Present for flawedamythyst: View from above
So on Saturday I went to the Sherlock meetup and had the most amazing time. It was a brilliant day up until the point when... a bad thing happened. Worst of all that bad thing happened to flawedamythyst who is a wonderfully nice person who I'd been chatting to all day and got on brilliantly with.
So instead of a standard write up I wrote her a story. I hope it makes her feel better.
Title: View from above
Beta: jupiter_ash
Rating: PG13
Characters: Mycroft and a few very nice, very insane fangirls
Summary: It's Saturday 29th January and the special alarm goes off in Mycroft's office. What he sees intrigues him.
Notes: Verging on RPF here. Hope no one minds. Also... um... Phill? You don't need to read this. You just... don't.
The twenty-ninth of January was a very busy day in Mycroft’s department. What with protests to watch, kettles to plan, secret policemen to plant; busy, busy, busy. The last thing they needed was for the special alarm to go off.
Mycroft frowned as he pulled up the Baker Street footage. Weren’t his brother and Doctor Watson in Cornwall? If they had returned to London without anyone informing him someone’s head was going to roll, certainly a few feet at the very least.
It was a group of young women standing outside Baker Street. There were about thirty of them, all wrapped up against the winter chill, many with long dramatic coats and others in woolly jumpers or stripy tops. Oh dear, he knew who these people were. They were Sherlock’s fans.
He was well aware that Doctor Watson’s blog had developed somewhat of a following. A number of fansites had been built up with artwork, stories, discussions and debates. Most of the ‘fans’ were harmless although occasionally one would show up at the blue tape of a crime scene - whether Sherlock was there or not - and ask questions about police procedure or request to see the body ‘for inspiration’.
At first Mycroft had been concerned about the level of information the fans seemed to have access to. They knew he existed for a start, as well as the names of many of the police officers who worked with Sherlock, even though John never put them on the blog. Classified cases, John’s gun and incidents from Sherlock’s childhood had all been mentioned on the fansites. But then other things appeared that were so ridiculous it was clear the fans were simply making educated guesses. For example he had not read a single thing about his assistant that was even remotely true. Although he was extremely keen to find out how exactly the news of Anderson’s… predilections had gotten out.
Now it seemed a group of them had decided to visit London.
Mycroft would have to keep an eye on them.
Except… they weren’t actually being any trouble. They took pictures of 221b, the street and of the continuing construction works on buildings opposite. They bought sandwiches and coffee from Speedys, and ate out on the pavement while talking and giggling a lot. They didn’t knock on the door in a pointless attempt to get hold of Sherlock or John. Nor did they do anything to disturb Mrs Hudson. They just stood around for a while then seemed to gather together and walk away. He followed them with the available CCTV cameras until they went into the Bree Louise Pub just around the corner.
When they didn’t immediately come back out he pulled up the previous footage to track where they had come from. It appeared the first time they had come together was at ten that morning. The footage showed them showing up one by one having come from various tube stations, trains, buses and coaches then gathering around one of the metal benches in Russell Square. New members to the group would approach cautiously - clearly they did not know each other - but were usually greeted with reels of laughter. A group of perfect strangers coming all the way to London all because of Sherlock? And not even about a case? Mycroft was convinced there was something rather odd about these women.
There was about an hour’s footage of them standing around in Russell Square, talking, chatting, drinking Criterion coffee and for some reason running around pointing at the benches. Eventually one of the women stood on a bench and appeared to make an announcement or possibly a rally cry. It was after this that the group made its way to Baker Street.
At about one thirty the group exited the Bree Louise. Mycroft continued to keep an eye on them while they walked to China Town and spent some time wandering up and down the street until they found a specific restaurant opposite a certain shop, both of which they then took pictures of. For some unknown reason they seemed more excited to find these then they were to watch the dragon and the fire jugglers.
By this point he was only watching with half an eye, his attention distracted by developments on the student protests. The last thing they needed was another incident like last time. Although it wasn’t as if the Prince or the Duchess had been hurt at all then. He was just turning his eye towards an unauthorised and very noisy group of protesters in Trafalgar Square when the group showed up again.
He allowed himself to be distracted as the ‘fangirls’ charged up the steps to the national gallery while one of their group filmed them. He couldn’t help being mildly perturbed that the protestors were being too loud for the microphones to pick up what the group were saying.
