Sherlock/James Bond films - fic - M is for Mummy, PG
Title - M is for Mummy
Author - laurab1
Rating - PG
Characters, pairing - John, M, Sherlock/John (if you squint ;) )
Length - 725 words
Summary - M, as played by Dame Judi Dench, is BBC!Sherlock & Mycroft’s mother
Spoilers - Sherlock 1.1 A Study in Pink & 1.2 The Blind Banker, Bond films from GoldenEye
Disclaimer - Alas, none of these people are mine. This version of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC et al. Sherlock Holmes as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is in the public domain. The Bond films belong to Eon and MGM/UA.
Feedback is loved and appreciated :) Enjoy!
A/N - Prompt from caffienekitty, on a sherlockbbc Make Me A Monday request post.
M is for Mummy
by Laura
John arrives home from shopping (no battle with the self-checkout machine, today, thank God), and knowing Sherlock will still be out on a case, researching, he doesn’t call for help with the bags, or announce his presence. He walks up the steps, and there’s a woman sat on the sofa, drinking what’s probably tea, from a mug (they don’t own any whole cups and saucers, at the moment). She looks frightfully annoyed by this fact. Short, close-cropped blonde hair, very well-dressed. She seems to be the same age as his mother, and so he’s sure this woman is who he suspects she is, ie Mummy.
“Mrs Holmes?” he asks, dumping the bags on the kitchen floor; the table is full of test tubes, petri dishes and a load of other stuff he doesn’t really want to think about.
“Dr John Watson,” she replies, and it isn’t a question. “Mrs Hudson let me in. There’s tea in the pot. Pour yourself some, then come and join me, please.”
John can hear that’s an order; he just about resists the “Yes, ma’am” that wants to come to his lips as he gets the tea. There’s nothing untoward in the fridge, currently, which is a very nice change. He sits in his armchair, thankful that his leg isn’t giving him too much trouble, today.
“I made very clever and often unpleasant men do very clever and often unpleasant things,” Mrs Holmes says.
John knows he’s being told something he shouldn’t know. “Ma’am?” he says, cutting her off, “Official Secrets Act?”
“Oh, bugger the Act, Dr Watson,” she replies, her tone so similar to Sherlock’s that John can’t help laughing. “You can call me Barbara, for God’s sake. I’m no longer Mrs Holmes, and this is about family. You’ve taken up with my younger son; you know my older one, too. Even if you haven’t signed to it, I know you wouldn't tell anyone other than them what I’m telling you.”
He’s family, already, is he? Oh, Bloody Hell. “No, Mrs Holmes, sorry, Barbara, of course not,” John says, sipping his tea.
She does the same thing, continuing, “Then I retired, and found I was still doing exactly that.”
Yes, very clever and often unpleasant men doing very clever and often unpleasant things. (Upsetting her during Christmas dinner, mostly.) He fits that description well, too, when he was a soldier, and now, with Sherlock.
“I love my sons, but, Dear God, they annoy me, sometimes,” she says, a smile creeping onto her lips.
John smiles, too. Sherlock’s extraordinary, he really is. And he can be a bloody nightmare.
Mug apparently empty, she places it on the coffee table and rises from the sofa. “Look after that gun of yours. I don’t care that you shouldn’t have it. In fact, I’d much rather you did, than some of the men I’ve known. One, in particular. And don’t even think about asking how I’m aware that you have it, because I wouldn’t tell you, anyway. Just keep my son alive for me, please.”
“I’m trying my best, Barbara, but you know Sherlock.”
“Indeed I do, Dr Watson. God help me. See if you can’t turn him into a slightly better person, while you’re at it.”
“There’s a few of us working on that one, as well, I promise.”
“Good. Now, make sure you wash up and put away the mug I used before he gets back.”
“He’ll know you were here, anyway. I’ll give something away without realising I did so.”
“Then acquire a better mask. I certainly had to,” she says, heading for the door. She seems to be talking about her job, so it’s probably for the best if he doesn’t ask. “Keep Sherlock alive for me, please, Dr Watson, by whatever means necessary,” is the order, as Barbara stands in the doorway.
Mummy’s given him carte blanche. John doesn’t know whether to be frightened or pleased. He eventually opts for pleased. “I will, ma’am, I promise.”
“Thank you. Goodbye, John,” she replies, and leaves.
“Goodbye, Barbara.” Listening to her heels click all the way down the steps, John finishes his tea. Then he hauls himself to his feet. Washing up to be done, shopping to be packed away, before Sherlock comes home. He’ll be talking out loud about the case; John’s brain, eyes and ears will be needed.
