Oh man...
I finally did it.
I wrote a "Sherlock" fanfic. >_< I am officially WAY too addicted. I blame this wholly on wallhaditcoming and anonymiss731 and their Mycroft conversation.
Captcha: Mycroft discovers the wonders of Livejournal and shares it with Not!Anthea.
Rating: PG (drinking involved)
Word count: 947
Pairing: Slight Mycroft/Not!Anthea
Warnings: Alcohol
Disclaimer: I am not related in any way to the Beeb, Sherlock, Doyle, etc, all rights belong to them.
The light was still on under her boss' door. Anthea (who was now on P, and debating between Phanessa and Paraskeve - "make appear" or "preparation"?) sighed and narrowed her eyes, as if sheer willpower would make Mycroft decide to call it a night. It was the man's BIRTHDAY, for god's sake, did he honestly think he couldn't at least give himself an early evening?
Laughter suddenly exploded from the other side of the door. No, not laughter - giggles.
Pandora, then...too appropriate; that sound was too much for her curiosity to handle. Mycroft rarely laughed, and NEVER giggled. What on Earth could he be on about?
The door was unlocked, and she pushed it open, hoping she wouldn't regret the impulse.
"Ophelia! My, *hic*, dear helpmate. Join me!" Mycroft waved expansively at the leather chair across from his own. He was quite obviously drunk. Two bottles of scotch that were probably worth a month of a layman's salary were open on the desk next to his computer, one empty and on its side, the second three-quarters full next to an old-fashioned glass that still had two fingers in it. He lifted the glass to his lips, and when the glass was placed on the desk once more there was only half a finger left.
"Ophelia was yesterday, sir. It's Pandora now." Gesturing toward the open bottles, she tried to find words that wouldn't convey either her mild alarm or extreme curiosity. "What's this, sir?" she questioned, one dark eyebrow quirking at her very mellow boss.
"The chair, my dear, come here," he declaimed, ignoring the question. He patted the desk next to him. As the other eyebrow rose up to join the first, the woman who had decided on Pandora until the next evening pulled the chair over next to Mycroft's, who actually grinned like the Tenth Doctor and rubbed his hands with glee.
"I," the madman next to her announced, once she had sat, "have discovered Ell Jay."
"Sorry, what?"
"Livejournal! You know, the lovely little blogging site?" Now he was looking at her, eyes wide in surprise, fingers once again prowling the keyboard.
"Yeeee-es, sir, I know about it. Is this related to your brother's blogger?" Pandora shifted in her chair, wondering what had triggered the sudden interest.
"No no no no, don't be dull, it's brilliant! There's this community, see, and they follow my brother, and his blogger, and apparently there's small mention of me, and..." he trailed off, the mad grin somehow getting wider. "Have you ever heard of Rule 34?"
"Oh god." The words came out before she'd had time to think about it. Mycroft giggled again, and reached behind him without looking, fumbling a second crystal glass off the shelf and pouring three fingers into it. He offered the glass, and Pandora unthinkingly grabbed it and lifted it to her lips.
Smooth. The scotch was smoky and peaty and beyond incredible. She almost coughed in surprise, but managed to turn it into a gulp - can't waste something this expensive, this excellent - and set the glass down, feeling the delicious burning. "This...what IS this?"
"Macallan 1969, got a case as a present from one of the higher ups," Mycroft smiled. By "higher ups," she knew he meant someone who owed him, as usual. "Quite good, don't you think? But anyway! You must read some of these, some of the fans on here have really excellent imaginations! And the things they think about my brother, honestly..."
~~~~~
It was a half-bottle later, after Pandora's cheeks felt like they would be permanently red, and Mycroft was giggling like a schoolgirl, and she was half-slouched in his chair over his lap so they could read at the same time, that Mycroft discovered Captcha.
"You mean people have to type this in to prove they're not - whassat called - bots?" he asked, bleary smile making Pandora let out a tinkly little laugh of her own. "Oh, this is fantastic, where's the Greek keyboard option? Or maybe Russian..."
"Oh no no no, sir-" she protested, trying to lean back into her own chair, the last shreds of propriety clinging to her scolding tones.
"It's Mycroft, my dear, it's my birthday and you can bloody well use my name!"
"Mycroft, then, don't they deserve some mercy after the piece about the gerbil? If John ever reads that his poor head might explode, and think of Sherlock's expression!"
"No, that was ripped off from South Park, and besides, what they said about my umbrella!" A look of utter disgust curled his lip for a moment before the mad grin came back. He looked positively devilish with that smile, and the fleeting urge to kiss it derailed her train of thought for just long enough for him to wrestle the keyboard away and start typing like a fiend.
"Well, true, and there was that one about me and whats-her-face - my god, as if I'd do that in a morgue, no matter how attractive the company was," she mused, slumping back into her own chair and nursing her - third? fourth? oh god it surely couldn't be more - glass of scotch. The fact that her inscrutable boss had watched an American show possibly written by some of the most vulgar people on the planet somehow did not surprise her, mostly thanks to the scotch. At this rate at least half the case would be gone by morning, although "morning" wasn't terribly far off, and -
"Indeed, and besides, if I can't have a little fun on my birthday when can I?" That blinding smile was flashed at her again, and Pandora smiled back despite herself.