Then he was spotted.
He was actually a little surprised when one of the women pointed directly at the camera he had been using to watch them. He nearly blinked. There was a certain amount of excitement amongst the group as they rushed towards the camera, just below shot. For a moment he thought they were hiding from the CCTV and went to switch to another camera but then, as a group, the women moved backwards until they were in shot again, two of them standing on bollards so he could see them more clearly. One of the women on the ground scrambled in her bag for something. The others gathered around and a second later a quickly hand written sign that said ‘Hello Mycroft’ was held up. All the women waved happily at the camera. Then one of those on the bollards, a very smiley young lady with a dark coat, a grey hat and a long platt raised her arms and shouted, loud enough for the microphone to pick her up,
“Give us an M!”
Mycroft sat back in his chair in astonishment as the rest of the group chimed in with, “M!”
“Give us a Y!”
A smile crept across Mycroft’s face.
“Y!”
“Give us a C!”
Mycroft made a mental note to record this for posterity.
“C!”
“Give us an R!”
And then send a copy to Sherlock.
“R!”
“Give us an O!”
Show his little brother that he wasn’t the only one with fans.
“O!”
“Give us an F!”
“F!”
“Give us a T!”
“T!”
“What does that spell?”
“MYCROFT!”
The women whooped and cheered and received odd looks from the people around them. Even though they couldn’t see him, Mycroft couldn’t resist tipping his head in acknowledgement. The young lady with the grey hat gave him one last big grin then indicated to her friends to help her off the bollard.
Mycroft really had to get back to work.
He arranged for a minion to keep an eye on the group and to send him reports. All through the afternoon he got little updates on what the ‘fangirls’ were doing.
One of them was apparently dressed up like Jim Moriarty and was prancing around Trafalgar Square. Mycroft made a note to find out how she knew exactly which tie Moriarty had been wearing at the pool incident and whether she was aware of any other information that could lead to the capture of the villain or his confederate Sebastian Moran.
As the group walked towards the river, one of the microphones picked up a cry of “Gay Porn!” for some reason.
As they crossed Hungerford Bridge they stopped to take pictures of a graffitied ‘Jim’.
As they walked along the South Bank they paused to taking pictures of a skating park. At this point reports showed one of them was wearing a shock blanket although the reason why was unknown.
At around half past three he received a report of the group gathering on a bit of beach halway between Blackfriars Bridge and Waterloo Bridge, one of them lying down while three others gathered around her and the girl dressed as Moriarty pointing and apparently laughing at the woman lying down while the others in the group took pictures. The minion helpfully attached a case file. It was one of the cases Sherlock had solved during his little ‘game’ with Moriarty; the body had been found on that exact bit of beach. The ‘fangirls’ were apparently recreating the scene much to the confusion of passing tourists.
After that they went to ‘Angelo’s’, although they exited very soon afterwards, apparently because of lack of space, and instead walked back towards Covent Garden and entered the ‘Montague Pyke’. Microphones overheard the bar referred to as ‘The Mycroft Pub’. Mycroft wasn’t certain whether to be insulted that he was being compared to the fat Duke that decorated the bar’s signs or relieved that despite their high level of intelligence the women had no idea what he looked like.
Again he very deliberately put the report aside and redirected his energies to more pertinent situations. Cyprus was being difficult again.
Then at about quarter past six another report arrived; disturbance at the Montague Pyke.
His immediate thought was ‘oh no, what have they done now?’ however the situation brought to him was very different. It transpired that a bag had been stolen. And not just any bag. The bag belonging to the young lady with the grey hat that had smiled at him so broadly through the cameras at Trafalgar Square. Some utter bastard had stolen her bag off the back of her chair.
Mycroft made an effort to relax his hands although, disturbingly, he hadn’t been aware of clenching them. Fast forwarding through the CCTV footage from the inside of the bar he watched as the group entered and sat down. Saw them arrange themselves into groups around what appeared to be a quiz. Saw them laugh and chat as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Saw them stand up to perform some kind of drama. Saw the moment when they realised the bag was missing and scrambled to find it. Saw the manager come over, no doubt offering useless platitudes. Once the tape had been brought up to the current time he saw the woman in the grey hat leave with one of others and the rest of the group depart to a restaurant in China Town. He watched the twin images until all of them were out of his sight. Then he set to work.
