Fic: Cup of Tea 1/1
Title: Cup of Tea
Rating: PG
Word Count: 907
Pairings/Characters: Mycroft/Lestrade
Warnings: Deaths of minor characters, a bad car accident
Summary: Mycroft has his routines: work and a cup of tea. Then it all changes. Written for this prompt at sherlockbbc_fic.
Mycroft has schedules. He wakes promptly at 5 AM, goes into work at 6 AM, and arrives in his office at 6:30 AM where he confers with his assistant. He then attends various meetings as directed by his planner, has lunch at noon, attends more meetings in the afternoon, and takes time off at 4 PM to monitor and harass his brother. 5 PM is for any previously unscheduled meetings (such as intimidating his brother’s latest flatmate), 7 PM is a late dinner, and the rest of the evening entails paperwork until he gets off at 11 PM.
During the work day, there is always a cup of tea at his elbow.
Meeting with the Prime Minister? Cup of tea. Audience with the queen? Cup of tea. An attempted assassination? A swift umbrella to the assassin’s groin and throat, and a cup of tea. Brother in the hospital? A quick call to Mummy and a cup of tea.
His trusty cup of tea has never failed him, despite the fact that that was the first thing some of the more intelligent assassins had tried to target. Instead of the umbrella, they usually received tea to the face.
Nothing will part him from his schedule or his cup of tea, not even this detective inspector who somehow managed to track down his office. (Note to self: fire assistant and relocate offices.)
“Can I help you, Inspector Lestrade?” Mycroft asked calmly, taking a sip of tea and staring passively at the other man.
Wondering briefly how exactly Mr. Holmes knew his name, Lestrade said, “I want your brother to stay away from my crime scenes.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and quickly thumbed through the latest surveillance reports on Sherlock. Nowhere was there a reference to him being anywhere near crime scenes. (Note to self: fire surveillance team and increase surveillance on brother.)
“Sherlock does not listen to me. Sherlock does not listen to anyone. The most you can do is put up with him until he gets bored. It shouldn’t take long.”
“He’s been consulting without our invitation for five months, and has been arrested more times than I can count! He is not getting bored,” Lestrade said with a growl of exasperation.
“What,” Mycroft stated flatly, putting down his cup of tea as he steepled his fingers. It was not a question. “Sherlock has been doing this for five months, and I did not know?” (Note to self: fire all the employees, black ball them, and exile them somewhere cold.)
“Inspector Lestrade, tell me exactly what Sherlock has been up to.”
Needless to say, for weeks afterwards, Mycroft was too busy to have a schedule, let alone a cup of tea.
----
Mycroft met with Detective Inspector Lestrade weekly from then on out, not trusting his newest surveillance team. If his last team could be put off by being subjected to various experiments - courtesy of Sherlock - and then go so far as to falsify reports in order to avoid the man, this latest team would have to prove they were made of stronger stuff.
Mycroft found his walls crumbling bit by bit, and it was becoming exceedingly more difficult to build them back after each meeting (and cup of tea) with Gregory Lestrade. Even his newest assistant was starting to notice, which was worrying. Mycroft had gained his current position by poisoning the man who had previously held it and couldn’t afford to show any weakness - at the time, Mycroft had been his assistant. (Note to self: look for assistants not interested in a promotion.)
It wasn’t until they’d been meeting for over five years (and countless cups of tea and an unprecedented number of assistants) that one of them made a move.
For the first time in ten years, Mycroft could see a shag in his very near future…and then Alcenea was forced to interrupt with an emergency.
----
Mycroft had imagined dying multiple times. Health problems, assassinations, an unexpected accident, old age…it had all crossed his mind at one point. Never once had he imagined exactly how it would feel. That was an oversight, and one he would correct if he survived this. (Note to self: don’t die.)
He was trapped in his car, the roof crushed in and the doors jammed shut. Acriminea was dead, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle, and he could smell gas. Their phones were both out of reach and likely damaged, and he couldn’t see the driver; there was a bloody piece of jagged metal going through the man’s seat. If the driver wasn’t dead, he probably wished he was.
There was probably no one coming - this car hadn’t been the only one involved in the accident, after all, and he could hear people that sounded like they were in more distress than he was - even though he was getting more lightheaded by the minute.
The car creaked ominously, and he could see his life flashing before his eyes: Cup of tea, cup of tea, almost got shagged, cup of tea.
Was that all his life amounted to? Cups of tea broken every ten years by the mere possibility of a shag? (Note to self: if survival occurs, shag Lestrade.)
The car creaked again, and someone was shouting outside. Then, a door was being forced open and hands were pulling him out.