I wrote a "Sherlock" fanfic. >_< I am officially WAY too addicted. I blame this wholly on wallhaditcoming and anonymiss731 and their Mycroft conversation.
Captcha: Mycroft discovers the wonders of Livejournal and shares it with Not!Anthea.
Rating: PG (drinking involved)
Word count: 947
Pairing: Slight Mycroft/Not!Anthea
Warnings: Alcohol
Disclaimer: I am not related in any way to the Beeb, Sherlock, Doyle, etc, all rights belong to them.
The light was still on under her boss' door. Anthea (who was now on P, and debating between Phanessa and Paraskeve - "make appear" or "preparation"?) sighed and narrowed her eyes, as if sheer willpower would make Mycroft decide to call it a night. It was the man's BIRTHDAY, for god's sake, did he honestly think he couldn't at least give himself an early evening?
Laughter suddenly exploded from the other side of the door. No, not laughter - giggles.
Pandora, then...too appropriate; that sound was too much for her curiosity to handle. Mycroft rarely laughed, and NEVER giggled. What on Earth could he be on about?
The door was unlocked, and she pushed it open, hoping she wouldn't regret the impulse.
"Ophelia! My, *hic*, dear helpmate. Join me!" Mycroft waved expansively at the leather chair across from his own. He was quite obviously drunk. Two bottles of scotch that were probably worth a month of a layman's salary were open on the desk next to his computer, one empty and on its side, the second three-quarters full next to an old-fashioned glass that still had two fingers in it. He lifted the glass to his lips, and when the glass was placed on the desk once more there was only half a finger left.
"Ophelia was yesterday, sir. It's Pandora now." Gesturing toward the open bottles, she tried to find words that wouldn't convey either her mild alarm or extreme curiosity. "What's this, sir?" she questioned, one dark eyebrow quirking at her very mellow boss.
"The chair, my dear, come here," he declaimed, ignoring the question. He patted the desk next to him. As the other eyebrow rose up to join the first, the woman who had decided on Pandora until the next evening pulled the chair over next to Mycroft's, who actually grinned like the Tenth Doctor and rubbed his hands with glee.
"I," the madman next to her announced, once she had sat, "have discovered Ell Jay."
"Sorry, what?"
"Livejournal! You know, the lovely little blogging site?" Now he was looking at her, eyes wide in surprise, fingers once again prowling the keyboard.
"Yeeee-es, sir, I know about it. Is this related to your brother's blogger?" Pandora shifted in her chair, wondering what had triggered the sudden interest.
"No no no no, don't be dull, it's brilliant! There's this community, see, and they follow my brother, and his blogger, and apparently there's small mention of me, and..." he trailed off, the mad grin somehow getting wider. "Have you ever heard of Rule 34?"
"Oh god." The words came out before she'd had time to think about it. Mycroft giggled again, and reached behind him without looking, fumbling a second crystal glass off the shelf and pouring three fingers into it. He offered the glass, and Pandora unthinkingly grabbed it and lifted it to her lips.
Smooth. The scotch was smoky and peaty and beyond incredible. She almost coughed in surprise, but managed to turn it into a gulp - can't waste something this expensive, this excellent - and set the glass down, feeling the delicious burning. "This...what IS this?"
"Macallan 1969, got a case as a present from one of the higher ups," Mycroft smiled. By "higher ups," she knew he meant someone who owed him, as usual. "Quite good, don't you think? But anyway! You must read some of these, some of the fans on here have really excellent imaginations! And the things they think about my brother, honestly..."
~~~~~
It was a half-bottle later, after Pandora's cheeks felt like they would be permanently red, and Mycroft was giggling like a schoolgirl, and she was half-slouched in his chair over his lap so they could read at the same time, that Mycroft discovered Captcha.
"You mean people have to type this in to prove they're not - whassat called - bots?" he asked, bleary smile making Pandora let out a tinkly little laugh of her own. "Oh, this is fantastic, where's the Greek keyboard option? Or maybe Russian..."
"Oh no no no, sir-" she protested, trying to lean back into her own chair, the last shreds of propriety clinging to her scolding tones.
"It's Mycroft, my dear, it's my birthday and you can bloody well use my name!"
"Mycroft, then, don't they deserve some mercy after the piece about the gerbil? If John ever reads that his poor head might explode, and think of Sherlock's expression!"
"No, that was ripped off from South Park, and besides, what they said about my umbrella!" A look of utter disgust curled his lip for a moment before the mad grin came back. He looked positively devilish with that smile, and the fleeting urge to kiss it derailed her train of thought for just long enough for him to wrestle the keyboard away and start typing like a fiend.
"Well, true, and there was that one about me and whats-her-face - my god, as if I'd do that in a morgue, no matter how attractive the company was," she mused, slumping back into her own chair and nursing her - third? fourth? oh god it surely couldn't be more - glass of scotch. The fact that her inscrutable boss had watched an American show possibly written by some of the most vulgar people on the planet somehow did not surprise her, mostly thanks to the scotch. At this rate at least half the case would be gone by morning, although "morning" wasn't terribly far off, and -
"Indeed, and besides, if I can't have a little fun on my birthday when can I?" That blinding smile was flashed at her again, and Pandora smiled back despite herself.