He got hold of the original footage of the group’s initial meeting in Russell square and, working backwards, tracked the woman with the grey hat back to the coach station she had arrived from. A little investigating found her place of origin and the time of her coach back. He made a phone call and laid down a few choice threats to ensure that any loss of ticket within the bag would not prevent the woman from returning home.
He pulled a group of minions off protest watch duty and set them to work analysing the footage from the Montague Pyke until the moment the bag was taken off the back of the chair. A man with dark hair, jeans and a grey jacket walked up the stairs behind where the women were sitting, simply lifted it and walked straight out the door. Unfortunately the cameras inside the bar didn’t catch his face. Nor did the cameras outside the doors. Mycroft set the team tracking him through the crowds of a busy Saturday night in Soho. The thief managed to disappear in a black spot so Mycroft had his route analysed and all the surrounding cameras watched in case he reappeared. Meanwhile Mycroft arranged for the available video footage to be enhanced to get a picture ID of the man while he set half the team to continuing to track the rest of the ‘fangirls’.
The group that had gone to the restaurant was slowly dwindling with some apparently drifting off home while the majority headed towards Leicester Square, their destination an ice cream shop Mycroft knew well. He hoped they would try the cookies and cream flavour. Meanwhile he pulled more minions off their other tasks and assigned them to watch the dispersing women until each and every one of them was safely at their destination or on their chosen transport out of London. These women were Sherlock’s fans and his; that made them his responsibility.
As the minions completed their watching duties one by one he set them again to tracking down the thief. If any of them thought it odd that their boss was setting so much energy to finding one petty criminal in a city filled with thousands of them they didn’t say anything. They didn’t dare. Heads would roll for this, Mycroft swore. Well, one head in particular.
~
A week later found Mycroft standing in a largely empty warehouse being watched blearily by a young man tied to a chair. The man had only just come round from a bout of unconsciousness that had turned out to be a little longer than Mycroft had predicted. Perhaps young Mr Edwards had hit him too hard. Well, precision strikes were hard to learn and their newest recruit had to practice on someone.
Mycroft didn’t speak as he delicately struck a match then used it to light the Bunsen burner that had been set up on a table next to the chair. He watched the blue flame for a moment then lifted his umbrella to examine the tip. It wasn’t his usual umbrella; this one had a specially designed metal tip which he coolly placed over the Bunsen burner flame.
“I want you to think of a bag, Mr Hardwick,” he said, keeping his voice calm and almost pleasant. “A grey shoulder bag with badges on it. It contained a mobile, which you took, and some money, which you spent. The rest you simply threw away.”
Hardwick’s eyes widened as he spoke and darted nervously towards the flame where the umbrella tip was starting to go red.
“You took this bag because you could; you simply plucked it off the chair of an unsuspecting innocent girl who just happened to be there. You didn’t think about her or the group she was with or why they were there. You had no interest in her other than how tempting her bag was.” Mycroft finally turned towards the thief and gave him a smile that had no humour in it. “What you failed to realise, Mr Hardwick, was that I have an interest in her.”
“What,” said Hardwick, obviously trying to put a bit of bravado in his voice and failing utterly. “Was she your girlfriend then?”
Mycroft swung the umbrella towards Hardwick until it hovered above the thief’s lips, close enough for the man to feel the heat but not enough to actually burn. There was only one reason why the thief was not gagged and it was not to talk.
“Oh much much more than that, Mr Hardwick.” Mycroft swung the umbrella back towards the Bunsen burner and continued to heat it. “She is my fan.” He twisted the umbrella tip, warming it from all angles until it was heated to his satisfaction. “Think of a bag, Mr Hardwick.” He finally lifted the umbrella tip and smiled with anticipation at the desired glow. He started to move slowly towards Hardwick who struggled uselessly against his bonds. “It will help concentrate your mind.”
For flawedamythyst . It was brilliant to meet you. I couldn't get you your bag back but I could do this.
(A/N: For those of you interested in what we actually got up to: most of this is true. Except we were where they filmed Baker Street rather than actual Baker Street. We briefly visited the Sherlock Holmes pub rather than Angelos (which sadly doesn't exist). Some of my favourite parts were the insane conversations which took place indoors so Mycroft wasn't privy to them (Especially in the Bree Louise which we totally took over). Also there were badges which were brilliant)
So instead of a standard write up I wrote her a story. I hope it makes her feel better.
