Sherlock Fanfiction: Ex Libris
Title: Ex Libris
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: Gregory Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes
Rating: PG
Genre: Slash
Word Count: ~650
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: During the Hiatus, one of the Met’s cases and one of Mycroft’s investigations intersect and both Greg and Mycroft find themselves looking for evidence of something other than crime.
A/N: A little vignette which can be read alone or with the other Mystrade stories that are part of the Other Experiments Series. Ex Libris would be an extra scene between Necropolis and Safer.
Excerpt:
The concerto finished. Greg paused in his reading, eyes flitting around the edges of the page. At the top, a hare and a winged serpent nestled in the vines. Below them, a knight charged inside an ornate letter, brandishing an upraised sword. Was it the picture that had appealed? In the quiet, the faint snap of a mobile sliding closed sounded loud.
Also posted on AO3.
The page of the manuscript may be viewed on tumblr here.
Ex Libris
The last vibration of the strings faded away. In the lull between tracks, a log crumbled in the hearth. Greg took a sip of lime-flavoured water and let his head fall back against the leather chair. He hadn’t admitted it aloud, but it would have been exhausting to review the new cemetery files at the Yard. It had been tiring enough with his feet up and no interruptions in the seculsion of Mycroft's flat. Mycroft had noticed. Still, Greg glanced at the shelves with a smile when Mycroft left the room, mobile pressed against his ear. Wincing only slightly, Greg rose from his chair and began his hunt among the books.
He had scanned half a dozen of the shelves close to eye-level before he found his first clue, a bit of white bright above the dark red and gold edges of leather-bound pages. He eased the old volume away from its companions, sat on the nearest footstool with it open on his lap. The scrap of cotton that had served as a bookmark appeared to have been cut from a shirttail. He lifted it away and angled the pages towards the firelight, eyes darting from the framed script to the images along the borders. His Latin was rudimentary, but whatever secret the sharp pen strokes held goaded him to try. His index finger followed his progress, hovering a centimetre or two above the parchment, eager to apprehend what he searched for with more than one sense, but refraining, the habit of handling evidence well-engrained.
The concerto finished. Greg paused in his reading, eyes flitting around the edges of the page. At the top, a hare and a winged serpent nestled in the vines. Below them, a knight charged inside an ornate letter, brandishing an upraised sword. Was it the picture that had appealed? In the quiet, the faint snap of a mobile sliding closed sounded loud.
Mycroft didn't step forward, remained framed by the carved oak of the doorway. You're not built to carry armour, Greg thought, his glance slipping down from Mycroft's shoulders to the gleam of his shoes. When you rode out to negotiate treaties, your cloak would have been fur-lined, the garments beneath sumptuous to impress your adversaries. Knights would have ridden alongside to guard you. In an ambush, you would have fought with a dagger, precise and deadly, aiming for the glint of the eyes through the helm.
Finally, Mycroft moved. "The lure of ancient tradition," he said as he crossed the room.
"You would have kept poison in a ring," Greg replied, turning back to the illustration.
"Bien sûr," Mycroft answered, hand settling lightly on Greg's shoulder. “What have you found?” he asked as he leaned forward and began to read.
The pronunciation was crisp, the flow of the words incantatory. Perhaps the hand at his shoulder was guiding him backwards or perhaps Greg’s muscles were simply relaxing. Along his arm he felt the warmth of Mycroft’s thigh.
Mycroft stopped reading. He had reached the bottom of the page. “I have some other manuscripts that might be more entertaining that Caesar’s exploits in Gaul,” he said, straightening and moving towards the bookcases. A moment later, from the top of the ladder, he asked, “Latin or French?” He turned towards Greg. “Both are illuminated.”
Greg looked up at Mycroft, arm outstretched, fingers hooked on the shelf edge, one encircled with a ring. “You’ll read?” Greg asked and Mycroft nodded. “Latin, then. I understood it when you read far better than I ever understood my Latin teacher.”
“I should hope so,” Mycroft replied and drew out a book with so much gold embossing that it glittered.
“Do you ride?” Greg asked.
Mycroft shook his head as he descended. “I learned, but I never took to it.”
You weren’t the knight, then. Greg looked down at the drawing in his lap. So who was?