Maybe today wasn’t his day to die, after all. (Note to self: find and shag Lestrade.)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 907
Pairings/Characters: Mycroft/Lestrade
Warnings: Deaths of minor characters, a bad car accident
Summary: Mycroft has his routines: work and a cup of tea. Then it all changes. Written for this prompt at sherlockbbc_fic.
Mycroft has schedules. He wakes promptly at 5 AM, goes into work at 6 AM, and arrives in his office at 6:30 AM where he confers with his assistant. He then attends various meetings as directed by his planner, has lunch at noon, attends more meetings in the afternoon, and takes time off at 4 PM to monitor and harass his brother. 5 PM is for any previously unscheduled meetings (such as intimidating his brother’s latest flatmate), 7 PM is a late dinner, and the rest of the evening entails paperwork until he gets off at 11 PM.
During the work day, there is always a cup of tea at his elbow.
Meeting with the Prime Minister? Cup of tea. Audience with the queen? Cup of tea. An attempted assassination? A swift umbrella to the assassin’s groin and throat, and a cup of tea. Brother in the hospital? A quick call to Mummy and a cup of tea.
His trusty cup of tea has never failed him, despite the fact that that was the first thing some of the more intelligent assassins had tried to target. Instead of the umbrella, they usually received tea to the face.
Nothing will part him from his schedule or his cup of tea, not even this detective inspector who somehow managed to track down his office. (Note to self: fire assistant and relocate offices.)
“Can I help you, Inspector Lestrade?” Mycroft asked calmly, taking a sip of tea and staring passively at the other man.
Wondering briefly how exactly Mr. Holmes knew his name, Lestrade said, “I want your brother to stay away from my crime scenes.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and quickly thumbed through the latest surveillance reports on Sherlock. Nowhere was there a reference to him being anywhere near crime scenes. (Note to self: fire surveillance team and increase surveillance on brother.)
“Sherlock does not listen to me. Sherlock does not listen to anyone. The most you can do is put up with him until he gets bored. It shouldn’t take long.”
“He’s been consulting without our invitation for five months, and has been arrested more times than I can count! He is not getting bored,” Lestrade said with a growl of exasperation.
“What,” Mycroft stated flatly, putting down his cup of tea as he steepled his fingers. It was not a question. “Sherlock has been doing this for five months, and I did not know?” (Note to self: fire all the employees, black ball them, and exile them somewhere cold.)
“Inspector Lestrade, tell me exactly what Sherlock has been up to.”
Needless to say, for weeks afterwards, Mycroft was too busy to have a schedule, let alone a cup of tea.
----
Mycroft met with Detective Inspector Lestrade weekly from then on out, not trusting his newest surveillance team. If his last team could be put off by being subjected to various experiments - courtesy of Sherlock - and then go so far as to falsify reports in order to avoid the man, this latest team would have to prove they were made of stronger stuff.
Mycroft found his walls crumbling bit by bit, and it was becoming exceedingly more difficult to build them back after each meeting (and cup of tea) with Gregory Lestrade. Even his newest assistant was starting to notice, which was worrying. Mycroft had gained his current position by poisoning the man who had previously held it and couldn’t afford to show any weakness - at the time, Mycroft had been his assistant. (Note to self: look for assistants not interested in a promotion.)
It wasn’t until they’d been meeting for over five years (and countless cups of tea and an unprecedented number of assistants) that one of them made a move.
For the first time in ten years, Mycroft could see a shag in his very near future…and then Alcenea was forced to interrupt with an emergency.
----
Mycroft had imagined dying multiple times. Health problems, assassinations, an unexpected accident, old age…it had all crossed his mind at one point. Never once had he imagined exactly how it would feel. That was an oversight, and one he would correct if he survived this. (Note to self: don’t die.)
He was trapped in his car, the roof crushed in and the doors jammed shut. Acriminea was dead, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle, and he could smell gas. Their phones were both out of reach and likely damaged, and he couldn’t see the driver; there was a bloody piece of jagged metal going through the man’s seat. If the driver wasn’t dead, he probably wished he was.
There was probably no one coming - this car hadn’t been the only one involved in the accident, after all, and he could hear people that sounded like they were in more distress than he was - even though he was getting more lightheaded by the minute.
The car creaked ominously, and he could see his life flashing before his eyes: Cup of tea, cup of tea, almost got shagged, cup of tea.
Was that all his life amounted to? Cups of tea broken every ten years by the mere possibility of a shag? (Note to self: if survival occurs, shag Lestrade.)
The car creaked again, and someone was shouting outside. Then, a door was being forced open and hands were pulling him out.
Maybe today wasn’t his day to die, after all. (Note to self: find and shag Lestrade.)