-end-
Author - laurab1
Rating - PG
Characters, pairing - John, M, Sherlock/John (if you squint ;) )
Length - 725 words
Summary - M, as played by Dame Judi Dench, is BBC!Sherlock & Mycroft’s mother
Spoilers - Sherlock 1.1 A Study in Pink & 1.2 The Blind Banker, Bond films from GoldenEye
Disclaimer - Alas, none of these people are mine. This version of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC et al. Sherlock Holmes as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is in the public domain. The Bond films belong to Eon and MGM/UA.
Feedback is loved and appreciated :) Enjoy!
A/N - Prompt from caffienekitty, on a sherlockbbc Make Me A Monday request post.
M is for Mummy
by Laura
John arrives home from shopping (no battle with the self-checkout machine, today, thank God), and knowing Sherlock will still be out on a case, researching, he doesn’t call for help with the bags, or announce his presence. He walks up the steps, and there’s a woman sat on the sofa, drinking what’s probably tea, from a mug (they don’t own any whole cups and saucers, at the moment). She looks frightfully annoyed by this fact. Short, close-cropped blonde hair, very well-dressed. She seems to be the same age as his mother, and so he’s sure this woman is who he suspects she is, ie Mummy.
“Mrs Holmes?” he asks, dumping the bags on the kitchen floor; the table is full of test tubes, petri dishes and a load of other stuff he doesn’t really want to think about.
“Dr John Watson,” she replies, and it isn’t a question. “Mrs Hudson let me in. There’s tea in the pot. Pour yourself some, then come and join me, please.”
John can hear that’s an order; he just about resists the “Yes, ma’am” that wants to come to his lips as he gets the tea. There’s nothing untoward in the fridge, currently, which is a very nice change. He sits in his armchair, thankful that his leg isn’t giving him too much trouble, today.
“I made very clever and often unpleasant men do very clever and often unpleasant things,” Mrs Holmes says.
John knows he’s being told something he shouldn’t know. “Ma’am?” he says, cutting her off, “Official Secrets Act?”
“Oh, bugger the Act, Dr Watson,” she replies, her tone so similar to Sherlock’s that John can’t help laughing. “You can call me Barbara, for God’s sake. I’m no longer Mrs Holmes, and this is about family. You’ve taken up with my younger son; you know my older one, too. Even if you haven’t signed to it, I know you wouldn't tell anyone other than them what I’m telling you.”
He’s family, already, is he? Oh, Bloody Hell. “No, Mrs Holmes, sorry, Barbara, of course not,” John says, sipping his tea.
She does the same thing, continuing, “Then I retired, and found I was still doing exactly that.”
Yes, very clever and often unpleasant men doing very clever and often unpleasant things. (Upsetting her during Christmas dinner, mostly.) He fits that description well, too, when he was a soldier, and now, with Sherlock.
“I love my sons, but, Dear God, they annoy me, sometimes,” she says, a smile creeping onto her lips.
John smiles, too. Sherlock’s extraordinary, he really is. And he can be a bloody nightmare.
Mug apparently empty, she places it on the coffee table and rises from the sofa. “Look after that gun of yours. I don’t care that you shouldn’t have it. In fact, I’d much rather you did, than some of the men I’ve known. One, in particular. And don’t even think about asking how I’m aware that you have it, because I wouldn’t tell you, anyway. Just keep my son alive for me, please.”
“I’m trying my best, Barbara, but you know Sherlock.”
“Indeed I do, Dr Watson. God help me. See if you can’t turn him into a slightly better person, while you’re at it.”
“There’s a few of us working on that one, as well, I promise.”
“Good. Now, make sure you wash up and put away the mug I used before he gets back.”
“He’ll know you were here, anyway. I’ll give something away without realising I did so.”
“Then acquire a better mask. I certainly had to,” she says, heading for the door. She seems to be talking about her job, so it’s probably for the best if he doesn’t ask. “Keep Sherlock alive for me, please, Dr Watson, by whatever means necessary,” is the order, as Barbara stands in the doorway.
Mummy’s given him carte blanche. John doesn’t know whether to be frightened or pleased. He eventually opts for pleased. “I will, ma’am, I promise.”
“Thank you. Goodbye, John,” she replies, and leaves.
“Goodbye, Barbara.” Listening to her heels click all the way down the steps, John finishes his tea. Then he hauls himself to his feet. Washing up to be done, shopping to be packed away, before Sherlock comes home. He’ll be talking out loud about the case; John’s brain, eyes and ears will be needed.
-end-