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: Gregory Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes
Rating: PG
Genre: Slash
Word Count: ~650
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: During the Hiatus, one of the Met’s cases and one of Mycroft’s investigations intersect and both Greg and Mycroft find themselves looking for evidence of something other than crime.
A/N: A little vignette which can be read alone or with the other Mystrade stories that are part of the Other Experiments Series. Ex Libris would be an extra scene between Necropolis and Safer.
Excerpt:
The concerto finished. Greg paused in his reading, eyes flitting around the edges of the page. At the top, a hare and a winged serpent nestled in the vines. Below them, a knight charged inside an ornate letter, brandishing an upraised sword. Was it the picture that had appealed? In the quiet, the faint snap of a mobile sliding closed sounded loud.
Also posted on AO3.
The page of the manuscript may be viewed on tumblr here.
Ex Libris
The last vibration of the strings faded away. In the lull between tracks, a log crumbled in the hearth. Greg took a sip of lime-flavoured water and let his head fall back against the leather chair. He hadn’t admitted it aloud, but it would have been exhausting to review the new cemetery files at the Yard. It had been tiring enough with his feet up and no interruptions in the seculsion of Mycroft's flat. Mycroft had noticed. Still, Greg glanced at the shelves with a smile when Mycroft left the room, mobile pressed against his ear. Wincing only slightly, Greg rose from his chair and began his hunt among the books.
He had scanned half a dozen of the shelves close to eye-level before he found his first clue, a bit of white bright above the dark red and gold edges of leather-bound pages. He eased the old volume away from its companions, sat on the nearest footstool with it open on his lap. The scrap of cotton that had served as a bookmark appeared to have been cut from a shirttail. He lifted it away and angled the pages towards the firelight, eyes darting from the framed script to the images along the borders. His Latin was rudimentary, but whatever secret the sharp pen strokes held goaded him to try. His index finger followed his progress, hovering a centimetre or two above the parchment, eager to apprehend what he searched for with more than one sense, but refraining, the habit of handling evidence well-engrained.
The concerto finished. Greg paused in his reading, eyes flitting around the edges of the page. At the top, a hare and a winged serpent nestled in the vines. Below them, a knight charged inside an ornate letter, brandishing an upraised sword. Was it the picture that had appealed? In the quiet, the faint snap of a mobile sliding closed sounded loud.
Mycroft didn't step forward, remained framed by the carved oak of the doorway. You're not built to carry armour, Greg thought, his glance slipping down from Mycroft's shoulders to the gleam of his shoes. When you rode out to negotiate treaties, your cloak would have been fur-lined, the garments beneath sumptuous to impress your adversaries. Knights would have ridden alongside to guard you. In an ambush, you would have fought with a dagger, precise and deadly, aiming for the glint of the eyes through the helm.
Finally, Mycroft moved. "The lure of ancient tradition," he said as he crossed the room.
"You would have kept poison in a ring," Greg replied, turning back to the illustration.
"Bien sûr," Mycroft answered, hand settling lightly on Greg's shoulder. “What have you found?” he asked as he leaned forward and began to read.
The pronunciation was crisp, the flow of the words incantatory. Perhaps the hand at his shoulder was guiding him backwards or perhaps Greg’s muscles were simply relaxing. Along his arm he felt the warmth of Mycroft’s thigh.
Mycroft stopped reading. He had reached the bottom of the page. “I have some other manuscripts that might be more entertaining that Caesar’s exploits in Gaul,” he said, straightening and moving towards the bookcases. A moment later, from the top of the ladder, he asked, “Latin or French?” He turned towards Greg. “Both are illuminated.”
Greg looked up at Mycroft, arm outstretched, fingers hooked on the shelf edge, one encircled with a ring. “You’ll read?” Greg asked and Mycroft nodded. “Latin, then. I understood it when you read far better than I ever understood my Latin teacher.”
“I should hope so,” Mycroft replied and drew out a book with so much gold embossing that it glittered.
“Do you ride?” Greg asked.
Mycroft shook his head as he descended. “I learned, but I never took to it.”
You weren’t the knight, then. Greg looked down at the drawing in his lap. So who was?