Title: View from above
Beta: jupiter_ash
Rating: PG13
Characters: Mycroft and a few very nice, very insane fangirls
Summary: It's Saturday 29th January and the special alarm goes off in Mycroft's office. What he sees intrigues him.
Notes: Verging on RPF here. Hope no one minds. Also... um... Phill? You don't need to read this. You just... don't.
The twenty-ninth of January was a very busy day in Mycroft’s department. What with protests to watch, kettles to plan, secret policemen to plant; busy, busy, busy. The last thing they needed was for the special alarm to go off.
Mycroft frowned as he pulled up the Baker Street footage. Weren’t his brother and Doctor Watson in Cornwall? If they had returned to London without anyone informing him someone’s head was going to roll, certainly a few feet at the very least.
It was a group of young women standing outside Baker Street. There were about thirty of them, all wrapped up against the winter chill, many with long dramatic coats and others in woolly jumpers or stripy tops. Oh dear, he knew who these people were. They were Sherlock’s fans.
He was well aware that Doctor Watson’s blog had developed somewhat of a following. A number of fansites had been built up with artwork, stories, discussions and debates. Most of the ‘fans’ were harmless although occasionally one would show up at the blue tape of a crime scene - whether Sherlock was there or not - and ask questions about police procedure or request to see the body ‘for inspiration’.
At first Mycroft had been concerned about the level of information the fans seemed to have access to. They knew he existed for a start, as well as the names of many of the police officers who worked with Sherlock, even though John never put them on the blog. Classified cases, John’s gun and incidents from Sherlock’s childhood had all been mentioned on the fansites. But then other things appeared that were so ridiculous it was clear the fans were simply making educated guesses. For example he had not read a single thing about his assistant that was even remotely true. Although he was extremely keen to find out how exactly the news of Anderson’s… predilections had gotten out.
Now it seemed a group of them had decided to visit London.
Mycroft would have to keep an eye on them.
Except… they weren’t actually being any trouble. They took pictures of 221b, the street and of the continuing construction works on buildings opposite. They bought sandwiches and coffee from Speedys, and ate out on the pavement while talking and giggling a lot. They didn’t knock on the door in a pointless attempt to get hold of Sherlock or John. Nor did they do anything to disturb Mrs Hudson. They just stood around for a while then seemed to gather together and walk away. He followed them with the available CCTV cameras until they went into the Bree Louise Pub just around the corner.
When they didn’t immediately come back out he pulled up the previous footage to track where they had come from. It appeared the first time they had come together was at ten that morning. The footage showed them showing up one by one having come from various tube stations, trains, buses and coaches then gathering around one of the metal benches in Russell Square. New members to the group would approach cautiously - clearly they did not know each other - but were usually greeted with reels of laughter. A group of perfect strangers coming all the way to London all because of Sherlock? And not even about a case? Mycroft was convinced there was something rather odd about these women.
There was about an hour’s footage of them standing around in Russell Square, talking, chatting, drinking Criterion coffee and for some reason running around pointing at the benches. Eventually one of the women stood on a bench and appeared to make an announcement or possibly a rally cry. It was after this that the group made its way to Baker Street.
At about one thirty the group exited the Bree Louise. Mycroft continued to keep an eye on them while they walked to China Town and spent some time wandering up and down the street until they found a specific restaurant opposite a certain shop, both of which they then took pictures of. For some unknown reason they seemed more excited to find these then they were to watch the dragon and the fire jugglers.
By this point he was only watching with half an eye, his attention distracted by developments on the student protests. The last thing they needed was another incident like last time. Although it wasn’t as if the Prince or the Duchess had been hurt at all then. He was just turning his eye towards an unauthorised and very noisy group of protesters in Trafalgar Square when the group showed up again.
He allowed himself to be distracted as the ‘fangirls’ charged up the steps to the national gallery while one of their group filmed them. He couldn’t help being mildly perturbed that the protestors were being too loud for the microphones to pick up what the group were saying.
Then he was spotted.
