense. “A matter has come to my attention which may be of some slight interest to you in a professional capacity rather than in the Shakespearean line.”
Sherlock glared at him out of habit. “Is it boring? The last time you came it was boring and I had it solved before we’d finished tea.”
“I assure you it is not boring.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. “Thou art as fat as butter.”
“This is the file.”
Annoyed at the interruption, Sherlock didn’t even try to keep the tetchiness from his voice. “What are you on about?”
“Grandmother just sent out this month’s Production newsletter, you prat. Do you think I’d be telling you I just got an inside line on Top Gear’s latest news?”
Mention of the Production immediately chased away his irritation. “What does it say?” He got up to read over John’s shoulder.
“We’re supposed to know our lines by now.”
Sherlock snorted in derision. “What else? Anything helpful?”
“What exactly would be helpful aside from my suddenly being possessed by the spirit of Laurence Olivier?”
“Olivier never played Benedick.”
“This, you retained.”
“Knowledge is power where the Production is concerned. He would, of course, be capable of playing the part, so you’re right that it would probably be helpful.”
“Hm. He’d probably be a bit of a hindrance during a foot chase, though. Swotty actor whinging on about the physical exertion.”
“Yes, if you’re going to go down the possession path, do choose someone useful in a fight.”
“They’ve all been taught to swing a sword round uselessly; nothing you can do once that’s in their heads.”
“Perhaps you’d best not, then.”
“Mm. Grandmother wants an update from us. I’ll let her know we’ve decided against possession, shall I?”
“Do.”
“There’s a sketch of the set design.”
“Hm…” Sherlock leaned further over John’s shoulder in order to study the scan of the sketch. “That’s good, I’ll take it into account when we rehearse.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
“Hm.”
“What?”
“Erm, Don Pedro has been recast.”
“And?”
“I think you’ll find, Brother dear, that I have been assigned the role.”
Sherlock froze. Surely, he thought, Grandmother wouldn’t have done this to him. Grimly, he corrected himself. In Grandmother’s eyes all was fair in love and the Production. “What, you couldn’t convince her you’d make a most exquisite Claudio?” he sneered without turning to his brother.
“Why on earth would I want to take on the role of that idiot child?”
“Oh I don’t know, Mycroft, perhaps to keep your lady love from kissing some other clot.”
“My - lady love - as you so charmingly name her, is free to kiss any clot she pleases.” He paused. “At least, in the service of the Production.”
“And I suppose you expect me to fall into line as Don John?”
“Well,” purred Mycroft, “while that would certainly be appropriate casting, as you are already filling a role and presumably know at least some of your lines, it would be counterproductive to reassign you at this point.”
Sherlock bristled. “I know all of my lines, Mycroft.”
“Do you now?”
And… they were off, John thought. Grandmother possibly had no idea she had just set off the Apocalypse. In an attempt to ward off the inevitable, he blurted out, “What is her name, by the way? Your - lady love?”
Mycroft turned to John and smirked that Mycroftian smirk of his. “What makes you think she has just one?”
“Well, most people do.”
“She is very definitely not ‘most people’.” He bristled as if John had labelled her some sort of barnyard animal.
“All right, all right, calm down Signior Mountanto.”
Sherlock’s head whipped around, his smile that of a proud parent. “John,” he exclaimed, “that was perfectly done. Bravo!”
“Well we are living and breathing Shakespeare this year. Some of it’s bound to creep into our daily snark.”
“How delightful,” drawled Mycroft, “the Holmes family has managed to elevate Dr Watson’s insults to the level of the Bard himself.”
“Next thing you know I’ll be biting my thumb at you, and then you’ll truly understand how much I dislike your kidnapping me off to abandoned warehouses.”
“Oh, very good, you’re even branching out into other plays; I might in turn suggest thou art like a toad; ugly and venomous,” he said mildly.
John glanced to Sherlock, hoping his partner realized he had already exhausted his store of knowledge in this area.
It seemed he did, because he had already struck up his ‘about to lay into Mycroft’ pose; fingers steepled and eyes alight. And I,” he drawled, “would respond, Brother dear, that you are both strangely troublesome and a tedious fool.”
Mycroft sniffed and brushed absently at his impeccable coat sleeve. “Your abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone, little brother.”
“Me think’st thou art a general offence and every man should beat thee,” came the response, a touch of heat surfacing in his tone.
John raised an eyebrow and turned back to his keyboard.
“At times, Sherlock, thou hast the most unsavoury similes, which leads me to think your brain is as dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage.”
“Thou sodden-witted lord! Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.”
John couldn’t help grinning because that had been particularly well-aimed. He scrolled through the insults the internet was so cheerfully providing.
“Take you me for a sponge?” queried Mycroft witheringly.
“Thou clay-brained guts, thou knotty-pated fool, thou whoreson obscene greasy tallow-catch!” spat Sherlock.
Suddenly John chipped in, “You rampallian! You fustilarian! I’ll tickle your catastrophe!”
The brothers turned and cast upon him twin looks of disbelief. John shrugged. “If you can point to it I’ll have a look at it in a strictly medical capacity then decide whether or not it should be tickled; but, you know, to paraphrase.”
Mycroft, having belatedly remembered he had come for a reason other than the flinging of Shakespearean insults, cut in to put an end to the nonsense. “A matter has come to my attention which may be of some slight interest to you in a professional capacity rather than in the Shakespearean line.”
Sherlock glared at him out of habit. “Is it boring? The last time you came it was boring and I had it solved before we’d finished tea.”
“I assure you it is not boring.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically. “Thou art as fat as butter.”
“This is the file.”