He was actually a little surprised when one of the women pointed directly at the camera he had been using to watch them. He nearly blinked. There was a certain amount of excitement amongst the group as they rushed towards the camera, just below shot. For a moment he thought they were hiding from the CCTV and went to switch to another camera but then, as a group, the women moved backwards until they were in shot again, two of them standing on bollards so he could see them more clearly. One of the women on the ground scrambled in her bag for something. The others gathered around and a second later a quickly hand written sign that said ‘Hello Mycroft’ was held up. All the women waved happily at the camera. Then one of those on the bollards, a very smiley young lady with a dark coat, a grey hat and a long platt raised her arms and shouted, loud enough for the microphone to pick her up,
“Give us an M!”
Mycroft sat back in his chair in astonishment as the rest of the group chimed in with, “M!”
“Give us a Y!”
A smile crept across Mycroft’s face.
“Y!”
“Give us a C!”
Mycroft made a mental note to record this for posterity.
“C!”
“Give us an R!”
And then send a copy to Sherlock.
“R!”
“Give us an O!”
Show his little brother that he wasn’t the only one with fans.
“O!”
“Give us an F!”
“F!”
“Give us a T!”
“T!”
“What does that spell?”
“MYCROFT!”
The women whooped and cheered and received odd looks from the people around them. Even though they couldn’t see him, Mycroft couldn’t resist tipping his head in acknowledgement. The young lady with the grey hat gave him one last big grin then indicated to her friends to help her off the bollard.
Mycroft really had to get back to work.
He arranged for a minion to keep an eye on the group and to send him reports. All through the afternoon he got little updates on what the ‘fangirls’ were doing.
One of them was apparently dressed up like Jim Moriarty and was prancing around Trafalgar Square. Mycroft made a note to find out how she knew exactly which tie Moriarty had been wearing at the pool incident and whether she was aware of any other information that could lead to the capture of the villain or his confederate Sebastian Moran.
As the group walked towards the river, one of the microphones picked up a cry of “Gay Porn!” for some reason.
As they crossed Hungerford Bridge they stopped to take pictures of a graffitied ‘Jim’.
As they walked along the South Bank they paused to taking pictures of a skating park. At this point reports showed one of them was wearing a shock blanket although the reason why was unknown.
At around half past three he received a report of the group gathering on a bit of beach halway between Blackfriars Bridge and Waterloo Bridge, one of them lying down while three others gathered around her and the girl dressed as Moriarty pointing and apparently laughing at the woman lying down while the others in the group took pictures. The minion helpfully attached a case file. It was one of the cases Sherlock had solved during his little ‘game’ with Moriarty; the body had been found on that exact bit of beach. The ‘fangirls’ were apparently recreating the scene much to the confusion of passing tourists.
After that they went to ‘Angelo’s’, although they exited very soon afterwards, apparently because of lack of space, and instead walked back towards Covent Garden and entered the ‘Montague Pyke’. Microphones overheard the bar referred to as ‘The Mycroft Pub’. Mycroft wasn’t certain whether to be insulted that he was being compared to the fat Duke that decorated the bar’s signs or relieved that despite their high level of intelligence the women had no idea what he looked like.
Again he very deliberately put the report aside and redirected his energies to more pertinent situations. Cyprus was being difficult again.
Then at about quarter past six another report arrived; disturbance at the Montague Pyke.
His immediate thought was ‘oh no, what have they done now?’ however the situation brought to him was very different. It transpired that a bag had been stolen. And not just any bag. The bag belonging to the young lady with the grey hat that had smiled at him so broadly through the cameras at Trafalgar Square. Some utter bastard had stolen her bag off the back of her chair.
Mycroft made an effort to relax his hands although, disturbingly, he hadn’t been aware of clenching them. Fast forwarding through the CCTV footage from the inside of the bar he watched as the group entered and sat down. Saw them arrange themselves into groups around what appeared to be a quiz. Saw them laugh and chat as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Saw them stand up to perform some kind of drama. Saw the moment when they realised the bag was missing and scrambled to find it. Saw the manager come over, no doubt offering useless platitudes. Once the tape had been brought up to the current time he saw the woman in the grey hat leave with one of others and the rest of the group depart to a restaurant in China Town. He watched the twin images until all of them were out of his sight. Then he set to work.
He got hold of the original footage of the group’s initial meeting in Russell square and, working backwards, tracked the woman with the grey hat back to the coach station she had arrived from. A little investigating found her place of origin and the time of her coach back. He made a phone call and laid down a few choice threats to ensure that any loss of ticket within the bag would not prevent the woman from returning home.
He pulled a group of minions off protest watch duty and set them to work analysing the footage from the Montague Pyke until the moment the bag was taken off the back of the chair. A man with dark hair, jeans and a grey jacket walked up the stairs behind where the women were sitting, simply lifted it and walked straight out the door. Unfortunately the cameras inside the bar didn’t catch his face. Nor did the cameras outside the doors. Mycroft set the team tracking him through the crowds of a busy Saturday night in Soho. The thief managed to disappear in a black spot so Mycroft had his route analysed and all the surrounding cameras watched in case he reappeared. Meanwhile Mycroft arranged for the available video footage to be enhanced to get a picture ID of the man while he set half the team to continuing to track the rest of the ‘fangirls’.
The group that had gone to the restaurant was slowly dwindling with some apparently drifting off home while the majority headed towards Leicester Square, their destination an ice cream shop Mycroft knew well. He hoped they would try the cookies and cream flavour. Meanwhile he pulled more minions off their other tasks and assigned them to watch the dispersing women until each and every one of them was safely at their destination or on their chosen transport out of London. These women were Sherlock’s fans and his; that made them his responsibility.
As the minions completed their watching duties one by one he set them again to tracking down the thief. If any of them thought it odd that their boss was setting so much energy to finding one petty criminal in a city filled with thousands of them they didn’t say anything. They didn’t dare. Heads would roll for this, Mycroft swore. Well, one head in particular.
~
A week later found Mycroft standing in a largely empty warehouse being watched blearily by a young man tied to a chair. The man had only just come round from a bout of unconsciousness that had turned out to be a little longer than Mycroft had predicted. Perhaps young Mr Edwards had hit him too hard. Well, precision strikes were hard to learn and their newest recruit had to practice on someone.
Mycroft didn’t speak as he delicately struck a match then used it to light the Bunsen burner that had been set up on a table next to the chair. He watched the blue flame for a moment then lifted his umbrella to examine the tip. It wasn’t his usual umbrella; this one had a specially designed metal tip which he coolly placed over the Bunsen burner flame.
“I want you to think of a bag, Mr Hardwick,” he said, keeping his voice calm and almost pleasant. “A grey shoulder bag with badges on it. It contained a mobile, which you took, and some money, which you spent. The rest you simply threw away.”
Hardwick’s eyes widened as he spoke and darted nervously towards the flame where the umbrella tip was starting to go red.
“You took this bag because you could; you simply plucked it off the chair of an unsuspecting innocent girl who just happened to be there. You didn’t think about her or the group she was with or why they were there. You had no interest in her other than how tempting her bag was.” Mycroft finally turned towards the thief and gave him a smile that had no humour in it. “What you failed to realise, Mr Hardwick, was that I have an interest in her.”
“What,” said Hardwick, obviously trying to put a bit of bravado in his voice and failing utterly. “Was she your girlfriend then?”
Mycroft swung the umbrella towards Hardwick until it hovered above the thief’s lips, close enough for the man to feel the heat but not enough to actually burn. There was only one reason why the thief was not gagged and it was not to talk.
“Oh much much more than that, Mr Hardwick.” Mycroft swung the umbrella back towards the Bunsen burner and continued to heat it. “She is my fan.” He twisted the umbrella tip, warming it from all angles until it was heated to his satisfaction. “Think of a bag, Mr Hardwick.” He finally lifted the umbrella tip and smiled with anticipation at the desired glow. He started to move slowly towards Hardwick who struggled uselessly against his bonds. “It will help concentrate your mind.”
For flawedamythyst . It was brilliant to meet you. I couldn't get you your bag back but I could do this.
(A/N: For those of you interested in what we actually got up to: most of this is true. Except we were where they filmed Baker Street rather than actual Baker Street. We briefly visited the Sherlock Holmes pub rather than Angelos (which sadly doesn't exist). Some of my favourite parts were the insane conversations which took place indoors so Mycroft wasn't privy to them (Especially in the Bree Louise which we totally took over). Also there were badges which were brilliant)